The following is dedicated to those who were equally adventurous, generous in spirit, and brave enough to stop and offer a lift to these wanderers.
On the road, just off Hwy 1 in central CA
HITCHIN'
Stuck
It wasn't long after, that they walked in. One of 'em would've been too many, but here was a whole damn troop, five in all, parading themselves like some kind of Love family refugees a couple of years too late for the Haight. They were the bedraggled tribe of longhaired, bearded, hippie lookin' weirdoes who had set up camp on the small patch of grass between the east bound off ramp and the mega-way. Hopin' to get a ride, they took turns standing thumb out before all who rolled up to take advantage of this last chance refill station before heading across the vast deserted landscape that lay ahead.
They carried with them few possessions, backpacks, and assorted instruments, preferring to travel light as possible on their trek down to New Orleans to busk the crowds during Mardi Gras season. Still, their backs were bent from the weight of too many miles of walking and not enough rides. Three of them had guitars in cases as worn and tattered as the clothes they wore. There was a crazy looking washboard strapped to the outside of one backpack, all fixed up like something Spike Jones might use. Another had a violin case stuffed inside his pack, and a third, particularly lean, straggly, stringy haired, buck-toothed blonde hiked his washtub bass up higher on his shoulder as they all scanned the room looking for someplace to sit.
Every head seemed to turn at once, to gaze in disbelief at the sight. The boys moved across the room and settled at a table at the far end. The air-conditioned interior made them forget momentarily the heat and discomfort outside.
The waitress made her way directly to them and in lowered tones issued the directive. "We can't serve you", she whispered. One of the group, adorned in a well patched vest and trousers, responded first by asking what the difficulty might be. Her only reply was, "You'll have to go elsewhere."
Never having experienced the sting of prejudice at this level before, one of the five, sporting a derby, interrupted, "What! Our money isn't good here?” He wanted to blurt in her face, “Elsewhere? There is no damn elsewhere!” but after glancing around the room, and seeing how outnumbered they were, he held back. When she was safely out of range he unloaded on the other four. “This is America, isn’t it?!” he began in a heated tone, but his patched partner, being made of cooler stuff, quickly and quietly quelled the retort, lest the flame, by the fanning, should burst into a bonfire. He was as much shocked by her statement as by the realization that for the first time in his life he was being treated like some kind of less than desirable element. Unable to completely extinguish the rising feeling of resentment at not being served, he muttered, “Home of the brave, land of the free, my ass!” and led the way back outside and up the hill to the off ramp.
Time seemed to stand still there, and with each passing motorist it became more and more difficult to keep from giving in to feelings of despair. Would they get another ride, and if so, when? How long had they even been there? Not one of them wore a watch or carried any kind of timepiece. One thing was certain, they had been stuck there waiting longer than at any other location so far. They had hitched from Seattle, all the way down the west coast, and now, on their first leg east of LA, they were stalled. It was against all odds that they had even made it this far. After all, how many people even pick up one hitchhiker these days, let alone five, laden with backpacks and instruments?
They all seemed to handle the incident in the cafe that morning differently, but afterward, there was little discussion between them about it. For a time each stood strangely mute along the off-ramp trying to deal with it in their own way. The only sounds were those of the wind rustling the tall grass, and the occasional drivers speeding east or west along the asphalt that stretched endlessly straight in either direction as far as the eye could view. While it was true, that the band made very little money in their attempts at busking, hence, the need to hitch hike and sleep in the bushes on the side of the road at night, it was apparent, by the reception they received from the audiences they drew while playing, that they were never considered something to be reviled.
Trying to maintain a positive attitude, each of the five began to slip into something of a meditative state, but always, one stood waiting, peering into every approaching windshield, then turning, and watching for brake lights. It was only after staring long and silent at the grassy area next to the off-ramp that two of the five began to walk about exploring it. They paused here and there to pick some of the small wild blossoms that grew. The area was dotted with the refuse often found along modern day super highways. Thinking perhaps that he could influence the cosmic odds stacked against them by doing something positive for the planet, one of the five began collecting the trash. Soon there was a large central pile of it all sorted neatly into proper recycling subcategories of paper, plastic, glass and metal.
As the sun began to sink lower in the west the five stood together and began to sing. First a few words...
Standing on the road
then each adding a few more...
All alone and blue
and then harmonizing...
What do I gotta do, to get a ride with you?
What do I gotta do?
Ooh, ooh, ooh
To get a ride with you babe
To get a ride with you
Several more verses came to them and they sang and harmonized like never before and then they fell silent again. It was a song born partly out of their need but mostly out of their love for the life they had chose to lead. The sky grew darker still as twilight began to give way to night. Then, to their surprise, came the familiar tap of a horn, and they were off again.
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The Dead Show
This time it was a large older American made 4-door with a single occupant that stopped to offer them a ride. The backpacks and assorted gear filled what room there was in the trunk and spilled over into the interior of the sizable car so that the five of them sat cramped inside but happy to be making headway once again toward their destination. As the miles rolled by through the night, they recounted tales of their adventures thus far to their benefactor, a middle aged woman.
Like, when they tried for the first time to make it to New Orleans. They only got as far south as San Francircus that first year before their plan somehow got sidetracked. It was only the three of them then, the power trio, crankin’ out old timey fiddle tunes heavily spiced with a heapin’ helpin’ of their own unique brand of voodoo-hillbilly-acid-grass-blues-rock-fusion with a little novelty thrown in for balance.
The Buzzards @ Fisherman's Wharf late 70s
It was there, while trying to busk the wandering hoards at Fisherman’s Wharf, that they had heard about The Dead playing somewhere in Berzerkley. It wasn’t a unanimous decision to give up on the idea of playing for tourists and tips and go hang at the sold out performance on that New Year’s Eve, but the vote was two to one in favor of the distraction. It wasn’t as though they could afford to buy a ticket with the meager earnings they had received for their efforts at the Wharf, even if there were any for sale. The reluctant third pondered the pointlessness quietly, not wanting to outwardly seem too unwilling to go along with the wishes of the majority. It was, however, that same third, having little interest in the exploits of any loud electric band, who would eventually come away with the most vivid recollections of the experience. “You’ve never heard of the Grateful Dead?” was the shocked reply of his two companions when he confessed his virginity. The two looked at each other, first with disbelief, and then with a knowing sort of smile. Before long they were crossing over the East Bay Bridge via public transportation, leaving behind their daily routine that had, despite their means, or rather lack thereof, become reasonably comfortable.
Each morning they’d rise with the light of a new day from the various outdoor niches each had located on their own. A stand of bushes bordering a tall office building was probably the least of these, though the heating system’s exhaust vent located there was a big plus on those chilly late December nights. The best spot had to be just above the old abandoned train tunnel. All one needed to do is to hop the fence that separated the waterfront park from the lower hillside of the private property which bordered it. The whole area was one big overgrown natural buffer zone camouflaged from view above and below by tall bushes. Upon further inspection it was found to have been previously inhabited by other wanderlust types, perhaps as recently as the summer before, who had taken the time to clear pathways back through the bushes to where a forgotten cement garden bench sat in front of the charred remains of a small campfire. Some prior patron was even kind enough to drag a mattress up to the top of where the train tunnel entered the hillside. Shielded from view below by a short brick fence that arched over the dark railed cavern, it was perfectly positioned to detect the comings and goings of those within the park, and enjoy the glorious starlit evening skies. That well used, weatherworn, and half rotting into the ground luxury made this location a real hobo’s paradise. That is, of course, if you didn’t mind sharing it with some of the local nocturnal neighbors who had taken up residence within, and had a tendency to wriggle about till the wee hours of the evening. There was even a water fountain located just below at the base of the hillside next to the train tracks, and a free public shower house just beyond that. The Big Rock Candy Mountain couldn’t have been any sweeter.
They agreed to meet each morning at a local coffee shop. It was a favorite spot for the fishermen that moored along the Wharf to meet as well. The bottomless cup o’ jo they served there was strong enough to eventually motivate even the groggiest ship's captain on his way to cross the briny deep. So, each morning all three would converge there, even though only two of them stomached the black and bitter medicine, dousing it with cream and dosing it with sugar. The same two, being old veterans at this sort of activity, supplemented their daily three to five hour ritual of caffeine intake each morning by filling the air about them with expulsions of unutilized noxious gases obtained from the burning of foul weeds wrapped in thin tissue like paper. They continued this until a thick blue smog hung heavy just above their heads at the counter. But those few creature comforts that they each had enjoyed were now left behind and only uncertainty lay before them.
Once they arrived at the concert arena the rain began to fall, and without shelters it was difficult to stay dry. Fortunate indeed that at least one of them had the foresight to bring an umbrella along on the trip. It was one of those with multi-colored panels and a handle that doubled as a chair, so it wasn’t an entirely frivolous addition to bring along. It was, though, most assuredly, the benevolent influence of providence, manipulating both time and matter in ways unbeknownst to them, when a quick dumpster dive yielded a large heavyweight black plastic bag and not a single hole in it save the long opening along one side. It must have originally been designed for covering a mattress or some big piece of furniture, because it was big enough to lay down inside with your sleeping bag all stretched out and still have plenty room left over to store the rest of your gear. It made an excellent temporary tent with which to weather the drizzle. The miscellaneous camping structures on the inner-city lawn made a strange scene to say the least.
It didn’t take them long to learn that tonight’s foray into musical madness was the last of a five-day event that had been taking place there. Standing in a long line that curved around the auditorium were those still hoping to gain tickets to the show. It seemed a futile effort considering the event was sold out, but nevertheless an admirable display by the fans to demonstrate their loyalty to the band. After briefly scanning the assembled revelers a familiar face was seen patiently waiting in their midst.
It was a tubbist, a washtub bass player, who had joined them for a time while they were playing the street at the Pike Place Market. After a brief exchange of how incredible it was to have run into each other in such a place, their conversation gradually gave way to the question of standing in line at the sold out performance. Those who had gathered there had all apparently heard a well-placed rumor that a few hundred tickets might become available for this last show of the series. This, apparently, was reason enough to bring hopeful devotees out in full force to vie for the coveted chance to join in on the evening’s fun. Once again, the confession of innocence, of never having been to a Dead concert, tumbled unedited from his lips. The shocked reply wasn’t any easier to hear this second time ‘round, and this time surrounded by countless tie dyed-in-the-wool fans. Further admissions revealed his puzzlement at why two of the three had even chose to abandon their efforts across the water and make their way to the event with so little money in their pockets. Then, without hesitation, a gift was offered. “Look”, said the tubbist, “you’ve never been to a Grateful Dead concert, so, I’ll tell ya what I’m gonna do. If they do start to sell tickets, and I’m able to, I’ll buy you a ticket.” “No, that’s okay.” the newbie refused, “I don’t have any money to pay you back.” “Listen!” The tub player’s tone grew insistent. “This is the last show of a five day series of shows, AND it’s New Year’s Eve, AND YOU'VE NEVER SEEN THE DEAD! You’ve GOT to go to this show! Don’t worry about the money. There’s just one thing.” “Ah-ha, here’s the catch.” thought the neophyte. “If I get you a ticket,” the devotee continued, “you have to take these before you go inside.” He produced in his hand two small pieces of paper. Each one was about one half-inch square and had been stamped with a colorful picture of the Disney cartoon character Goofy. “What’s that?” the uninitiated one asked, looking down examining them, even though he suspected what the answer might be. Before any more was said he explained, “I’m no good with that. It gives me stomach cramps and I don’t like being alone when I do it.” “I’ll be there. I won’t leave you alone.” The fan assured him. With that said, the virgin departed to look for his companions.
His friends had lost themselves among the rainbow colored subculture faithful who were gathering on the lawn. They blended easily with those who had been drawn to the event. The assembled looked much more like a nomadic sect of some lost and forgotten Third-World clan, like something he’d seen on the cover of a National Geographic magazine, than mere attendees of a concert. They were young, cocky, wild and free, and, by the way they strutted about, anyone would’ve thought they were the indestructible lords of the planet, and well, maybe they were.
There were food booths outside that were giving away food to those in need, but they would only offer up the food if one expressed adequately the state of their hunger. When someone asked about the food they would explain that they were in fact giving it away and not selling it. Then a most bizarre exchange would transpire. The folks giving the food away would question, “Are you hungry?” If they received a positive response, they would further inquire, “Are you really hungry?” And if the reply was affirmative again, they would continue their unusual interrogation with, “Are you really, really hungry?” At this point anyone would suspect these guys were suffering from some kind of auditory impairment, perhaps due to having enjoyed one too many of the fine volume knob manipulation displays, by the purveyors of such, from within the cavernous confines of the grand edifice before which they stood, but fortunately, a third affirmation seemed to be the key to being able to walk away with the small bag of sustenance. Contained within was an apple, a cold-cut luncheon meat and processed American cheese sandwich on white bread, a small bag of potato chips, a Hershey’s chocolate candy bar and a can of Pepsi. Could the free grub have been part of the reason why the other two chose this particular diversion? No matter, it was a nice gesture on the part of those offering the service even with the strange verbal hoops one had to jump through to get it.
With shelter found, and hunger and thirst averted for a time, still two questions nagged him. What they were doing at this unusual scene, and where they would go from here? The other two had obviously done this sort of thing before. He, on the other hand, was a total innocent to everything that had been happening so far. He had never hitched more than a few miles in his life, and yet here they all were trying to get half way across the country. He had never relied on someone else for his survival, not since leaving home to go away to college, but now, here he was, dependent upon these two. They made most of the decisions as to where and when to play, eat, sleep, travel, and camp. They seemed to make all their decisions based on having done all of these things on previous treks. He said little about it all, choosing rather to just go along for the ride, and what a ride it had been so far. It seemed as if every moment of every day presented them with a new struggle, or challenge they had to meet to simply survive. Living life this way, moment to moment, took some getting used to, but after a while it became apparent to him, as it must have been to his two partners, that the universe could and would provide all that was needed, and it oft’ times did so in a most mystical and magical way.
As it turned out, the concert was in fact one of the most bizarre events he had ever had the opportunity to experience. Not that he had had many chances to go to similar shows at all. This was actually one of the few he had ever attended. His disposable income, being nearly nonexistent, simply did not leave room for the extravagance of concert going.
Though, he himself had once tried to create something of a Sideshow Circus of the Weird while attending college, those college attempts couldn’t hold a candle to the unbridled psychedelia of this. Of course, this happening was orchestrated with a budget worthy of the artists involved. His fledgling collegiate sideshow had nothing in the way of financial backing. It was strictly a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants operation, but with the help of a handful of dorm mates he pulled it off. The event was a success. It made a big splash among his fellow students, and for a short while those involved enjoyed the attention it garnered them.
This concert venue wasn’t anything fancy. It looked like some kind of gymnasium used for basketball events, with a hardwood floor and seating that could be ejected out from the walls. It also had a second floor balcony of sorts that held similar seating. The rather plain stage spanned nearly the entire width of the ball court.
The Dead stepped out in a somewhat unceremonious fashion among the applause and hoots from their gathered tribal members and began singing apparent favorites. Some of the songs were recognizable even to this uninitiated one.
There he was, surrounded by fanage of the truest tie dyed colors, and that made his visit to this hardcore, trippers only, environment a little uneasy. No matter, he was, after all, a musician himself, and that gave him a kind of determination to make the most of the experience. A closer inspection of the stage and its accompanying gear was in order. So he began to make his way down from where his tub player friend had abandoned him, in the nose-bleed seating section, to floor level to take a look.
The sound system and special effects that Jerry used were impressive enough. At one point he began to play guitar, striking a chord, but then turned to his right where he continued by manipulating several control devices. This altered the output capabilities of their system and allowed him to create a wave of sound that slowly washed over the room like an ocean slowly laps waves along a shoreline. Admirable too was Bob, who tried to sing a few, only to discover his voice was gone, worn out from the previous four days no doubt. Little could be heard of what was left of his vocals, but in true rock ’n’ roll trooper fashion it didn’t stop him from tryin’.
The evening wore on, and though the music was engaging, there were other elements that rounded out the experience making it a night to remember. It must have been long about midnight when the band took a break and left the stage. Of course being the new guy at all of this made what happened next even more of a surprise. The lower floor area was crowded with bodies. It hardly seemed possible for anything sizable to make it’s way through but suddenly there was this sound, a kind of deep rumbling. He turned to try to catch a glimpse of where it was coming from and was overcome by what he saw. There was a huge skull moving toward the front of the room, some ten or fifteen feet tall. Where it came from, or how it moved through the throng so quickly was a mystery he pondered as it came to stop beside him at the front of the stage. Then he noticed the figure that had been riding atop the skull. It was a man. He wore a long black cloak and had a long gray beard. In his hand the man held a tall staff that had a long curved blade attached to one end. As the skull came to rest, he leapt from his perch on top, and onto the stage. “Oh, I get it, this was suppose to represent Father Time”, he thought to himself. “Of course, at the end of the year, Father Time retires the old year and greets the New Year.” Feeling very satisfied that he had unraveled the mystery, he was taken back by what happened next. He looked up to notice that from high above appeared a rather scantily clad beautiful young woman who was slowly being lowered, on a sort of trapeze, down to stage level. "It was the New Year."
Not long afterward the two disappeared behind the curtains that sheltered backstage, only to reappear with armloads of long stem red roses. Then, they each began casting them one at a time into the audience. “What a special added touch to the evening”, he thought, as he began raise his hands and call out for one of the roses, as those around him were doing. “What luck”, he thought as one came flying near and fell to the floor beside him. “This will make a wonderful memento of the occasion”. He bent over to retrieve it just as another attendee next to him bent over to do the same. There was a brief moment, as both began to reach for it, when each happened to glance up at each other. To break the silent awkwardness the newbie said playfully, “I’ll fight ya for it.” His challenger raised his hands and backed away as if he believed the comment was not made lightly, or maybe he was just being kind.
Whatever the reason, he had won the small prize and soon began to groom it, pulling off it’s, less than perfect, withered petals as he had seen florists do to improve the look of their displays. He began to explore the gift, being careful to avoid getting pricked by one of the pointy thorns that protruded along the length of its stem. Its scent was faint but refreshing.
He was pleased with his good fortune and began to look about the area where he stood near the stage, but to his surprise no one else was in possession of a rose. He had seen the two figures, their arms loaded with long stem red roses, each tossing them one at a time from the stage. He had witnessed others catching them, but now, there were none anywhere to be seen, save his. Slowly an uncomfortable feeling came over him. Were the actions of the people on stage all a part of some kind of an elaborate planned ritual? Was he supposed to do something like pass the rose on to a person next to him to complete the ritual? The uneasy feeling within him grew. He turned away from the stage and decided to leave. The band was on a break, so, there was no music to be enjoyed, or break up the odd sense of discomfort he was battling.
He thought perhaps he could redeem himself by offering his rose to another before he left. Just behind him stood a woman, one of the many rabid fans adorned in the accepted tie-dyed attire. He offered the flower, but she rejected the offer with a look and a gesture that made him feel even more like he had committed some kind of strange social suicide by picking the flower up from the floor in the first place. Being new to the intricacies and subtleties of the experience left him uncertain as to whether he had breeched the proper etiquette for the situation.
He decided it was time to get some air anyway. Dressed for the out-of-doors made being inside a little less than comfortable. The room was thick with bodies. A nasal patchwork quilt of warm moist smells over lapped as he slowly made his way across the fan-covered floor to the rear where the exit doors were. Along the way he passed those still caught up in dance. For these, the music was no longer necessary. The music was within them. They writhed and wriggled as creatures might who possessed no internal skeletal structures, resembling something closer to earthworms on a hot plate. Finally, after making his way beyond the last of the wiggling Jello-like contortionists he stepped into the cool dark evening, found his makeshift bivouac, curled up inside his sleeping bag and drifted off.
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