My Short & Creepy Career as a Cross-Country Hitchhiker Pt.1 –by Jim Stiles (ZX#29)

NOTE: I had assumed that this follow up to my first hitchhiking story would all fit in one installment. But most Zephyr readers are aware that, if you’ll pardon the expression, I’m a wordy bastard. I soon realized I can’t tell the tale, as properly described, in one very long breath,, without putting at least some of you to sleep. Consequently, this issue will include my forced introduction to hitchhiking, when I was abandoned along an empty highway in Florida and eventually picked up by a car load of very scary ne’er-do-wells. Part 2 will include my cross country —California to Kentucky — hitchhike, with my 75 pound dog in the middle of winter. And another close call with more unsavory characters…JS

Even as a little kid, I was fascinated by hitchhikers. Our first home in Louisville was one of the prototype suburban streets of the mid-50s that would soon blanket almost all of the agricultural land around the city. But early on, Glen Meade Road was like a tiny finger of development–a depressing prophecy for the farmlands that had come before us. In a decade all of them would be gone. But for a couple years, our street felt as if it had wandered into the wilderness. Just a mile south of us was the Southern Railroad line. A couple miles north, the L & N Railroad had its own tracks. My brother and I used to hang out by the back fence and watch the hobos making their “transfers” as it were, walking the distance between the two lines to complete their planned connections…if any.

In a previous Zephyr Extra, I talked about my favorite hitchhikers and hobos…men and women I had met along the way and over the years. But I never saw myself taking up the trade. It seemed way too scary and unpredictable for this little buckaroo. And I don’t like feeling too reliant on the good nature and generosity (and sanity) of the people who might choose to stop. I assume that every hitchhiker who ever stuck his thumb out must have asked himself the same question again and again, as each potential ride pulled to a stop:

“Does this guy want to help me out with a ride? Or does he want to slit my throat and bury me in a shallow grave under a pile of leaves?

But then one day, the “opportunity” to hitchhike was sort of thrust upon me and it became a necessity to give it a go. Or else spend the rest of my life in Vero Beach, Florida. That day’s “adventure” would lead me, 22 months later, to a nearly transcontinental hitchhike across America, with my 75 pound dog, AND a hundred bucks in my shoe, in the middle of the winter. And for no good reason at all…I just felt like doing it. But that’s for Part 2…

IN SEARCH OF A MISSING SUN

March 6 is always a day of solemnity for me. It was in the early morning hours on this date, in 1836, that the defenders of the Alamo, including the first ‘hero’ of my life, Davy Crockett, lost their 13 day defense of the broken down mission. All of them died. Millions of other boys my age also suffered the trauma of loss when Walt Disney recreated the battle and its final moments, as Davy Crockett was surrounded by Mexican soldiers and their bayonet tipped-muskets. As Davy swung his own flintlock, aka “Betsy,” the scene faded to black and the “King of the Wild Frontier” theme song closed the episode. I turned to my dad and asked, “Davy was okay…right?

I haven’t been the same since.

But that evening, my on again/off again best pal— I’ll call him Cronk — burst into the dorm and said, “pack your rucksack and let’s go. We have a date with Destiny” I had no idea what he was talking about. He asked me how much money I had– about twenty bucks, I replied. He said, “That’ll do. I have my father’s Gulf Oil credit card. We’re going to Florida. We need to be there by noon.” It was just past 9 PM.

As it turned out, the first total solar eclipse of the sun to cross North America in years, was headed for the Florida Panhandle, a piece of information I had somehow missed (I was probably too depressed about my Alamo commemorations to pay much attention to anything else). But the idea appealed to me.

Spontaneity, sometimes called foolhardiness or unrestrained stupidity, was already becoming a dominant force in my life. Cronk’s as well. Three months earlier, we had both been struck by the same malady. We decided to drive West, two days after Christmas, in a blizzard and visit Jackson Wyoming.

Cronk owned an MGB-GT. The hardtop. The heater worked, I owned an MGB convertible, with a heater that was marginal at best. Somehow we chose to take my car. We left Kentucky at 2 AM and drove non-stop for 1500 miles through one bad ice storm after another. When we reached Jackson, Wyoming the next night, the temperature was 37 degrees below zero. Inside my ragtop, the heater kept it a balmy minus five.

Now, to drive into the sundrenched Florida paradise, we took his car. It was a beautiful vehicle and could really cover some ground. By 9:15, we were on the road. We took Interstate 65 south through Nashville, then I-24 to Chattanooga (where it was complated) , then I-75 through Atlanta and into Florida. We were making excellent time.

But somewhere around Cordele, Georgia, it started to rain. Really rain. It bucketed down. The wipers could barely keep up with the downpour. We assumed it would stop in an hour or two, but the sun came up, and kept coming up, and it was hard to tell the event of sunrise had even happened. It was the darkest, densest, most continuous rainstorm I had ever seen up to that point in my life. At noon, we were in Perry Florida, the epicenter of the eclipse, and the town had expected a massive crowd to witness the event. Its Chamber of Commerce was sure it would be the biggest tourist spectacular in the small community’s history. But the storm kept most people home.

We ate breakfast at a small cafe’ across the street from the old courthouse, in the same eatery where more than a decade before, I had experienced my first bite of grits. My parents and brother were on our first real, long distance family vacation, and on that trip, my father introduced me to grits and Dr. Pepper. In those days, it was only available in the Deeper South. I liked both and my father almost seemed proud of me— It felt like a rite of passage.

But the rain kept coming, even harder. And the skies got even darker. We looked at our watches. The eclipse was happening and I couldn’t begin to see the difference. The moment passed into history.

NOW WHERE???

I said, “Well…now what are we going to do?” It was still raining. Cronk said, “Let’s go to the Everglades.” What the hell, I thought. So we drove all day, it kept raining and that night we slept in the car somewhere in the swamps surrounded by what we sure were the sounds of alligators. But on Sunday morning, the sun finally came out. I said, “What are we going to do now?”

Cronk said, “Let’s go to Key West.” After all, we had his dad’s Gulf credit card and we both wanted to be able to tell our friends we had been to the southernmost point in the United States. And yet I hadn’t even brought my camera. In the pre-selfie days, just bragging to our pals was enough. And it was only Sunday. This was Spring Break week and we had a full seven days to find the sunshine and the beaches.

Driving the Key West highway was an amazing experience. The causeways that connected the keys were in terrible shape in 1970 and were slowly being replaced. We could see the old pilings and some of the road bed that was now falling apart. On one key, we spotted a side road and drove deep into the jungle. We realized that in fact we were on an even older version of the highway. We could still make out the old yellow center line. I had forgotten my camera and Cronk rarely used his, but he had brought it along. For some reason I asked him to take a photo of me, hiding in the jungle. Little did I know that in 48 hours I’d be hiding for real.

We kept going. We reached Key West just before sunset. This was Spring Break week and there was nobody to be found. The place was dead, though there were signs that Change was coming. Developers’ signs and new construction could be seen everywhere. Nothing on the scale we see today, but the precursors of the change we were all eventually flattened by. We camped on the beach by ourselves; it was a magnificent evening. But the next morning, for reasons that still confound me, we turned around and drove all the way back up the keys to Miami, where Cronk unsuccessfully tried to buy some weed from a cousin of his. That night we wound up near Vero Beach, both of us sleeping on picnic tables at some roadside park. Tuesday morning dawned clear and mild. There was an empty beach nearby. I thought we could hang out here for a couple days. I asked the question.

Cronk said, “We’re going back to Kentucky.”

I thought he was kidding and I laughed. “Yeah right,” I said. “It’s like 37 degrees up there. We don’t have to be home until Sunday night. We could even stay longer.”

Both of us had cut so many classes that semester, we could hardly remember what courses we were taking. But Cronk was adamant. “Nope. It’s my car and we’re going…NOW.”

I could not believe my own ears. A massive argument followed. It didn’t get physical but only because I was all of five foot eight and 125 pounds, and Cronk stood six-four and weighed in at 225. But I could yell just as loudly as him and the profanities flew. Finally I reached behind the seat and pulled out my official Boy Scout Yucca Pack with its one change of clothes and my green felt cowboy hat. I had fourteen dollars left in my wallet.

“To hell with you!” I bellowed. “I am NOT driving all the way back to winter on Tuesday morning. I’m not going! You’re crazy!”

He looked at me and said dispassionately, “That’s your choice. Not mine. Screw you Stiles.” He climbed into the MGB-GT, started the engine, followed the little gravel road back to the main highway, and turned north. I could hear the deep resonant tones of the MG fade into the distance.

He’ll come back, I thought. I was sure of it. He wouldn’t leave me here in this alligator infested jungle with $14 to my name. I waited. And waited.

He didn’t come back.

Reality began to set in. I later learned that Vero Beach is 954 miles from Louisville, Kentucky. I considered breaking down and crying. There was no way I could hitchhike that far and on $14, I couldn’t even buy a bus ticket. My parents had no idea I was here; I could hardly call and beg for money.

But as I stifled my tears, I remembered that I had friends from college, from the University of Louisville, who were spending the week at Daytona Beach, about 150 miles north. That was doable. I had never hitchhiked in my life and was terrified at the prospect, but there were no other options. There was no getting around it— Cronk ain’t comin’ back.

NO OPTIONS. MY FIRST FORCED HITCHHIKE

I walked back to what was called in those days Dixie Highway, and stuck out my thumb. I was a hitchhiking virgin. Incredibly, the very first car to come along stopped. I could not believe my good luck. It was a mother and daughter and since, in those days, as a 19 year old, I looked like I was about eleven, I did not appear to pose a threat to them. They were only going ten miles or so; still I was grateful for the lift. I thought…wow…this will be easy.

They dropped me off at the junction with a small county road, in the middle of nowhere. They wished me luck and left me to wait for the next ride. Another car didn’t stop for three hours. That morning, I’d refused to go north where the cold weather waited. Now, by midday, I was feeling overheated, and to make matters worse, I had forgotten to bring my canteen (now known as a portable hydrating system). I was hot and thirsty and scared to death. Would I ever get home?

Maybe twenty vehicles blew past me during my long wait. The Dixie Highway was remarkably quiet back then. (I-95 now parallels it a few miles or so to the west). Finally, I saw an old car, maybe a mid-50s black Chrysler, start to slow down as it approached me. When it came to a stop, I saw that this old rattle-trap was full of middle-aged, poorly attired men, who looked as if they may have last smiled on V-E Day. I leaned toward the driver from the passenger side window, to ask how far he was going. The man looked at me and I almost turned and ran into the swamps. He was short and stocky, maybe in his 50s, and he looked like a retired prize fighter with a really dismal losing record. Life had been hard for this man. In addition, his face was covered with deeply carved knife scars. His cheeks and forehead, even his nose, looked like a highway map. There were more intersecting, overlapping cuts than there was remaining skin.

But I was hot and tired and oddly, when I glanced at the other men in the car— there was one guy in the front passenger seat and two more in the backseat — they looked as scared as I was when I first laid eyes on the driver. And none of them had the same malevolent look that Scarface had, so I decided, what the hell, if they’re okay with him, I’m probably being unfair. Maybe he was in the war. We should all try not to be so judgmental, based on someone’s personal appearance…right?

We had not traveled a mile when he started screaming at the man next to him. The passenger was clearly intimidated and mumbling his words. I could not make them out. But Scarface kept bellowing, “Shut the fuck up! Or I’ll shut it for you! You wanna go at it right now? I can beat the shit out of you any time!”

As the driver yelled at the poor man next to him, he’d look away from the road and we’d swerve into the oncoming lane. It was a miracle the traffic was so light. Once he actually went onto the gravel shoulder on the opposite side of the highway, then over-corrected and we hit the gravel in the northbound lane. He finally gained control of the vehicle.

I thought to myself, ‘well this is all good.’

The man in the passenger seat clung to the door handle and didn’t open his mouth again. We drove onward, in near silence for almost thirty miles. When we reached Melbourne, Scarface spotted a Gulf Oil station and pulled over to the curb. Melbourne was very quiet then. A rural Florida town. Lots of palm trees and palmettos. Other than the fact that I was in the company of a man who was clearly insane and was most likely wanted by the law, the scenery could not have been more peaceful.

Scarface stopped the motor and just sat there a moment. Finally he turned to his front seat passenger, the man who he wanted to beat stuff out of, and said, “I gotta take a piss! You got a problem with that?” The man nervously shook his head. Then he turned to each of us, in succession and asked the same question…

“I gotta take a piss. You okay with that?”
“I gotta take a piss…you got a problem with that?”
I gotta take a piss…do YOU have a problem with that?

We all shook our heads. Fine. Good. Wonderful idea. By all means. Urinating is good.

He gave us all the finger, got out of the car and stumbled toward the rest rooms. Watching him stagger past the sidewalk made me realize he was even drunker than I realized — about three sheets to the wind. Maybe even more sheets. Then, when he finally went inside the toilet to “point Percy at the porcelain,” as some might euphemistically describe the experience, the man next to me said, “That guy is creeping me out. I’m outta here.” The guy to my left practically shouted the same thing. The front seat passenger was already out the door. I said, “Wait a minute…aren’t you all friends of his?”

They looked at me, almost in unison and replied, “Hell no! We’re all hitchhikers too!” One man said, “I think he might try to kill us!”

The four of us ran down the street, three middle-aged professional hobo/hitchhikers, I realized, and a scrawny 19 year old kid wearing a cowboy hat and toting a Boy Scout pack. We came upon a small park, and one of the men felt it might be wise if we hid behind a stand of palmettos. So here we were, hunkered down amidst the palmetto plants, and I couldn’t help but wonder what long term goal this would accomplish. Finally, I said, “Why are we hiding? None of us knows this guy. We aren’t obligated to get back in the car. If he comes along, can’t we just refuse?”

They all looked scared but one man said, “Well… there are four of us and only one of him, and he’s so drunk, he can hardly stand up.” The others nodded and so we emerged from our hiding place and started walking north along Main Street in downtown Melbourne. Suddenly we heard the roar of an engine starting. Scarface had spotted us and he looked furious. He shoved it in gear and roared toward us. He finally pulled up alongside the curb, we all stopped dead in our tracks, and turned around to face him. It was as if we were paralyzed. He reached over and threw open the front passenger door and yelled, “Get back in the goddamn car!” We stood there, hands in our pockets, staring at the concrete.

Scarface climbed out of the car and tried to force his front seat passenger to return. The man pivoted quickly and walked away, as did the others. Somehow, I felt more like an impartial observer in all this than a participant, like a detached bystander. Suddenly he lurched at me, grabbed my elbow and said, “At least YOU’RE getting back in the car, Pee Wee.”

I thought, well…you’ll certainly not win me over by mocking my lack of stature. But sensing the threat of serious bodily harm, whatever height it might be, I instinctively resisted and shoved the crazy man as hard as I could. My lack of bulk still trumped his state of inebriation, and Scarface fell backwards, crashed into the front fender of his car and fell spread-eagle on the concrete. I was running like a scared deer before he even hit the pavement. I was moving almost as fast as Cronk’s MG. But I could hear his voice in the distance yelling, “Come back here you little bastard!”

Again with the name calling.

I took a quick turn into a grocery store, and for the next five minutes, saw him cruising up and down Main Street, trying to find us, for reasons I have never understood. I stayed hidden for another hour until I finally decided it was safe to continue my journey north. For time spent, the clerk suggested I buy something, so I laid down a dime for a “Forever Yours” candy bar, (now called a “Milky Way Dark,” and walked into the sunlight. I never saw my fellow hitchhikers again.

Then God decided to give me a break

It was as if He had decided I’d suffered enough. I put my thumb out and within twenty minutes a car stopped, full of young college students like myself, all headed to Daytona Beach. They had decided it was too crazy in Fort Lauderdale and wanted to see if it was quieter up north. They drove me all the way to the main college Spring Break rallying point.

To demonstrate just how much smaller the world was in1970, I was dropped off in a parking lot at Daytona Beach, and I started checking license plates. Within ten minutes, not only did I spot a Kentucky plate, I knew the owner of the car. I remembered that a bunch of girls from a sorority at the University of Louisville had planned to drive down to Daytona, and some of them were friends of mine. That sorority, the Delta Zetas, were famously, but only once called “a sorority of nymphomaniac virgins” by a fraternity brother who never had a date with a DZ again.

But I eventually found the girls, they took pity on me, and let me sleep on their couch for a couple days. I didn’t even consider making a pass at any of them, because I could not bear to be told yet again, “Don’t touch me. I’m Catholic.” And also I was hoping I could get a ride home. If I recall, they weren’t particularly thrilled because I could only contribute a few bucks to gas, but like I said, they were good Catholics, so they squeezed me into the backseat and we made the long drive back to Louisville on Friday.

I swore that I would never hitchhike again, but two years later, that same flaw in my character—spontaneity, or unrestrained stupidity— would lead to a transcontinental hitchhike from Los Angeles to Louisville, in the dead of winter, with a 75 pound dog named Muckluk. Who unwittingly saved my life.

Part 2 is coming soon.




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