In the Summer of 1971, I got word from my brother that he was getting married in Chicago and wanted me to be his best man. At the time, my brother was toiling ignominiously in Navy boot camp in San Diego. If he was married he would no longer have to live in the bunk bed barracks along side all the other miserable swabbies. He and his bride would be allowed to live off base, perhaps in some little bungalow near the sea. Having grown up on the ocean with surfing and body surfing, my brother would love nothing more.
At the time, I was renting a spare room in a fraternity house on the Stanford campus and tending bar just down the rode at a place called "Charley Brown's Steak and Lobster". It was a franchise from Southern California that was making their first move into Northern California and they chose a most propitious spot; Burlingame, near the airport and just across the highway from our local race track. The place was going gang busters (Their motto was displayed on a huge plaque above the grill. Below a colorful bas relief carving of a portly fellow cavorting with two "toothsome wenches", were the words: "WORK IS THE CURSE OF THE DRINKING CLASS").
Somehow, I managed to wangle some time off from work. I got it into my head that it would be great adventure to hitch-hike from my home in Palo Alto to Elmhurst, an upscale suburb of Chicago, where the bride's family lived and where the wedding was to be held. The bride's father was the well-to-do owner of a very profitable tool and die company. The wedding would be held at his country club; a very swanky golf and tennis club with a very impressive and very large old stone club house. The proud father was anxious for his only daughter to have the best wedding and reception that money could buy. He was inviting all the family's friends and relatives. The groom, on the other hand, had me, his brother as best man and one acquaintance from college who just happened to be passing through the area. My parents and various relatives and family friends from Hawaii sent telegrams in lieu of attending. So one one side we have the groom, his best man and one guy from college. On the other side we have what seemed like half the Elmhurst community. But I'm getting ahead of myself; I'm still back in Palo Alto.
I borrowed an old Marine backpack and sleeping bag from a friend. The backpack was canvas and the frame was made of wood with no waist belt. The sleeping bag was a standard Marine issue brown goose down bag. I had no thermal pad; I don't think I was aware of them. All packed up, I trundled out of the fraternity and down to the street. I was lucky because who should come along but an old fraternity brother of mine who was going to Oakland. He agreed to drop me off at the highway 80 off ramp. As we drove across the Bay Bridge I noticed that he was steering with one hand while the other hand deftly rolled a joint. So I was pleasantly mellow while I waited for my next ride. My only direction was to stay on highway 80 going East and eventually I'd end up in Chicago.
My next ride took me all the way to Sacramento where I spent the night at my old girlfriend's family's place. Thanks, Noni, for putting me up. My next ride took me all the way to Reno and I'm thinking, "I'm cruising along pretty good and I should make the wedding no problem." My next ride was from a little pixiesh looking fellow. If he'd had pointed ears he would have looked just like an Elf. He was a postal inspector on holiday from Southern California. He was vacationing alone and was glad of some company. I asked him where he was going and he said nowhere in particular he just wanted to see the country. I told him a little bit about myself and where I was going. "I'm hoping to get to Winnemucca by tonight." I ventured, "You might like it there. They have this wonderful topless club and steakhouse with a huge stuffed polar bear in a glass case. He's rearing up on his hind legs with his paws raised up. He's about twelve feet tall and the scariest thing I've ever seen under glass!"
I had spent the summer after my freshman year working for the US Geological Society at the eastern edge of Nevada a bit north of highway 80, and my work buddy and I would cruise back and forth on Highway 80 on the weekends looking for fun as in "agreeable fun-loving gals" type fun. The establishment I had described to my companion was actually in Elko, a town much further east than Winnemucca but I would worry about that when, and if, we got there. He said he didn't care about the top-less bit (my first clue) but he'd sure like to see that polar bear and have one of those steak dinners I had told him about. I didn't care as long as we kept heading East on highway 80. He said he would take me to Winnemucca if we could stop and see Pyramid Lake first. Pyramid Lake was east and north of Reno in an Indian reservation. I had been there before and it was a truly desolate place. The road out there was a little two lane country road with nothing and nobody around. The significance of such a lonely, desolate place to visit escaped me at the time...
On the front seat of his rental car he had a bunch of porno magazines he had confiscated in his roll as a postal inspector. "Take a look at those hot pictures. Doesn't that give you a boner? Oh yeah, I see a lump in your pants." leered my companion. I was not comfortable with the situation that was developing and the way he was looking at me. I reassured myself that if things got out of hand I could easily handle him because of the mismatch in size (as long as he didn't know martial arts...). I kept up a nervous bit of patter and soon we were at Pyramid Lake. There is a little side road made of sand and gravel that actually takes you to the lake's edge but my companion decided to pull off the main road onto the soft sandy shoulder. As he was spinning his wheels and looking gleefully at me, he says; "Uh oh! Looks like we're stuck. If no one comes along we'll have to spend the night here in the back seat!"
It was now painfully obvious to me that he envisioned a romantic tryst with this cute blond college boy. This college boy was having none of it. I got out of the car and stared down the road. "There's no way I'm spending the night out here with you!" I retorted, "It's pretty obvious that you purposely got us stuck. I'm going to flag somebody down to get us help." Fortunately for me, in a few minutes I see a pick-up truck materializing out of the desert heat. When it got closer, I jumped out onto the road and flagged it down. The two Indian gentlemen in the truck had a rope which we tied between our bumpers and after a bit of to-and-fro-ing, the pixie's car was back on the asphalt. I reminded him about his promise to take me to Winnemucca and inferred that things could get unpleasant between us if he didn't keep his promise.
He reluctantly agreed and when we got back to Highway 80 he turned eastward, much to my relief. By the time we approached the outskirts of town it was late evening. I had him drop me off by the side of the road about a half mile out of town. He did a U-turn and hi-tailed it back in the direction of Reno. I, blessedly, was in the middle of nowhere in the sage brush and sand of the northern Sonoran desert. It was a new moon and the only light was starlight. Away from town in the desert night air, the stars shown so bright they didn't even twinkle. I walked several hundred yards away from the highway and laid down my sleeping bag on the desert hardpan among the sagebrush. After the day's harrowing events, I savored the quiet solitude of my surroundings and had myself a most wonderful sleep.
As I continued my sojourn eastward, I had one more memorable ride. Somewhere in western Wyoming, I got picked up by two teenaged guys in a pick-up truck. I sat in the bed of the truck next to a large automobile engine. It wasn't much company but the weather was nice and sunny and we were heading East. Suddenly I hear a BANG! and the truck starts fishtailing wildly; we'd probably been doing at least seventy at the time . My engine companion starts rolling back and forth like a loose cannon on deck while I'm desperately playing keep-away. Finally the driver is able to wrestle the truck to a stop by the side of the road. We had had a blow-out. While one kid changed the wheel, I had a chance to talk to the other one. It turns out they were both sixteen and cousins. The truck belonged to the dad of one of them. They lived in rural northern California somewhere. Both cousins were living with this dad whom they described as being mean and cruel.
They decided to steal the truck and run away from home. They were headed towards Iowa where they had a much kindlier uncle who had a pig farm. They were going to stay with him and work the farm. The engine in the back of the truck was a 350 cubic inch Thunderbird engine they planned to sell when their meager funds ran short. One of the boys popped the hood and there, nestled in the engine's intake manifold, were several ears of corn and some baked potatoes wrapped in tin foil. The heat from the engine had steamed them up quite nicely. After our picnic we got on the road again. We hadn't driven much more than an hour or so when there was another BANG! and another game of dodge-the-engine.
It turns out that the boys, who didn't have a lot of cross country driving experience, weren't aware that when driving long distances on hot highways, you are supposed to let some air out of your tires to counteract the increased tire pressure brought on by the heat. I said my goodbye's to the forlorn cousins and wished them good (or, should I say, better) luck on the remainder of their trip. I walked on down the road, heading East.
I eventually made it to Elmhurst at about three in the morning. Two cops, on patrol, seeing a backpacking vagabond on their streets at that hour quickly pulled over and took me in tow. When they heard that I was supposed to be the best man at the wedding of the daughter of one of the town's most prestigious citizens, they didn't hesitate to take me right to his front door. Mr. Sutton was less than thrilled to see me at that ungodly hour but took me in anyway when he heard about my hitch-hiking journey of over two thousand miles. I just hoped he had done something similar in his mad-cap youth so he'd perhaps understand.
When the big day arrived, I must say I cleaned up pretty well and looked pretty spiffy in my rented morning coat best man outfit. Everything went off without a hitch until we got to the reception. Sitting at the wedding table, my brother and I started reading the telegrams from family and friends back home. For some reason, this brought on an incredible feeling of sadness for both of us and we started bawling our eyes out, much to the discomfort of the rest of the guests, to say nothing of the new bride. After the wedding, my brother had to report back to Naval Boot Camp in San Diego; no honeymoon for swabbies. I accompanied the bride and her maid-of-honor back across the country in the new car the bride's parents had bought as a wedding present for the newlyweds. Other than road-side emergencies, I believe that was my last voluntary hitch-hiking.
Here's my brother at the onset of marriage and Naval career
At the end of Naval career...
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