You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

ROAD TRIP

My best friend, Jim Gardner, and I were summoned for our draft physical. It was the Spring of 1960. We were to report to the induction center in Portland Oregon, about 120 miles north of our home town, Eugene. Both of us were sure that we would pass the physical and be drafted. So we decided that we should have an adventure before the dreaded induction letter came from the draft board. Our plan was to hop freight trains and head East, to Chicago. When the day of the physical came I put a change of clothes and a sleeping bag in my backpack. Jim did the same. A Greyhound bus took us to Portland.

The induction center was in a dreary warehouse. Inside we joined a group of 40 young men milling around while waiting for directions. A sergeant walked into the space and barked instructions: “Strip down to your underwear. Place your belongings in the lockers behind you. You will follow the yellow line to each testing station. When you are done. You are free to leave. You will receive a letter regarding your draft status in two or three weeks.” I followed the line of men in their underwear along the yellow line painted on the floor. At each “station” medical staff performed some test. It seemed that they were most interested in our hearts, lungs, and feet. At the end we returned to our lockers and put on our clothes. I left that gloomy place with a sense of dread. There was nothing in that physical which would have eliminated me from the draft. Jim felt the same. I wanted to get away, far away, and that was the plan.

Trains heading East are made up in the Hood River switch yard. We planned to hitchhike there, find the train yard and hop a freight train. We took a municipal bus East to its last stop. It was on the highway to Hood River. As it turned out, the last stop was in front of a coffee shop with a hand painted sign proclaiming, “HOME MADE PIES”. We needed something pleasant before we started our adventure and home made pie was an irresistible option. We went in. The place was tiny with only six small round tables and a four stool counter. The menu listed several kinds of pie. I had never eaten gooseberry pie so, feeling adventurous, I chose that, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. I fondly remember the taste of that pie to this day. If I were asked, now 60 years later, “What is your favorite pie?”, with out hesitation I would answer “Gooseberry, a la mode”.

After our pie we went out to the highway and waited for a ride. The first one took us all the way to the Railroad switch yard. There was a restaurant across the road from the yard. We needed to know about train schedules and thought that this restaurant would be a good place to start. Inside we found a booth, in which put our packs and ordered coffee. We looked over the crowded space. Surely here we could find a railroad man sympathetic to our travel plans. A middle aged gentleman in coveralls was sitting alone at the counter. He seemed like a good candidate for our questions. We sat down next to him and struck up a conversation. He was a railroad employee, and was happy to help. He told us to ride on a “pig” in order to avoid being stranded on some remote siding. I asked how we could recognize a pig. He looked at me with an expression which shouted “How stupid can you be? And you want to hop freight trains?” “A pig,” he explained, “is a piggy back truck train. They have priority over other freight trains. They can even sideline some passenger trains. There is a pig being made up on track three.” He glanced down at his pocket watch, and said “It should be heading east in about an hour. You will find it on the second track on the left from the bottom of the stair to the tracks.” He gave us a great deal of valuable information. For example, he said “The train will slow before getting to any station or switch yard. You will need to hop off before the train reaches locations where a railroad cop could catch you.” We thanked him for all his help and went back to our booth to finish our coffee. As he left, he stopped at our booth and said. “Don’t get on that pig unless you have drinking water. A pig may travel for days with out stopping. You could die of thirst before getting to the next place where you could find water.” It was a good recommendation, but finding a container of water was going to be difficult. There were no stores near the yard and the train would be leaving in an hour.

It was around sunset when we left the restaurant and crossed the parking lot. Our conversation focused on the risk hopping that pig with out water. Passing through the parking lot full of pickup trucks, one stood out. It proffered a canvas bag, full of water, hanging out to us on its front bumper. Figuring this to be a good omen for our adventure, we took it and headed for the switch yard. As the trainman described, the pig was on the second track left of the stair. We walked between it and a common freight train. About half way to the front of the train. We came to a new semi truck trailer on a relatively clean flat car. This looked good. We climbed on and crawled under the trailer. I could sit cross legged with out bumping my head on the underside of the truck. However it would be more comfortable to lay down. So we unrolled our bags and laid on them.

It wasn’t long before we could hear shouting at the front of the train. It began to move, slowly at first. As we passed out of Hood River the pig picked up speed and before long we were experiencing the noise and side to side lurching of the flat car along with a 70 mile per hour wind whistling around and under the truck trailer. The flat car was about ten feet wide. It had no sides just a flat steel surface with nothing but the gravel and ties, flashing by at 60 miles per hour on either side. No matter how we situated our selves we were perilous close to the edge of that flat car. I could imagine the many ways that I could roll off the edge to a violent death. Our bags were arranged across the car so that if we did roll it would be along the length of the car and not toward the sides. The wind was cold, so we crawled into our sleeping bags. Our packs were placed on the windward side of our sleeping bags to give a modest bit of protection from the blast of cold air and so they would not be blown away. I don’t know how I did it but I fell asleep.

I woke up to the realization that the train had slowed. I heard a man’s voice, then another. One voice asked the other “Did you check the tickets on those two?” They were walking along only slightly slower than the train was moving. We were passing some remote switch in Eastern Oregon. The train picked up speed again and I fell back to sleep. Some time later, I was awakened by Jim nudging me and shouting. There was so much noise of the wind and the clatter of the steel wheels rolling over the splices that I couldn’t understand what he was so urgently trying to convey. He pointed to his crotch. Then I got it, he had to take a leak and wanted me to hold onto his bag to keep it from blowing away. While bent over under the trailer he duck-walked to a spot, down wind from me, and next to a tire which he used for support. It was hilarious watching him hunched over, knees bent, on a lurching flat car, in a 70 mile per hour wind as he tried to find a position in which to urinate. He struggled with several positions, none would spare him from the spray. Eventually he let go and there was an burst of urine enveloping him and drenching the tire next to him. As I watched this comedy I realized, that he was also drenching our water bag which we had stashed between the truck’s tires. Jim crawled back into his bag. I laughed my self back to sleep.

I became aware that the train was slowing. I opened my eyes. It was morning. I could see that we were passing through orchards and clanging railroad crossings. I could also see that Jim was not in his bag. I realized that we were coming into a town and needed to jump off. I then saw Jim. He had found a spot at the front of the trailer where he could stand. He was airing out his clothes and enjoying the sun. I yelled “We need to get off!” He didn’t acknowledge my warning. I rolled my bag, secured it and my other gear into my back pack. Jim’s gear was just as he had left it when he got up. When the train came to a stop, Jim came back and collected his gear. We were next to a park which surrounded a train station.

I jumped off Jim followed with his unorganized gear in tow. The water bag was left for the next bum to ride that pig. We walked a few steps to a grassy spot in the park. As Jim was rolling his bag, a man approached. He showed us a badge and said “I’m officer Johnson, railroad police. “I saw you boys jump off from my office window.” He pointed at a window in the train station which overlooked the tracks and the park. “I’m here to tell you that you are not welcome in Pocatello.” “Ah!” I thought, “We made it to Pocatello, Idaho.” “Do you have money for a bus ticket?” the train bull asked. “Yes” I answered. “Then come with me.” he said. He lead us to a van. Leaving the depot parking lot, he turned right onto a street which crossed over the tracks. He drove three blocks to the Trailways bus terminal. There we were lead to the line at the ticket window. Seven people were in line ahead of us. After five minutes, the line had not moved, he said “I can’t wait here for you two to get your tickets. Get those tickets and get out of town.” He turned and left. Jim and I continued to stand in line a few more minutes, until it was clear that he would not come back. Then we left the ticket counter, passed through the lobby and into the bus station restaurant. Still chilled from the dismal and dangerous night we had spent on the pig, and being aware that we had only crossed half of Oregon and two thirds of Idaho, we decided to give up on our plan to ride freight trains across the five additional states which lay between Idaho and Chicago.

Among the alternate destinations we considered one stood out. Irene and her sorority sister, Jackie, had taken summer jobs in a casino at Lake Tahoe South Shore. Irene was my high school sweetheart and a good friend to both Jim and me. We would stop to stay with Irene & Jackie and then we would hitchhike on to San Francisco. My mom’s sorority sister and best friend, Birdie, lived there. I would call Birdie from Irene’s apartment to arrange for a place to stay in San Francisco for a couple of days before heading back to Eugene.

The route from Pocatello to Tahoe ran through Salt Lake city. From there we would hitchhike westward on the highway which crosses Utah and Nevada to visit Irene . I asked a local for directions to the highway heading south. As we walked toward the highway I realized that we would have to cross the overpass in full view of the railroad bull’s office window. We crossed to the far side of the street, so that his view of us was obscured.

When we reached the highway, we caught a ride with two young men who immediately asked about our religion. Jim said he had no religion. I said the same. Upon hearing this, they launched into proselytizing mode. In effusive language, they told us how wonderful the Mormon religion was. We were treated to many stories of Joseph Smith and seagulls sent by God. At one point Jim started to light a cigarette and was quickly rebuked. We told them that we would like to get out at the highway heading west. Instead they drove us to the Mormon Tabernacle and let us off there saying something about making this our new spiritual home. We walked to the westward leading highway and caught a ride.

The highway heading west from Salt Lake City skirts the south shore of The Great Salt Lake. Seeing it I wondered aloud, how it would feel to to swim in it. About then the highway passed a public park with a bathhouse. Giving up our ride for the experience of swimming in the Salt Lake, we asked the driver to stop.

It was a cool, gray morning. There were no other people in the park, so we were not concerned about swimming with out swimming suits. We left our back packs and clothes on a park bench and walked, on rock salt sand, to the lake. The bottom of the lake sparkling with a layer of salt crystals. Upon entering the water I quickly became aware of a tingling sensation on my skin. It felt like hundreds of small creatures nibbling at my legs. While this was uncomfortable it was easy to accept as part of this unique experience. I waded out further to a point where the water was up to my thighs. Wanting to avoid getting the salt water in my eyes, I laid back into the water. It was an amazing feeling to float high in the water. “There was no way one could drown in water like this” I thought. The feeling was new and exhilarating. Unlike doing the back stroke in fresh water where my arms are submerged allowing full deep strokes, here while trying to swim on my back my arms skimmed the water’s surface.

It was an strange and memorable experience, yet neither of us wanted to stay in the water for long. Tingling skin, burning eyes and cold water drove us back onto the salt beach. The park provided fresh water showers. They were cold but appreciated as an opportunity to wash off the salt of the lake and the dust from the night on a flat car. We dressed and walked to the highway to continue hitchhiking.

A man stopped to give us a ride. He was a pleasant looking man but spoke little. After riding with him for over an hour out into the flat parched sagebrush of Western Utah. He told us the was going to turn onto a road which is headed south. We thanking him for the lift, and got out In hopes of catching a ride westward. Looking around it was clear we were very far from civilization. It was a crossroads from which one could see, across the flat landscape, nothing but sage brush in all directions. As remote as this place was, we were not alone. There was another hitchhiker stuck out there at this desolate crossroads. He was an older disheveled looking man in dark clothing standing next to a tattered duffle bag. If he had also been heading west, we would have had no hope of catching a ride. Fortunately he was trying to catch a ride south. I felt a kind of kinship with him, it is the kind of bond which comes from sharing adversity. We hollered greetings across the highway. He nodded an acknowledgement. When, on the rare occasion that a car approached heading west, we put on a pleasant face, and held out our thumbs only to watch them drive by. Even less frequently a car would pass heading South. The old man would hold out his thumb and shout “Hey buddy” at a normal spoken cadence as the car slowed for the crossing. Then as the car accelerated past him, his speech also accelerated so the remainder of his plea was a hardly decipherable “Howaboutalift.” It looked like the three of us were going to be stuck in this desolate place for ever. When a car approached the intersection heading south. The old man put out his thumb and shoted his “Hey Buddy…” the car slowed as if to give him a ride. The old man grabbed his duffle bag and began to run to the car. Then a woman’s voice could be heard through their open windows. She was loudly saying “You are not picking up that dirty old man.” The car moved forward. The old man stopped his duffle bag hanging from one hand. as it moved the man’s voice protested “He isn’t dirty and he needs a ride” The car stopped a second time. The old man ran to catch up to it. Then the woman’s voice, shouting now, “You are not letting him into this car with me! The sedan sped away. The old man turned to go back to the wide spot where he was standing to wait for another ride. He made an effort to brighten the scene. He took a harmonica out of his jacket pocket, brought it to his mouth and sent a melancholy tune drifting across the dusty sage. The old man eventually got a ride.

We continued to wait. It seemed like we had been there all afternoon, when finally a car stopped for us. It was a faded red Oldsmobile convertible, top down, blasting Country & Western music. The driver was a tough looking tattooed man in his late 40s. His painted floozy was younger. We thanked him for picking us up and climbed into the back seat. The two of them were out for a good time in Reno. The driver pushed that old Olds as fast as it would go across the rabbit land of Nevada. The driver and his woman, were shielded by the wind screen for them it was a thrilling joy ride. For Jim and me, in the back seat, facing an 85 mph wind and fearing that at any moment he would loose control of his car, it was a white knuckled gale, strangely reminiscent of our previous nights ride on a flat car. From Reno we easily caught a ride up to the casino at South Shore Lake Tahoe where we were able to find our friends, and arranged for a couch on which to spend the night.

In the morning we had breakfast and hung out with our friends in their small apartment. It seemed unlikely that we would get a ride to our destination, San Francisco, so we made a cardboard sign with one word, “OAKLAND”. One of our friends drove us to the highway which lead to the west. Hitchhiking to the Bay area was likely to take two days. This meant sleeping in a field somewhere along the way. Hopefully it wouldn’t rain. The next two days of travel were not a joyful prospect. Many cars passed by us. It seemed that a car would be more likely to stop, if it were just one of us. So I took my pack and stood out of sight behind shrubs which bordered the road.

A Volkswagen Karmann ghia sports car pulled over. Two men sat in the bucket seats in front. The passenger opened the car door. Stepping out he held his seat forward so that Jim could get into the tight single seat in back. When he saw me come out from behind the bushes he exclaimed “Oh you have a friend!” Pointing to the narrow space behind the back seat he said “Your sneaky friend can get in behind the back seat.” I managed to tuck myself into the slot. I was on my hands and knees with my back against the sloping roof of the tear drop car body. My head was held down by the head liner. My view forward was blocked by the rear seat. My only view was through the bottom third of the small rear window. It was a view of the pavement next to the car flashing by and a bit of the brush covered shoulder beyond.

Jim asked, “How far are you going?” The passenger replied “Your sign said you were going to Oakland. Well that is where we’re going.” “Oh my god” I thought. I can’t survive in this position for the next four hours that it will take to drive to Oakland. About then the driver turned off the highway. I could see the paving had turned to gravel. We passed a chain link fence post. The car stopped. “What is happening?” I wondered. As the driver got out I heard him tell Jim “Pull the blocks on her.” What could he be talking about I wondered. Jim got out of the car leaving space for me to struggle out of my squeeze box behind the back seat. I crawled out of the tiny car still on my hands and knees. Once out I looked up and saw that we were parked next to a beautiful silver, twin engine passenger plane. While one of the men checked the plane. The other explained “We’re pilots for Woodson’s Lumber Company. We delivered a group of executives to Lake Tahoe this morning, and are taking the plane back to Oakland. We saw you, and decided that it would be fun to take a hitchhiker along.”

Jim and I boarded the plane to find a plush interior looking more like a board room than an air plane. The individual lounge chairs, on swivel bases, were arranged down each side of the plane. Two seats were located at each end making it an elongated oval of seating. I sunk into one of the luxurious chairs and snapped the lap belt. The plane taxied to the end of the runway. I was in a daze, could this really be happening? The roar of the engines and sense of acceleration, jolted me to accept that this was all very real. The plane lifted off, up out over the pine forest. When high enough the big bird swung around over mountains and headed west. Once the aircraft settled into a dead reckoning for Oakland, one of the pilots came back to make sure that his passengers were comfortable. He even served beverages. Forty minutes later we landed in Oakland. Our draft inspired trip was completed by taking BART across the bay bridge to San Francisco.

I had notified Birdie, my mother’s friend with whom we planned to stay, that we would be coming but a day or two later. When we arrived at her home, no one answered the door. I tried it, it was locked. We went back down to the street not knowing if she was away for an hour or a day. While wondering what to do next I walked over to her garage door and, to my amazement, it was not locked. We went in. After organizing our gear we went out for a walk in the neighborhood. While we were out, Birdie returned home. She went to her kitchen to put her shopping away. From there she could see her back yard. There she saw our laundry hanging on her line. She chuckled as she thought, “Tod arrived early.”