Suddenly Schreiber appeared around the corner. He’d run back to the Alto Nido, grabbed every guy he could find, and they all came running back to “save” me. I was impressed! They were ready to rumble. Barry was breathing heavily. He may have been armed with a golf club.
“Hold on!” I said diplomatically. “These men are officers of the law. They mistook me for an armed bandit.” By now the detectives had uncuffed me and though they never actually apologized, they did acknowledge that while I looked like the suspect, there was “reason to believe” I was not that man.
I decided I was not meant to be here. But my VW was just hammered. I didn’t know if it could make the trip home. I calculated that I had driven 22,000 miles in the last six months. It wasn’t really like I missed home anyway…I just didn’t know what else to do. And I was yet again almost broke. It was at that moment that the idea of hitchhiking across the country, more than 2500 miles, with a 75 pound Husky, in the middle of the winter, began percolating in my brain.
“Stiles…are you crazy?” Schreiber said. “It may be warm here, but once you’re out of here, you’re going to freeze your ass off…and besides…HITCHHIKING? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Have you heard of Charlie Manson? That was only three years ago. Do you know how many crazy people are out there? Or just plain mean? Don’t do it.”
I said, “Would you give Muckluk and me a ride as far as San Bernardino?”
Schreiber shook his head. “Sure, I’ll ride you that far. Damn Stiles, you are one crazy son of a bitch.”
