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 something called locker room that you snorted, 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.
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