PAGAN
LOVE AND WILDING HEARTS
16.
An Incredible Journey
Mindy was the
sort of young woman who caused all the trouble in Vermont bars. Vermont has to have the
worst bars in the United States. There are fights every night in most of them it seems.
People are always getting thrown out doors and windows. And in the center of every fracas
is usually a young girl like Mindy.
She is sexy and
coy -- and when she is done flirting with one man she goes down the bar and starts
flirting with another, and so on, until she turns the place into a hornet’s nest.
They get married but that doesn’t stop them. Even
after a few years of marriage they may still be immature.
Around the hippy
campfires their tactics aren’t much different. They get a guy all worked up for sex
and then go off and do it with his buddy instead. Or they tease them both just to see what
happens. And any trouble isn’t their fault. They are innocent!
Mindy had driven
Tom and Denny insane back at EPP. Not to mention Tom’s wife.
I had not had
any opportunity to really get to know her as yet person to person and neither had anyone
else really. Someone said she had been married and had run away from her husband and that
he might come looking for her at EPP any day now. Maybe that’s why she was so fired
up to leave. She had a working-class husband who didn’t want to allow his young wife
to turn into a hippy.
I
wondered what it would be like traveling with her. As we drove I tried breaking the ice.
We got to laughing. She slid over beside me and I put my arm around her and we talked
until she fell asleep. And so I felt like we were doing ok.
Around two AM we
were a couple hundred miles south of EPP and still in the state of Vermont. We saw an
off-the-road area and being tired we pulled in to get some shuteye. The night was coolish
and worsening.
I awoke Mindy
and told her she should get out her sleeping bag and turn in because that’s what I
was going to do. She mumbled that she was cold and that she didn’t have a sleeping
bag. I was a little incredulous. I said to her:
“But I
thought you gathered up your stuff and put it in the back of the truck?”
She answered
that she had done that, but all she had was clothes.
She’d never had any sleeping bag or blankets of her own! Well, if that
didn’t take the cake! Rather than going to the Salvation Army and getting herself a
two dollar sleeping bag that would have provided her ample seclusion and ultimate
freedom—she had been sharing the bed of hardened hippy brothers night after night and
probably expecting them to be celibate as priests! Now I more fully understood the
commotion surrounding her back at the park!
All I had was one good sleeping bag and one thin blanket that wouldn’t keep a bird
warm all by itself. I told her frankly that I had an Army down mummy bag that barely fit
one person comfortably. Two people could squeeze inside it and I had done it
before—but it was a real tight fit and there was no room at all for clothes and
therefore it was best if both people were on the best of terms, because it only worked if
they fit close like spoons. In an unconcerned little voice she said all that was perfectly
okay with her. She sure sounded naive to me! Did she realize what she’d be up against
when she was fitting like spoons with me in my sleeping bag?
Good loving takes time. But life can be so humorous the way things happen unplanned--like
the accelerated process of sweet sexuality between two relative strangers: a nude young
man and woman packed tightly together like spoons in a mummy bag! The situation described may have about it the rare
beauty of Providence and the laughter of God.
It wasn’t
long before our mummy bag was really kicking up the dust under the stars. We must have
looked like a giant green caterpillar dancing in the moonlight.
Alas, Mindy was
too inexperienced at hippy ways! She’d had no real opportunity to pick up “Earth
Mother” patterns of thinking. Good simple food cooked over a campfire. She thought
there was going to be cookies and coke at every rest area, and lots of cigarettes. I had
quit smoking during my stay at EPP and I sure didn’t want cigarette smoke around me.
This made for problems.
She was a
teeny-bopper; maximum cute, spicy hot, arctic cold, and uptight. She couldn’t take
care of herself, she couldn’t build a campfire, she couldn’t make
shepherd’s coffee.
She was eighteen
years old. But until recently she had lived beneath her mother’s domineering wings
and then for a brief time with a husband she simply couldn’t understand. (She
wouldn’t talk about it for the most part.) Now she wanted to be free for the first
time in her life, but she didn’t know how to go about it. I began to think the best
thing I could be for her would be simply her friend. Maybe I could help her learn a few
handy things, if she paid attention.
I just hoped we
would get to Tucson safely and quickly. I knew she would fly like a bird once she checked
it out and then we would all be happy; the brothers at EPP, Linda, me, and even Mindy.
We started up
the Apache early in the morning and proceeded southwest on a rural secondary highway. I
would feel much better after we left the state of Vermont. We had about sixty miles to go.
The engine had started to smell bad the night before while we were driving. That’s
one of the reasons we had stopped. I decided to drive into the next town and check the
oil. When I got there I found out the engine was three quarts low. Apparently the Apache
used a lot of oil on long hauls but it had never seemed bad on oil before on the little
jaunts around EPP. I filled up the crankcase and we continued our trip -- but the motor
started sounding real bad. Real Bad. We hadn’t even gotten out of the state of
Vermont. We had ten miles to go to the New York border and the pistons were clattering
like china dishes in a Laundromat clothes-dryer. If we stopped right there I worried that
we’d both end up back amidst the mayhem at EPP for the winter -- and with the van
needing an engine I’d probably have to leave it where it was which would mean I would
have nothing to live in when the weather turned freezing. On the other hand it felt like
if we just got to New York we would be on the other side of a fence where anything was
possible. The Apache chugged and lurched ahead at about ten miles per hour.
I saw the sign
that said “Welcome to New York” and wondered if we could possibly get to the
other side of it. We were down to about two miles per hour. Slowly the sign passed. We
made it another thousand feet and the motor gave up the ghost with a loud crunch and a
billow of steam. Mindy and I pushed the
Apache off on the side of the road. She asked me what we were going to do now? Could I fix
it? I told her the Apache was burnt toast, done for. She suggested maybe we’d better
hitchhike back to EPP. I told her to do whatever she felt was best. As for me and
Demitrious, I was determined we would continue on to Arizona on the Triumph, adding that
there was room for her, too, if she still wanted to come along. She agreed.
The Triumph 650
seems like a large motorcycle normally. But once we had packed it with all it could carry
you could hardly see the bike. I stashed as much clothes and stuff as I could into the old
Martin guitar case and lashed it vertically to the sissy bar. I tied all the other gear
onto the rack behind that. What a huge pile of bundles and bags on the tail end of the
bike—six feet tall, higher than the top of my head! With all that high weight
cornering was gonna be weird!
I sat on the
saddle and balanced the motorcycle while seventy-five pounds of St Bernard puppy jumped up
on the gas tank and then a hundred pounds of Mindy squeezed on behind me; we were so
tightly squashed together that her mound of Venus made a boney indentation against the
small of my back that was the most pleasant thing about the arrangement.
Some local
country lads had walked up and were watching us make our preparations for taking off; they
were about ten years old. I asked them if they had ever owned a vehicle? They replied that
they had not. I knew that. I threw the keys to the Apache truck to them through the air
and told them;
“It
needs some work but you should have it fixed by the time you’re old enough to
drive!”
And with that I
fired up the Triumph and we roared off into the morning. Motorcycles are more fun than
trucks anyway.
***
The license
plate jiggled off the rear fender within a hundred miles—and the Triumph had never
had any real working mufflers. In backwoods Vermont that kind of stuff didn’t matter
much. Heck. Vermont driver’s licenses didn’t even have photographs; they were
just a piece of unlaminated cardstock! The New York trooper had never seen a Vermont
license before. He didn’t believe it was real. He couldn’t believe any state in
1974 would hand out driver’s licenses without photographs. So he had to call in and
verify everything. We were on the New York Interstate, heading
for Pennsylvania. Pretty soon there were three highway patrol cars clustered on the side
of the road. All the officers were milling about checking out the bike and us. They asked
if we were carrying any dope. Oh sure, like I would tell them if I was. But I didn’t
have none anyway. I’m no fool. I never travel with pot. Never... After I told them
they could check anything they wanted they were convinced I was telling the truth. But
they wondered was I aware that working mufflers were required on motorcycles according to
New York laws? I told them I had just recently purchased the bike and no one in Vermont
had ever said anything to me about my mufflers being illegal. They assured me that New
York and Vermont had vastly different laws and that since I was in New York I would have
to abide by the laws of New York. I told them that made sense to me. They asked to see my
registration. Well, I had lost it. But a simple call to the Vermont DMV verified the bike
was legally mine. Still registration papers were required to be carried on any vehicles at
all times. Was I aware of that? I told them I was aware of that—but I had just lost
the papers and had not had time to replace them, so what was I to do? They asked us where
we were going on the bike? When we told them
we were riding to Arizona they just couldn’t believe it.
“—On
THIS???” they about screamed.
They were certain the bike would never make it.
“—Why it’s falling apart!” one officer exclaimed as he shook the
loose gas tank with his hand.
I assured them
that the bike ran excellently.
They looked at
Demetrious standing patiently beside the bike. The officer who had pulled us over
explained to the others who had arrived that the St Bernard had been riding in front of me
sprawled across the tank when he had stopped us. The other officers made disbelieving
sounds. They asked if I considered the
motorcycle to be overloaded? I agreed it definitely was packed to the hilt but I assured
them it was manageable. But was it safe they
wanted to know? I told them it seemed safe to me—as safe as ever. But what about the
huge dog on the tank? Oh, I assured them he always rode like that. They couldn’t
believe that. No way. I called Demetrious and he jumped up onto the bike and landed right
in his proper place on top of the tank as easily as an acrobat. He gazed at the cops with
his nonplussed eyes. He looked anxious to hit the road.
All the cops got
on our side then. They laughed and slapped their sides and said this was one for the
books. They told the cop who had pulled us over that it was all in his hands and they got
in their cars and left. They left laughing. The two cops who remained were smiling, too.
They asked me one more time if they had it right that we were passing through New York on
the Interstate and were not stopping anywhere? I answered that that was correct. They
conferred in whispers and got back to me.
“—Well
if that is true, then we will give you the best break we have ever given anyone. As near
as we can figure you have here about two hundred dollars worth of violations—at
least. But I’ll tell you what we are going to do -- If you will get on this
motorcycle and get out of the state of New York immediately and as fast as you can, we
will disregard everything. We don’t ever want to see you again. Is that clear?”
I answered that
it was perfectly clear. We all shook hands and they wished us luck and got in their patrol
car and drove off shaking their heads. We loaded up and did just like we promised, and
left New York State, without delay.
In Pennsylvania
I figured we’d try to avoid highway patrols by staying off the Interstate; so we got
on highway 6 west. I liked roads like that better anyway; more picturesque and
slower—and maybe safer, too.
Things were
going just dandy until we developed a flat rear tire and barely got the bike slowed down
without dropping it. We stopped on the side of the road. I had to get the machine to a
town where the tire could be repaired—so I elected to have Mindy and Demetrious walk
beside the bike while I nursed it along slowly at walking speed with the flat. That was a bad idea, one of the lessons we all
learn the hard way. Of course I ruined the tire by driving on it for several miles. We
didn’t even get to a town, but we did get to a place where we could park the bike and
roll out our gear and get some sleep. A little love-making also helped ease jangled
nerves. There’s nothing like being packed like sardines in a smelly, gooey mummy bag.
But when you’re dog-style tired you don’t care.
But Mindy and I
weren’t getting along. She was trying to control the show. She was throwing hourly
tantrums about her cigarettes. She had no money and she expected me to buy her one or two
packs every day. Heck! I sure didn’t need a compulsive smoker around me! And she was
constantly on my back about colas, and she had to stop in restaurants for coffee, and on
and on and on. We had started the trip with seventy-five dollars which I figured just
might get us all the way across if we stretched it thin. And we were just frittering it
away. She didn’t care beans about what was left. She wanted to spend what little
there was on her immediate needs: cigarettes, colas and restaurants. When I repeatedly
tried to patiently explain why we couldn’t do that she refused to understand and
wouldn’t respond to me or even talk to me unless it was angry accusations, innuendos,
or more cajoling to buy her something. Plus,
she accused me of deliberately causing the mechanical delays.
She had even
fallen asleep behind me and almost keeled over off the bike—at sixty-five miles an
hour! I had to reach behind me with one arm and grab her—And hold her up—while
trying to maneuver the motorcycle with the other—and we’d darn near wrecked. And
this had happened not once but three times. Plus she was just too emotionally immature. Oh
man! So bossy! She was plum dangerous and
aggravating to boot. The whole thing was a disaster.
In the morning
we had a long talk and decided to split up. I didn’t like the idea of parting with
her on the side of the road like that but I couldn’t see anything else to do. She
didn’t exactly like the idea either but it had to be done. I insisted. So we got all
her bundles of clothes together and I gave her five dollars and set her on the highway
opposite the bike and pretty soon she got a ride.
Not the sweetest
goodbye, but expeditious. I was quite relieved.