Living by the Thumb

It was 1972. I enlisted in the Marines after graduating high school and was now at home. I had no formal training in any trade nor any clue as to what to do with the rest of my life. So I decided on a whim to hitchhike across the country. I crammed my gunny sack and headed for the highway with less than $3.00 in my pocket. It was the best decision I ever made in my life. The early 70’s were times of adventure, revolution and experimentation in America. Of the three the one that most inspired me was, adventure. I was neither peace-loving hippie or rabid war monger. My taste in music was eclectic. I enjoyed listening to Johnny Mathis sing Chances Are and Jethro Tull hammer out Aqua Lung. I had no political or religious affiliation. As a Marine I’d been to places in Asia and Europe but was had never experienced the civilian side of America. I drank, smoked weed and had taken a hit of acid from time to time but I was by no means a druggie.

I walked eight miles to Route 128 in Massachusetts, stuck out my thumb and headed west to parts unknown and for no particular reason except to go there. I was surprised when the first person to pick me up was a young woman, a college student, a cute one at that. She wasn’t a flower child or free-spirited thinker, she was just some 19-year old girl who didn’t seem very happy and, I guess, was in need of company. After exchanging names she told me I could turn the radio to any station I wanted, she didn’t care. She asked if I was hungry. I was but said no. I doubt if she cared about that either. She was going all the way to Long Island, back to her parent’s house, for the summer and was wishing she wasn’t. When she asked where I was going and I said, “I don’t know. I’m just out here for the sake of being out here,” she seemed envious. 

She asked if I was afraid. I told her no. She asked if I had enough money. I said no. She asked me how I would know when I got to where I wanted to be. I said, “I don’t know if there’s any place I want to be. All I know is, I want to be someplace else.” She thought that was the greatest thing. She said I remaindered her of a writer named Kerouac. I told her I never heard of him.  The idea I didn’t need inspiration from anyone to embark on such an adventure impressed her even more. I wasn’t trying to impress her. I wasn’t even trying to have sex with her. I just wanted a ride and that it would be such a long one was good. As we drove she started to talk about joining me. We could take her car and her credit card and travel all over the country for the summer. It would be fun!

She rambled on and on about all the fun we’d have together. She made it clear one of the benefits would be free sex. It all sounded so perfect, I had to decline. It was then that I realized, I was doing this to personally experience as much about America as possible which meant not just the places, but the people too. I also didn’t want the comfort of knowing there would always be a ride or always be a credit card to pay for things.  I wasn’t afraid of roughing it. Anyone who’s ever been a Marine knows roughing it builds character.  She was disappointed. She offered to leave the car and credit card behind and ‘rough it’ with me. I could easily see she wasn’t the type who could easily adapt to roughing it. When I told her so she got angry and told me to get out. It was dark, it was cold, it was raining and we were at the foot of a very long and busy bridge on the outskirts of New York City.

I stood at the base of that bridge, in the rain, for hours. I was roughing it. A New York State Trooper pulled up with lights flashing and ordered me to get in. He commenced to call me crazy for hitchhiking at the base of this bridge. When I told him I’d recently been discharged from the Marines he relaxed, found some compassion and drove me to the other side. He said I’d have better luck on this side which I did.

Within minutes a young man about my age picked me up. He asked where I was going. When I told him no place in particular and told me he was going to Tennessee. What luck. My first ride got me all the way to New York, now my next would bring me all the way to Tennessee. This hitchhiking thing was a piece of cake. After about an hour the young man said he had an uncle in Virginia who owned a furniture store and we could sleep there until morning. Sounded good to me. He had a key to the furniture store. At the time I failed to see the weirdness in this fact. When we got into the closed for the day store he suggested I take off ‘those wet things’ and change into something dry. His uncle kept cold beer in the office and he’d get some. I began to strip. The young men returned from the office with the beer and, while I was still drying off, he stripped and lay on one of the beds in the showroom. “Hey, give me a hand with this will you?” I turned to see him working on generating an erection. He had reached al dente status.

I didn’t know what to do. It was after midnight and I didn’t want to go back out into the rain. I didn’t want to offend the guy. Trying to be as politically correct as possible I tried to explain how I was straight and wasn’t interested in male on male sexual contact. He said he understood but asked again, “Aw, come on. It won’t take long and I’d really appreciate it.” I suppose I could've kicked his ass but I’m not the ass-kicking type. I sighed deeply and got in the bed. All he wanted me to do is touch his leg while he completed the chore. I turned my head away and complied. It was over is less time than it takes for a root canal. He told me how much he appreciated my cooperation, he knew how hard it must’ve been for me and he gave me a $100 bill. It was my first and last experience as a male prostitute and I never put it on any resume.

We woke up in separate beds to greet a warm, sunny morning. He apologized for lying about going to Tennessee but took me to a place on the Interstate where he said I’d be sure to get a ride. Never once was the matter of the reluctant tryst brought up. I appreciated that. Within twenty minutes a southern man right out of central casting picked me up in a pickup truck. The back was filled with such an assortment of tools, fencing materials, nets and such I had what he did for certain. It was clear by his character, thick arms and guffawing sense of humor, he was a fun man. We stopped at a diner where he bought me a breakfast of biscuits and gravy. When I told him it was the first time I’d ever had the entrée and I liked it, he seemed both proud and please, “There’s lots of things you Yankee’s need to learn about us southern folks and biscuits and gravy’s one of ‘em.” 

We took an exit off the Interstate onto a more rural county highway. I didn’t mind. Rural county highways are America too! There was a commotion up ahead. Several cars had pulled to the side and people were frantically running in all directions. Someone was waving to us to stop. That’s when I learned something else about them southern folks, they pull over for people in trouble. There was a small two lane stone bridge that crossed over a shallow but wide rushing water creek. A car had gone off the bridge and landed in the middle of the creek and in the car were an Asian couple. A dozen or so rubberneckers had gathered on the bank of the creek. There were no cell phones at the time. The driver of the truck took command and organized a rescue operation. We would create a chain of men who, arm in arm, would reach the driver’s door to the car and pull the occupants to safety. The best candidate to be the first link in the chain, based on my youth and Marine training, was me. 

I got in the icy water first. A man held onto my left arm and got in after. Then another and another and another until, at last, I was at the door. The water was rushing hard and fast and it was very cold. The Asian man driving spoke broken English and was so excited I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. His wife, the passenger, spoke no English. Chinese takeout boxes were floating around inside and the car reeked of Lo Mein. I got the driver out and handed him down to the other links in the chain. I got the wife out and passed her along too. By the time we reached the shore police and ambulance had arrived. They gave us blankets and coffee. Up along the roadside my southern friend and driver, was answering a local TV reporters questions. He was taking all the credit without ever getting his feet wet.

I suddenly lost all interest in fame and medals. I’d forgotten all about my $100 bill! The one I had to lay naked next to a homosexual masturbator to earn. It was soaked and I was crushed. I had no dry place to put it. The clothes I wore the previous day were still damp, the clothes I wore not were drenched and the $100 bill looked like something I just washed dishes with. A Tennessee State Trooper, seeing my dilemma, offered me a plastic evidence bag. It did the trick. In less than 36 hours of hitchhiking I’d come to have a great affection for state troopers.

I changed into dry clothes in the gunny sack and the southern man, fresh off his 15-minutes of fame, took me to Interstate 40. Soon, a young man in an ordinary mid size sedan picked me up. He was an excited young man and was even more excited to have someone to share the trip with. He was going all the way to Los Angeles. Amazing. In less than two days I had gotten three rides that would take me all the way to the west coast and my treasure had gone from three dry dollars to a hundred and three soggy ones and I hadn’t missed a meal.  My new driver host was a pleasant enough guy who didn’t use profanity. He reminded me of a character from the TV sitcom,  Leave it to Beaver. He was in his late twenties and this was his first time away from home. His mother made him what must have been a hundred tuna fish and egg salad sandwiches. They sat in paper sacks in the backseat. The notion of driving in a small car for two thousand miles with someone who might eat twenty or more egg salad sandwiches took an edge off the joy of having got the ride.

To save money on lodging we share driving. I was at the wheel when we reached Flagstaff, Arizona. It was very late. My naïve fellow wanderer was in a deep sleep in the passenger seat. I decided to get off the main road and head up Highway 89a. The road went high up into the mountain of the canyon. Why I chose to take a scenic detour in the middle of pitch black darkness, I’ll never know but soon I would be glad I did. As the road wound its way up the mountain, I took a turn in the bend and WOW! I hit the brakes. There, hanging at the same altitude as the road was the moon. It was bigger and brighter than any moon I’d ever seen. It dominated the horizon and seemed so close I felt as though I could reach out and touch it. All the canals, and craters and ridges and features were as clear as day.

I nudged the sleeping man with my elbow. He stirred. I nudged him again, “What is it?” is asked before even opening his eyes. Then, as he opened them, he asked again, “Wow! What is it!!?” Neither of us said a word. We just stared at the thing as it seemed to slowly move higher into the horizon. It made the sky as bright as noon. We sat there for about an hour watching it. No other cars came by in either direction. It was as if God were giving us a private screening of one of his most inspiring works. I put the car in gear and drove. My friend had an egg salad sandwich and soon the awesome atmosphere of the lunar exhibition was gone.

As we drew closer to L.A. I remembered my dad. He’d recently divorced from my mom and was staying with my older sister in San Diego. She was married to a Naval officer. I asked if would be okay for me to drop myself off at the Navy base and new friend said fine. I had no intention of staying long. This hitchhiking thing was far more interesting than I expected it to be. I got a job as a bouncer at a ‘gentlemen’s club’ in San Diego that had strippers and nude women swimming in a big fish tank behind the bar.  After about six weeks of that I was back on the road. For the next two years my thumb guided me to places, people and experiences too many to count and too interesting to try and cram into a short story.   

It ended in 1974 when I got a room in boarding house in Los Angeles. I got a job working as an auto parts counter man and had no intention of planting roots. But, one of my fellow boarders, a guy named David White had a notion that I might make a decent advertising copywriter.  He showed me how to create a portfolio by simply writing commercials for any products I wanted. Up until this time the idea of advertising as a career had never occurred to me. Aside from a couple of Rock Hudson movies I’d seen, I had no idea what the business was.

He arranged for me to have an interview with the largest agency in California; Foote Cone & Belding and I was hired.  I took to advertising like a duck to water. I’d found my place and it wasn’t even a place. A straight D graduate of high school, former jarhead and part time worker in dozens of other jobs was an advertising man. I wound up working for agencies in 18 different cities, in 10 different states without ever have to use my thumb again. I married a beautiful woman, had a beautiful daughter and she gave us two beautiful grandchildren.  None of it would’ve happened if not for the decision to, oh a whim, take my $3.00, my gunnysack and let my thumb take me to the place I finally wound up with the perfect profession, perfect wife, perfect daughter and as close to a perfect life as I could imagine. 

The moral of the story? If you choose to stand still, you’ve chosen to go nowhere and nowhere is never the perfect place to be.