Disclosure Day

Earlier this week, Nora and I went to see the new Steven Spielberg movie, Disclosure Day. If you haven't seen it and are planning to, you may not want to read the rest of this post, as I will be discussing the plot and ending.

For those of you who don't plan on seeing it, or at least not for a while, the essential plot of the story is that aliens have indeed visited Earth, and that the evidence of these visits has been purposely kept secret for many decades.

The movie focuses on four people, the man who leads the organization that has maintained the alien secret, a man who works for that organization but has decided that the secret needs to be revealed, and two people who were abducted by the aliens when children. Interestingly, while the movie kind of alludes to the fact that there may be others who were taken by the aliens, it is the two people mentioned above who are the focus of the search by the man who seeks to reveal the truth, because they are special.

Margaret, played by Emily Blunt, is a weather girl who, as we slowly learn, has been searching for something but has not known what it was, only that she would know when she found it. Noah, played by Colin Firth, is the head of the organization keeping the secret. Hugo, played by Colman Domingo, is the man who seeks to make public the alien secret. Daniel, played by Josh O'Connor, is a mathematician who also works for the secret organization (named Wardex). As the movie progresses, we learn that Hugo specifically recruited Daniel to work at Wardex because he suspected his incredible mathematical acumen was imbued (the word they use in the movie) by the aliens precisely so he could translate their math based language into English. 

As we quickly learn, Daniel has stolen the archival videos which prove alien presence on Earth. 

Additionally, Hugo suspects there is another person he needs to find, and when Margaret speaks an alien language during a weather report, Hugo realizes she is that other "special" person.

Anyway, lots of action as Noah's team seeks to kidnap Daniel and Margaret to silence them, while Hugo's team seeks to hide them. Eventually, it all comes down to the final scene where Margaret and Daniel take over her TV station to reveal the secret by playing the archival videos that Wardex has been hiding which prove not only aliens arrival (At Roswell, New Mexico), but also that the government has been reverse engineering their technology to drive many new advances, has tortured the aliens for information, and (as the last scene reveals) has kept one alien alive all these years.

A few interesting aspects of the movie. The main reason behind keeping secret that aliens have visited Earth seems to be the fear that such knowledge, which challenges all sorts of beliefs, religion based especially, would prove to be too disruptive for average people to handle, would cause chaos and societal breakdowns. 

In fact, Daniel's girl friend, a woman we find out was once training to become a nun, makes just that point. Curiously, when she flees to the monastery where she once lived, she has a conversation with the mother superior in which she asks, straight out, if knowledge of aliens, and the corresponding belief that we are not alone in the universe, would challenge her faith that man is the pinnacle of God's creative work since the revelation of the alien's superior intelligence could be said to contradict that tenant. 

When the mother superior answers that in Genesis, man is referred to as the pinnacle of God's creative work on Earth, the young woman is satisfied, and eventually helps Daniel reveal the alien secret. When I googled this assertion, I didn't find that distinction, although, depending on which bible version you read, there is mention of Earth in the genesis story, as well as the universe. 

But, then again, this is a Hollywood production so....

Another interesting point is the emphasis on empathy in this movie. In fact, it appears that, contrary to Elon Musk's assertion that empathy is ruining/will lead to the downfall of Western Civilization, the movie makes it very clear that without empathy, humanity may not only not survive, but that we can't hope to achieve the level of advancements that have been attained by the aliens.

Once Margaret's power is revealed to her and us, the ability to (metaphorically) walk in the shoes of anyone she encounters, she becomes a positive force to all those people, in one case telling one of her associates at the TV station to go to her sister and protect her from her abusive husband. Later, the woman thanks Margaret for the advice, telling her that her sister, and her children, are safe.

Empathy. 

I posted about this topic last September. Here is a link. 

https://wurdsfromtheburbs.blogspot.com/2025/09/empathy-revisited.html  

Oddly, after just reading it, I state as clearly as Disclosure Day, that I believe that without a strong sense of empathy, both individually and nationally, humanity is doomed to remain in a state where the strong brutalize the weak, a prospect I believe interferes with the advancement of our communal spirituality, and hence our humanity. Or to put it more bluntly, imagine all the great achievements that do not occur, simply because the people who might make them happen are dismissed due to their skin color, country of birth, gender identification, or whom they choose to love. Talk about leaving a lot on the table!

It is not surprising that Spielberg would present aliens visiting Earth as a positive event, and that man, specifically men who represent our government, would be cast as the antagonists. Still, he allows for some doubt to be expressed by those on the periphery of revealing the "truth", while presenting solid reasoning for why those who wish to suppress the presence of aliens, are ultimately wrong in their belief that humanity couldn't handle the revelation. He seems to illustrate this realization at the end when Hugo, after spending his entire life keeping secret alien presence on Earth, simply sits by while the last few scenes unfold, perhaps finally realizing he has been wrong all along.

As the final scene plays out, the scene where the alien who had been kept alive all these years, is displayed, live, on TV for all to see, who then stands before the two people who had been imbued with the unique traits that would culminate in this very scene, there our multiple views of random people throughout the world, watching the scene, calmly, almost reverently, as they absorb the meaning of the reality of alien life on Earth, as well as the interplay between the two Earthlings and the alien.  

I am sure that at many points in my past writings, I would have agreed with this premise, would have high fived such a conclusion, that we can handle the truth about not being alone in the universe. In fact, I believe than many people do concur, that the Creator would not have fashioned such a huge existence, literally trillions of light years large, and only placed one planet within it capable of sentient life. Of course, understanding the unfathomable, the big why of life and the motive behind our creation, let alone that of the universe, is by its definition not possible. Only conjecture, somewhat like two fleas discussing the small area in which they exist on the body of a large mammal, or two fish ruminating about their situation while in the bowels of a humpback whale.

Still, perhaps that is part of the point, that we can't really know why, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't use the brains we were given to speculate.

Sadly, as I see the most powerful nation on Earth being led by someone who actively denies the destruction we are causing on our home, who pretends that out of control wild fires, scorching heat domes, melting ice caps, are all fake news, added to the fact that we knew all this about him yet elected him anyway, makes me wonder if knowledge of aliens on Earth would fall into the same news spins that occur with every topic discussed, and that the two divergent view points that always emerge with any discussion, would be repeated again. 

No unity, no understanding that many of our foundational concepts need to be rethought, no coming together to evaluate who we are and why we exist. Just further division, further us vs them, further declarations of who to blame or who to kill. Further proclamations by the man who would be king as to what to think.

The very last scene of the movie, after the alien appears to communicate, non-verbally with Margaret and Daniel, Margaret strolls to a point in front of the cameras, a portal to virtually all those around the world who have been entranced by the meeting of her, Daniel and the alien, opens her mouth and says

"Listen."  

The movie ends, leaving us to reflect on what she might say, what she might impart from what was told to her by the alien.

Again, Spielberg asks us to use a trait that is not necessarily a strong point for our culture. To put aside our own egos, to stop telling others what they need but instead, to listen to what they say. Or, even harder, to acknowledge that all the accumulated knowledge of Earth, may be insufficient for understanding the big why.

Then again, maybe there is nothing after "listen". That the word itself is the key to bridging the gaps, to reducing the partisanship rhetoric, to uniting the 8 plus billion people who reside on this blue ball floating in space within one of billions of solar systems within one of billions of galaxies.

That we are both minuscule within this cosmos and also unique, but that we can succeed, if only we would listen, listen to each other and listen to Mother Earth as she repeatedly warns us about the damage we are doing to our planet.

Listen. 

Chapter Six: Wanderlust Continues

In Chapter Five, I recount the bus trips I took in 1979, using my faulty memory as well as snippets from the journal that I kept at the time, to relate the adventures. 

But they were a mere precursor to the hitchhiking trips I made in 1980 and 1981, the longest one a six week affair which again took me across America, details of which I will split up into a number of future chapters. 

For this chapter, however, I want to touch on the bike trip I took in 1980, a multi stop excursion in October of that year. Interestingly, while I was engaged in this trip, my mother's pregnancy was winding down. I had moved out that year; I guess the trauma of losing their oldest created the urge to replace me. 

Any way, this was also the fall when the Philadelphia Phillies won the World Series. I was living in Willow Grove, at my first home away from home at the time. I actually lived at two other Willow Grove addresses in my young adulthood. 

One was with a good friend of mine, one of my core friends at the time, in an apartment above a realtor on York Road. Since it was upstairs, we often left the door open for our friends so they could come right up, without waiting for someone to descend the steps and open the door. 

The apartment had four rooms, a front room painted gold, then the kitchen which, oddly featured red painted appliances, and two bedrooms, adorned with blue and green paint, respectively. In the first few months we were there, strange men would occasionally come up the steps, then stop when they saw our group assembled in the front room, and finally turn around and hurry back down the steps. As it turned out, the previous tenants called their establishment the Four Seasons, and these gentlemen, unaware of a relocation, were stopping by for some stress release. 

While there were a few comments made to the young ladies of our group about providing happy endings for this already established clientele, we maintained the inherited colors of the rooms, but did not retain the customers.

The other apartment was just up the street, in a small complex of about 10 or 12 units. We had to climb a black iron staircase to get into our apartment which could become a bit slippery when the weather became cold or icy or both. I was riding my bike to work back then, which meant that I had to carry it up and down the three levels of metal steps. I lived there with two young ladies, although at separate times. I can't recall the exact order, but I believe the two girls lived together first, then I with one of them, then I with the other. This pattern of living with women was fairly constant in those years, although for the most part they were only friends. 

Anyway, where was I? Oh, that's right, bike trips.

So, again, I was riding my bike all year round, through the seasons, so I was in fairly good shape. In better shape than my bike as it turned out, but more on that later.

I left Willow Grove just as the regular season for baseball was in its last weeks. The Phillies were battling the Montreal Expos for first place during that time. 

My first stop was Kutztown College where my friend Mike went to college. We had spent many a weekend visiting Mike. That was during the time when grain parties were popular. Gallons of unsweetened kool aid mixed with a pint of 190 proof grain alcohol. The danger, of course, is that you don't taste the alcohol which means you drink more than you should until suddenly you are drunk.  

I believe I only stayed a night or two with Mike, then headed off to Bloomsburg College. 

Just to remind you, in 1980 there were no cell phones with GPS. I had written down the directions on a piece of paper before I left, but to be honest, I was mostly taking the routes I would have driven if going by car. So, from Willow Grove, I headed up 611 to County Line Road, both relatively fast moving two lane roads, then north on 309, an expressway but with a substantial shoulder, then west on route 222. 

Similarly, from Kutztown to Bloomsburg, I went back the way I came to 309, then north. If driving, one would use the PA turnpike, going through mountains in tunnels, but bikes are not allowed on the pike so I went over the mountains. Talk about a workout. Constant pedaling in low gears, back and forth as the road meandered up the mountain, then an almost orgasmic feeling at the top, the relief coursing through your body as you crest the peak, followed by an exhilarating 50 plus MPH descent on two wheels, the wind drying out your eyes, whipping your hair (my hair was rather long then). 

It was overcast most of the day which made for nice riding, not too hot. I remember climbing a very large hill on 309 just outside of Tamaqua, Pa, then stopping for dinner at a McDonalds. I knew I was rather far from Bloomsburg, but needed some fuel. Unfortunately, the weather turned rainy as I continued up 309 after eating, to the point that when I reached Hazletown, I was soaked and uncomfortable,  deciding to stop and seek out a laundromat. After drying my clothes, the weather seemed to be clearing, so off I went.

Big mistake.

At some point, as the sun began to set despite the fact that I was still dozens of miles from Bloom, I made a decision that seemed reasonable at the time, but was clearly a historic mistake, although, strangely, worked out fairly well.

I encountered an entrance ramp to Interstate 80, rode up the ramp and began biking on the shoulder as cars and trucks, big trucks, whooshed past me at 60+ miles per hour. When the rain picked up even more furiously, I knew I was in trouble as I somewhat water planed along the interstate, being pushed around by the wind and the wake of the semis, and struggling to see through my rain drop speckled glasses, in the dark because by then the sun was long gone out of view.

When it became clear (or actually well past when it became clear) that I was not going to reach Bloom that night, I had the brilliant idea to spend the night under an overpass.

Now, I don't know how many overpasses you have seen up close, but there are two types that I know of. The more basic type features an incline, usually made of concrete, that runs from street level right up to the overpass. Like a dead end.

But the other type, more rare, ends in a ledge which juts out from below the overpass, providing a sheltered area to rest. Somewhere past Conyngham, I found such an overpass. I "parked" my bike at the foot of the incline, climbed up into the relative dry and quiet of the ledge, and did my best to shut out the noise of the traffic in search of a little sleep.

In the years after that, I often spotted that overpass as I whizzed by in a car. A few times I pointed it out to whomever was riding with me, usually to a surprised smile or even a smirk of slight disbelief, depending on who was with me on that particular trip.

The next morning dawned clear and sunny. I slid down the embankment, mounted my bike, and rode a few exits to Bloomsburg. Now, it being 6 AM or so, I thought it best not to go right to my friends' off campus apartment, instead stopping at McDonalds for breakfast. Still, when I finally rolled into Bloom and knocked on their door, it couldn't have been later than 7 in the morning. 

After waiting a pregnant moment, Terry answered the door, looked at me, looked at my bike, let out a kind of snort and laugh, gave me a hug, and helped me stash my bike in their apartment. When Laura straggled out of her room a few minutes later, I was greeted in a similar fashion.

I stayed with the girls for the weekend, plus a few days. As that was the last series of the baseball season, we watched the Philllies clinch the division at a watch party. My recollection is that Mike Schmidt hit a game winning homer.

Five years later, when I finally returned to college, I lived at that very same off campus apartment for my Junior and first half of my senior year. The Maroon and Gold Apartments.

I had begun experiencing some issues with my bike on this leg, spokes popping. Still, I was determined to start out for my next destination, so I bid farewell to my friends, confirmed my route and off I went to Scranton University where one of my very best of friends went to college.

I had visited Jim at Scranton many times during his 4 years there. In fact, I often traveled there with a car load of friends as the parties were awesome. Taylor Street, I believe. Anyway, in this case I pretty much rode straight up route 11, and while the bike was riding less smoothly than it should have, I made it without incident. 

At this point, the division series against the Houston Astros was starting, as back then, there were only two divisions in baseball. It was a remarkable series, one of the best in history according to some baseball historians. After winning the first game (it was best 3 out of 5), the Phils lost game two in extra innings, lost game three in extra innings, won game four in extra innings, then trailed 5 to 2 in game 5 against ostensibly, the greatest pitcher in baseball history, Nolan Ryan. The Phils however, scratched together a couple of soft singles, then Ryan walked in a run. The Astros changed pitchers, but the rally was on. The Phils scored 5 runs total to take a 7 to 5 lead, but their ace reliever, Tug McGraw blew the save and off they went to extra innings again, fourth time in 5 games. The Phils put two doubles together to take the lead in the 10th then held on to win the game and earn the right to play in the World Series. 

Not that we needed an excuse to party, but sharing those games with Jim, his roommates, and all the people who wandered in and out of the house over the course of that series was epic.

Kansas City had upset the Yankees (I believe) so they would be our opponent for the series, and we all felt very positive about our chances.

I had been doing a lot of riding while I was there, and soon discovered that the bike was done. Enough spokes had broken off that the rear wheel would not turn anymore. Since I had just purchased that bike that year (from a Pep Boys store, don't ask me why they sold bikes), I thought it must be some type of defect. As it turned out, the rear axle was slightly bent, so the constant rotations of the wheel had exacerbated the issue, causing undue stress to radiate into the spokes, or at least that was how it was explained to me.

Not to be deterred, I decided to visit my cousin in New York City. I don't think I had planned to ride my bike there, but then again, using common sense to make choices as to how I traveled was not one of my strong points. However, since my bike was out of commission, I chose to hitchhike to the Big Apple.  

The most direct route was straight across Interstate 80 to I-95 then across the George Washington Bridge. I don't recall how many rides it took, or even any of the nice people who stopped for me. But I do know that once I was dropped on Manhattan Island, upper Manhattan Island, I decided to walk to my cousin's apartment in Greenwich Village. As I reflect on this choice, to walk, perhaps 100 blocks, it seems rather silly considering all the strangers I had ridden with in cars during the past summer, but walk I did. 

When I arrived at Denise's apartment, she was a bit taken aback, as being the days of no cell phones, I did not forewarn her that I was coming to visit. But she was happy to see me and I, her.

I stayed a few nights, the first few games of the Series. Back then, the World Series featured a 2-3-2 format, in this case, two home games in Philadelphia, 3 games in Kansas City, then the final two in Philly. The Phils won both games at home, then lost the next two on the road. I am not sure when I returned to the road, but Denise would not let me hitchhike back to Scranton, instead buying a bus ticket for me and then making sure I got on the bus, waving as we pulled out of the terminal.

Once back in Scranton, we watched the final few games, the Phils winning the third game in KC, then game 6 at home. Again, the games were riveting, especially game 5 in which the Phils scored two runs in the ninth against a very strong KC closer to turn a 3-2 deficit into a 4-3 victory.

The party that night was incredible, moving to a number of locations and lasting well into the early hours of the morning. Remember, this was the first World Series for the Philadelphia Phillies in its storied history, storied, in part, because of their penchant for not winning. It was also part of a spectacular run for Philly sports teams, the Flyers winning two cups 5-6 years previous, the Sixers winning the NBA title in 1983, and all 4 of the sports teams having multiple playoff seasons, the ultimate year being 1980 when all four went to their respective sports finals, although only the Phils won a championship. 

At this point, it was late October, my bike was not road worthy, and I obviously did not have a vehicle to return home. Despite the invite to stay, I decided to hitchhike home, with my rear wheel, leaving the rest of my bike in Scranton. The wheel turned out to be a useful prop, breaking the ice, so to speak, and helping me get rides. Once the wheel was replaced, I returned to Scranton, with a borrowed car, and drove my bike home in the trunk, eventually visiting my parents to see their new baby, my new brother who was born the day before the Phillies won the World Series.  

Chapter Five : Wanderlust Begins

In chapter four I detailed the many different jobs I had during my youth, time coordinates, 1974 through 1985. I listed my first employer (other than the time I spent working with my dad) as Bonanza, which I know began in 1974 because I distinctly remember being at work, loading the commercial dishwasher when news of Nixon's resignation broke.

Since I was still in high school then, I lived with my parents during that employment, as well as while at the next few jobs, until the spring of 1980. 

It was during this time, that last year at home, and those first few years on my own, approximately 1979 to 1982, that wanderlust kicked in, very strongly. 

It began with travel by bus. Back then, it was possible to buy a bus pass for a length of time, no restrictions on where you could go. My first tour featured a very specific destination, the Grand Canyon. I spent one week ($100 for the bus pass) traveling from home to the big hole in the ground, 2 days each way, 2 days there, 2 days back, and on the 7th day, I rested. 

My overwhelming memory is that when I reached Flagstaff, Arizona, which on the map was centimeters from the canyon, I realized that my expectation that I could walk from there was dashed by the nice man at the bus station counter who told me that the only way to get there was by bus, and that the next one left the next morning. 

I took his advice and bought a ticket, thereby enabling me to "wait" in the terminal until the next morning, the ticket being my permission to sleep on a bench. However, in the middle of the night I was awakened by two young men who blasted into the waiting area, ostensibly looking for a friend who was supposed to have arrived sometime in the night. After some pleasantries, they invited me to go to the canyon, where they worked, even offering their couch for me to sleep on. 

So, off I went with two young strangers. Naive? I guess, but a precursor for the hitchhiking I would do in the coming years. As I said, I stayed two days, exploring the canyon, once with a tab of Cid which was provided to me by my new found friends.

Starting in 1977, I began a serious effort at journaling. While I did not keep all of these journals, I did find the one in which I described, in minute detail, this first bus trip.

I actually began this post before reading my entries for that time, and, while my memory was reasonably accurate, there was a plethora of details that I had forgotten. 

First, I described and discussed (and partied with) the people I met during this series of bus rides in a remarkably precise way. For instance

"Not counting the bus driver, there are 12 people on board. Spaced between the 10 pairs (the "A" seats) on one side and 11 pairs on my side (B side) they sit. I'm in 7B. Theres, a black youth (about 18) in 9A, a black man (20's) in 10B, a newly arrived white girl in 10A (about 22), and older gentleman (67, white) in 6A, a black lady in 4B (about 28), a white man in 3B (40's), another white man in 4A (late 20's), an older lady in 3A (50's), a couple (white) in 2A, a white man in 1A (late 20's, early 30's). The driver is at least 50 and has probably been driving these huge autos for 20 years or more."

Now, I assume I didn't ask all these people for their ages, although in later paragraphs I do have conversations with some of them, so perhaps those with exact ages were communicated directly by the person, but as I read this paragraph I was startled at how specific I was in describing them, at the bold way I guessed their ages.

Later, I wrote the following

"The older man in 6A just went to the bathroom. He's about 5'6", 130 pounds with a red fishing cap on his head, probably visiting his son or daughter out west." 

Then, even later

"The old man moved back to 6A. His cap is a brown corduroy, not red, although he does have an orange jacket."  

While mistaking red for burgundy is not uncommon, I now wonder why I include the statement about the orange jacket, as if that was part of the error?

There were many other examples of this type of people watching, and it dawns on me as I write this that perhaps the motivation originated from Mr Topper's English class in high school when we analyzed Paul Simon's song "America", a song covered by Yes a number of years later. In that song which recounts a bus trip across America, there are numerous lines referring to the people sharing the bus ride with the narrator and his girl friend.

I also was struck by the simple lines I occasionally found in the journal, sometimes related to what I was seeing out the window as I traversed America, but also, some just random thoughts.

"The world can be divided into two types of people, those who divide the world into 2 types of people and those who are divided into the types." 

Is that supposed to be profound? Or just a reflection on the fact that while I am studying and describing my bus mates, most of them are just riding along, like sticks along a river. I certainly can understand, even respect, those who take life as it comes, assuming they don't get too high or low when they hit a waterfall or dam, but I wonder if too often we forget to stop and look around.

"8 cows lazily lapping from a pond."

"Balls of hay on the side of the road."

"A horse grazing serenely on a hill, it's outline framed in the glorious orange of the sun, setting in the distance."

Almost poetic, certainly spontaneous. I could never have thought I would write those words the days before leaving for that trip, or even the moments before they came to my mind.

I did a lot of reading on the bus, and I list the books I am reading, although don't really go into any details about them, whether I liked them or not, what I enjoyed about them, etc. Sometimes I wonder if I read back then, and I read a lot, I did it as much out of a desire to check off a box corresponding to that book, as if certain books MUST be read in one's lifetime. Homer, Freud, Dune, the Bible, things like that. Of course, that also connotes the idea that none of them are necessarily more important that any other, a thought that devotees of Dune or the Bible might dispute. 

Another important aspect of that first bus trip was that I found many a tune would wander into my head, remaining there for a while. I had brought along a small transistor radio for the trip, not thinking that raising a station I liked could be a chore. Eventually I got into the habit of relaxing my mind until a song would wander in, then singing it in my head for a while. I mention a few of them in the journal, but don't even try to figure out why that song, although I imagine that any that could be even remotely connected to traveling, i.e, like "Running on Empty" by Jackson Browne, can easily be chalked up to the ongoing experience.

And, of course, I wrote a lot. But I planned to do that, even bringing a candle with me to provide some extra light when I was writing on the bus. In fact, somewhere in the midwest I start telling people that I was a writer when asked what I am scribbling. The early hints of what was not to be, although perhaps, only, what would be, but farther down the road than expected in those days.  

Finally, perhaps because of it, I was amazed at not remembering how often I did drugs during that trip. On the bus. At various times I took turns with my temporary friends to go into the bathroom for a hit on a joint, or just got high right there in our seats. When in Pittsburgh, I scored some hash while walking around town, sharing it with mates. And, apparently, there was some kind of alcohol called locker room that you did shots of, which two guys from Texas turned me on to on the way to St Louis. 

And, of course, there was the "trip" into the Grand Canyon.

Amazingly, there was only one mention of the bus driver rebuking us for our fun, and that was driven by a woman who complained to him. We ceased our criminal activities when the driver announced "anyone smoking marijuana, please stop", then something about emptying the bus and bringing in the police and how someone would get into trouble. Then "thank you", which suddenly reminds me of all those rants emanating from our president in which he ends with "thank you for your attention to this matter."

My next comment is "pretty funny". 

Clearly, we didn't take him seriously, whether because of our state of mind or just the exuberance of youth.

At the end of that first bus trip, on that last leg from St Louis thru Pittsburgh to Philadelphia, I record that the bus was mostly empty and that I and my newest bus mates had a blast, pretending that we were being chauffeured, having a private party, as the miles rolled by, getting high, laughing, commenting on the scenes out our windows.

I end this part of the journal with

"I had 27 cents when I got home, all in pennies."  

Later that same year, I purchased a two week pass ($150) and traversed America again, but his time going all the way to the West Coast. My recollection is that I made stops in Pittsburgh, Chicago, St Louis, Denver, Salt Lake City, Portland, San Francisco, and Los Angeles.

I quickly established a pattern of spending the day walking the city I had traveled to overnight, placing all my things in a locker, or sending my main pack to the next destination, then cruising with a smaller backpack containing just what I would need for the day.

Sadly, as of now, I can't find the journal that I know I kept, only the very beginning which was far less descriptive of my bus mates. But I did find the details of the day I spent in Chicago. Apparently I went to a museum which included a planetarium show, and to an aquarium. After seeing the universe, as well as the highlights of man's history, along with all sorts of marine life, I was initially unimpressed with Chicago, until I hung out on the shores of Lake Michigan for a while. Although my current memory of that day has faded almost completely, I spent a full day there, arriving in the very early AM hours, lockering most of my belongings, then walking to the various places I note above, finally eating dinner then heading back to catch a late night bus to my next destination. 

I met a plethora of people traveling this way, and while they tended to be young, like myself, they were from all over the country with a huge variety of backgrounds. Somewhere during the trip I perfected the art of smoking pot from an apple, a skill I shared with a number of my companions. The other interesting aspect of traveling by bus is that the routes are well established, in that when you go through certain areas you will stop at the same places, going west as well as going east. I can remember that we had a meal in Santa Rosa, New Mexico going in each direction, at the same exact roadside restaurant. 

Sadly, my memory of the rest of that two week sojourn has mostly faded. I know I visited the cities out west which I mentioned above, but can't remember any specific experiences. Perhaps I will locate the journal from that time some day, but those trips remain in my mind as intense times meant to learn more about the people of America, and about myself.

Chapter Four: Jobs of My Youth

I recently broached the topic of past jobs with a few of my friends. The point of the conversations was my opinion that when I was a young adult there were a multitude of places to be hired without any previous experience. And not just in retail or fast food, but with small manufacturing businesses, especially wholesale companies where the customers were sellers of the product.

The other motivation for me to think about my past jobs, is the ever in process "based on a true story" novel that I started in the past year and a half, hence the "Chapter Four" in the title of this post.

As of now, I have remembered a number of places of employment, although I am not certain they are listed in the exact chronological order.

Of course, my first job was with my father delivering knives to the restaurants, delis, grocery stores (yes, we called them grocery stores then), and various other places where knives were required as part of the daily activity, as detailed in the chapter, Working With Dad. From there, I worked at the following jobs.

My first experience for work in which my boss was not a relative was at a restaurant called Bonanza. I started out washing dishes, the standard point of entry for this particular place. Over time, I moved out of the backroom to the front line, preparing the sides, fries and bake potatoes specifically, then eventually to head cook, where the steaks and burgers were grilled.

We had a very tight crew back then, especially that first year. All of us from a few different high schools, but similar in age and background. We often stayed after closing, as a group, to roll silverware into napkins and eat any leftover food from the night's work. My recollection is that we were very busy, long lines on Friday and Saturday nights, and it was rumored that our store was one of the biggest revenue stores in the chain. 

Our boss was an older guy (in his late 20's!) who actively encouraged a sense of team work, although sometimes those events included him buying the beer for those after work get togethers. Sadly, Norm put his hand in a fryer one night and was replaced with a corporate trained manager. Not a bad guy, but someone who did not believe in our after hours sessions. His enforcement of the rules broke down our sense of camaraderie to the degree that when the seniors left that first year, some of the team work went with them.

It would be my first experience with the corporate mentality and  subsequent encounters did not change my perspective.

My next job was at McDonalds. It was here that I met the lifelong friends that I have mentioned in previous posts. My Big Chill group. While McDonalds is clearly a corporation, at the time, Ray Croc was still growing his company, seeking out (mostly) young entrepreneurs to own and operate the stores with a mixture of McDonaldness and their own individuality. In our case, the owner had a string of stores in the area, and he too, like Norm encouraged us to work as a team. 

We had a softball league which he paid for so we could also interact with the young people from other neighborhood stores. He also threw yearly picnics where we ate Big Macs and Quarter Pounders at a local park. And he promoted within; many line workers became assistant and general managers. So, even though our wages were low, there was more to going to work than the pay. It is an attitude that I did experience at times, in future places of employment, but not all of them. Perhaps it was just the exuberance of youth, but we worked hard and played hard, and I genuinely enjoyed my time there, even though I worked the 6 AM to 2 PM shift for most of my six month "career". 

I am a bit fuzzy on the order of the next few jobs, although I know they occurred in the late 70's, early 80's. I still lived at home for some, so money was used exclusively for having a good time. 

One that I only recalled recently, after creating my initial list of youth jobs, was at a department store called Korvettes. It was initially a holiday season opportunity, although it did last past Christmas into the new year. My strongest memory is that soon after being hired, they began to play Christmas music for all the shoppers to hear. It was Elvis Presley's Christmas Album. Now, I was not a big Elvis fan to start with, but after hearing that 45 minute album, six, seven times a day for two months, I was destined to never reconsider my non-fan status. 

Another of those early jobs was working at a place that manufactured gang mowers. If you are not familiar with a gang mower, the idea was to provide a single tractor with a series of reels that could be attached to the rear of the tractor thereby enabling a large swath of grass to be cut at once. My one clear memory of this job is that once a week we needed to create the individual reels by bending steel bars. This entailed heating the steel bars in a large oven, removing them with a tong and gloves, then placing them in a machine that bent the pliable steel into its reel shape. A dip in a vat of water cooled the steel so that it could be moved to the assembly step. 

I often volunteered for this duty, partly because it was better then my usual boring task, but also because it paid $1 an hour extra and all the salt pills you could eat. It was a small niche company providing a very specific product to a small customer base, but a number of people worked there, young people like myself with no responsibilities, but also a few who supported their families. It was a common theme of employers back then, small businesses run by adults who made a decent living while also providing work experience and opportunity for the young people of the neighborhood. 

Again, to return to my original point, a dynamic that I think is lacking in America today, to the detriment of young people seeking entry level employment but also to our society as a whole.

I also worked for a company that made jewelry. It was in a nondescript building without even a sign advertising the name of the place to the outside world. I remember that I initially struggled to figure out where it was located, for that lack of a sign. It was only the address in big, bold numbers on the building facade that convinced me to enter, in answer to their help wanted advertisement.

Back then, jobs were often found in the help wanted ads in the newspapers. While it may have helped to know someone already working there, as I will discuss in reference to another of my youth jobs, it wasn't disqualifying if you walked in off the street, as I did for both restaurant jobs, and the gang mower place.

At the jewelry place, I mostly worked with people that were older than I, quite unlike the restaurant experiences. Young mothers enhancing their household income, married people making a career out of this job, serious people who worked for more than just the money to enable the next party. Still, we were part of a softball league, although perhaps league is too strong a word as I don't recall any real structure to it other than we played against teams from other local small businesses. 

We were not very good, not having many young men working there, so I was one of the better players, batted fourth, played shortstop. But we had a blast and actually won a game or two. At the time I didn't realize it but I learned how to play on a sports team with people who just weren't very good but were looking for some outdoor fun. Oddly, one of the teams we did manage to beat was a group from a local wicker factory, mostly young guys, who did not think much of us or our abilities but were quite shocked when we were victorious. A great example of the team with the best talent losing to the team that played best together. 

Speaking of wicker, I eventually worked for that very employer. A few of the guys recognized me from the softball games, but by then that "league" was no longer. The factory was at the end of a long driveway with a huge grass field in front, and we spent many a lunch break playing touch football in that field. 

In reality, using the word factory to describe this company is a bit of an exaggeration as we mostly imported the wicker furniture, only manufacturing the glass tops for the tables.

I was in the shipping department, my first, but not last job in this capacity. This was before the days of computer inventories, so when an order was received, we roamed the aisles to pick the product. The manager of the department was Walt, a Vietnam Vet who had some lingering issues from his experience there. For the most part, he knew where everything was stored, and was most willing to impart his knowledge. 

Being me, of course, I was flabbergasted as to why there was no formal inventory system, and began a paper version, at first noting the SKUs and aisle placements of the fast moving furniture, then crawling into the upper bays and dust laden areas where we hardly ventured. As it turned out, there was inventory there unknown to the front office, and over time we were able to either sell it at a discount, or just toss it to open up the space for more salable items.  

It was at the wicker place that I had my first encounter with a "roach" coach. For those too young to know this term, a roach coach was a truck which stopped by at morning break and lunch to sell us stale bakery items, coffee and suspicious looking sandwiches. I generally did not partake but many of my fellow wickermen depended on it for a morning snack, and even for lunch.

Sad that the food trucks of the 80's, and the owner/operators, were ahead of their time. I assume they made enough to keep the truck in gas and tires, but nothing like what today's food truck operators can earn. As they say, timing is everything.

Back then, every Friday there was an exodus to the local banks to cash our weekly checks. Direct deposit didn't exist, at least not for small businesses to use. I was riding my bicycle (will be referred to as bike from here on out) to work at that time, having decided to eschew a car due to the increase in yearly insurance after a few minor traffic accidents, so sometimes Walt would drive me to the bank after we tossed my bike in the back of his truck. 

Banks generally maintained standard 9 to 5 hours on weekdays, but on Friday they stayed open until 8:00 due to the influx of everyone cashing their checks. Believe it or not, they had to use those line guides you sometimes see at amusement parks or in movie theaters, which created lines that went back and forth, snakelike. Sometimes you might wait 30, 40 minutes before getting to a teller, usually young women behind horizontal bars that required you to slide your check and deposit slip under them.

I generally had very little money in my bank account, living paycheck to paycheck, yet I also had very few expenses. At some point during my jobs of youth years, when I finally moved from my parents' house, I lived with a young divorcee who was renting two of the bedrooms in her 3 bedroom home. I clearly recall that my monthly rent was $180, which meant that when I cashed my weekly check, I took $45 from each, stashed it in my room, then paid Mary Ellen rent at the end of the month from the weekly saved money. 

I mentioned not driving, by choice, a bit ago, but that was not entirely true. When my car insurance rose to the point that it was more, per year, than the value of my car, by double, even triple, I decided to try to exist without it, turning to my bike for my only form of transportation, winter as well as summer.

Biking all year is something I can't imagine doing today, mature man that I am, but back then I was in shape. I could ride for hours, to the point where I was able to disassociate myself from my legs and tour the town as if riding a horse, or looking out a limo. (One particular night, while under the influence of a drug I will nickname Cid, I imagined that I was riding a horse, the clip clop clip of its hooves emanating from my wheels as they spun, a part of the experience.) 

I particularly enjoyed riding in the snow. First, because I invariably made better time than all the motorists stuck in their cars, having to obey the rules of the road, but also because it was just so darn fun. If the snow was deep enough, you could even come to a complete stop without removing your feet from the pedals. I surprised more than one driver with that move, waiting at a traffic light as if I had training wheels on my bike.

Ice, however, was no fun to navigate. Attempting to make a turn on an inch wide wheel on an ice covered roadway was challenging, to say the least. I feel many times, and unlike falling from your bike in he snow, hurts! Also, riding in the cold temps of winter was hell for my fingers, toes and nose. I recall one day when the temp was single digits, that I rode home on a flat tire, flat because it was so cold, and because I couldn't fathom taking off my gloves to attempt to pump air into it.  

By the way, another advantage we had when I was a young person, in addition to affordable rent, minimal phone bill, free TV, and a plethora of entry level job opportunities, among other things, was the availability of cheap cars. Cars that you bought from a relative or friend, cars that were made of steel, cars that you could buy used parts for from a junk yard, cars that you could "work" on even if you had basic mechanical skills, cars that cost less than $500. 

Cars that you named, Betsy being my favorite car of this time. She took me many a places, even when I was not in the best of shape to be driving. Sadly, I overcompensated on an icy road one day and crashed her into a guardrail. Nothing horrible, but enough damage to cause her next stop to be a junk yard.

Both before losing Betsy to that interaction with the guardrail, to after the three years I did without a motorized vehicle, I owned a number of cars, without monthly payments. I imagine it isn't even possible to find a reliable used car under $2000 let alone $500. Just another reason why I feel for today's young adults, so quickly do they become slaves to our consumer society and the large prices for all the big ticket items. 

I also worked at a candle shop. This was one of the jobs I procured through someone I knew, in this case the mother of one of those lifelong friends from McDonalds. In the beginning she was picking me up at my house, but eventually they created a 2nd shift and I worked from 4 to 12, or 3 to 11, or some such shift so I was back to riding my bike to work. Most people shudder at the thought of biking at night, but I thoroughly enjoyed cruising the streets from work to home after 11:00 at night. It was quiet, I could ride anywhere on the road, and if a full moon was in place, or even just a clear, cool, evening, the rides were spectacular. 

Candle making, at least taper candle making as I did, is a volume job. Hot wax is poured into a machine designed for this function, a steel box kind of thing with dozens of holes, each with a wick that runs from the spool at the bottom, through the machine, into a carriage then up to the top. The carriage is dropped to just above the level of area where the wax is poured, the wax hardens as it cools. Once cool enough, the excess wax is scraped from the tray, the carriage is cranked up revealing the tapers, the tapers are "caught" in the carriage (I can't recall the exact mechanical process of this), the wicks are cut and the tapers removed from the carriage. 

What is really cool, is that the waste is just plopped back into the vats of hot wax, red being the catchall for all colors if there aren't any more runs of that color that night.

As a result of this job, our group always had candles for our parties. Often I would be picked up at the end of shift by my friends and we would spend the AM hours in youthful exuberance, often greeting the new day with candles burnt to a nub, bleary eyes, and faint smiles.

Sadly, I just went to the funeral of my friend's mom, the woman who got me that job and was gracious enough to pick me up and take me to work. I never really liked footwear back then, in fact I still drive barefooted, and Mrs W was one of the moms who often commented on my bare feet, looking with disdain when we first met and I entered her home with naked feet. I considered going to her celebration of life sans shoes, and I truly think she would have laughed, but I didn't.    

I also did phone surveys when I was younger. My employers were two sisters although I imagine it was their dad who owned the company. It was very small time, a room with no more than a dozen booths from which we called people to ask about peanut butter and newspapers and all sorts of mostly mundane subjects and/or products. It was mostly high school kids, so I was the oldest, closer in age to my employers. I rode my bike throughout that job and I think they took pity on me, as there were times when I was the only on the phones, when business was slow. 

The surveys could sometimes be very intricate in that you might have multiple versions of the same survey but could only continue with the process if the correct opinion was given for the first question, even if that opinion could be applied to one of the other versions. I didn't always follow the rules so it was rare that I didn't make my quota, perhaps another reason the girls liked me.  

I also worked one summer for UPS. Apparently, young men like me were "hired" for the summer to fill in when the full timers were on vacation. At first I was assigned to unloading the 53' trucks. You were supposed to empty one in 90 minutes which really didn't allow for you to pay attention to any package marked fragile. 

The next step in the process was the slide. The packages tossed from the trucks moved along a conveyor belt to the top of a 20 foot slide. At the bottom of the slide stood a bunch of workers who removed the packages one at a time, then placed each in a series of cages which rotated behind the slide. Each cage was color coded and corresponded to a set of zip codes so we had to memorize which zip codes went into which colored cages. For some reason I remember that package for Croydon went into the white cage.

On one particular night I was on fire, removing packages at record speed. I have a distinct memory of the song Baker Street by Gerry Rafferty playing in the background; I envision that slide every time I hear the song. Anyway, it was the only time I was complimented on my work although I didn't have the heart to tell my supervisor that when he called me (I was often called into work sometime between midnight and 2AM, had no set schedule) I had been partying with my friends and Cid. When he commented that he hoped I would perform as well on my future shifts, I just smiled. 

The last job of my youth was one in which I "manufactured" dock lights. 

A dock light is attached to an arm, or swivel, that you can swing away from the loading dock to shine into the truck, thereby providing light to load or unload the goods. 

I worked for a very small company, two people to be precise. I was the labor, my boss was the office manager and sales person. He procured the orders, I assembled and shipped the lights. Being so small, we didn't have a factory space of our own, instead we rented a corner spot in someone else's work area. 

In retrospect, I must have made for an odd sight, coming to work each day, moving from work station to station, punch pressing here, assembling there, packing the completed lights into boxes for UPS to pick-up. I do recall asking for help at times, to borrow a tool or advice when I encountered a difficulty that perplexed me, but mostly I worked alone.

This would be the last job I had before going off to college, finally realizing at the age of 25 that these jobs of my youth needed to be put into the rear view mirror. 

In speaking to other people of my age, my employment experience is on the unique side, although many of my contemporaries could remember having multiple jobs as a youth. What I think most distinguishes my experience is the range of jobs, retail, manufacturing, shipping, even interpersonal, if one might count phone surveys as such. 

But again, the main point is that the opportunity for such a wide range of jobs, no experience required, existed in full bloom. It didn't matter that the pay was low, my expenses were even lower, especially during my no car years. More importantly, my expectations were low, in terms of needing expensive possessions (any possessions, really), other than where and when the next good time would be. 

Is it too much to suggest that during these years, I was merely allowed to be young? To be irresponsible, to be carefree, to be selfish, even. There was a time that I believed that we should travel, acquire more memories than things, spend time with friends while making new ones, then, once we reach the age of 40, work until we die. Obviously, I have altered my perception a bit since my 40's are a couple of decades in the past, but I sometimes wonder if the idea is still valid, if the idea of working until we are 65 then hoping we have enough resources and reasonable health to enjoy our remaining time is the wrong approach. I have encountered far too many people who banked on the latter, only to struggle financially as they age, or to suffer medical issues that keep them house bound, or worse, far worse, to have everything in place financially only to pass away within a few years of retiring.

The jobs of my youth did not provide for a retirement fund, or a decades long career, but they did grant me the chance to see America as I will detail in my next chapter, Wanderlust Begins.