I had just flunked out of college. Every night on television, newscasters gave the daily American death toll in Vietnam. In 1968, campuses were under siege and riots were erupting everywhere. American was at war aboard and at home. I got lost in the shuffle.
Packing my stuff in the trunk of my battered ‘60 Buick Roadmaster, I took off down the highway. Somewhere outside of Hannibal, Missouri, I picked up a hitchhiker. It was Mark Twain.
He introduced himself as Sam. Slowing down to pick him up, he asked, in his Midwestern twang, “Where’re you going?”
I shrugged. “Does it matter?”
He laughed quietly and lit a thick cigar. “It’s a big country. How about going out West?”
“Get in.” And we headed towards the setting sun.
I casually asked Sam what he did for a living. “Little bit of everything,” he replied, “printer, reporter, prospector, gambler, river boat pilot.”
“Writer?” I ventured.
Sam winked at me. “Thinking about it. Maybe I’ll write up this little trip. Sort of an American story, on the road, free, looking for adventure.”
“Like Tom and Huck,” I had to add.
“You’re getting the idea,” he said and began humming Stephen Foster songs as the night swallowed us up.
We listened to the car radio as we drove through the amber waves of grain in Kansas. The news was about Vietnam. “Sounds like another mess the Congress got involved in, and then, doing what they do, made it worse,” Sam commented.
“That might be the best definition of Vietnam yet,” I responded.
“I was a soldier once, for about six weeks. Didn’t care much for it. So I quit. Never be afraid to quit. It opens up other possibilities, and one of them will turn out to be right for you.” I liked the way Sam thought.
Somewhere outside Dodge City, we came up on a troop of cavalry soldiers bivouacked for the night. They were real cavalry soldiers, circa 1870 or thereabout. Horses, handlebar mustaches, colt revolvers, blue uniforms with the yellow stripe down the leg.
We stopped, shared some of their rotgut coffee and bean stew while Sam charmed them with his wry humor and jabs at the government.
It was obvious that the men, most of whom were still boys, were afraid. The enemy, who knew the area well and whose numbers were unknown, were feared for their savagery. They didn’t like invaders in their land. Some things never change, it seemed.
It wasn’t that the soldiers were especially patriotic; most of them were recent immigrants, and this was the only good-paying job open to them. Now, like the boys in ‘Nam, they were trapped in a bad situation and didn’t know how to get out.
We said goodbye and drove on. “I’ve got some friends in Frisco. Are you game?” Sam said with a sly grin.
“Sure,” I deadpanned, “as long as I don’t have to wear flowers in my hair.”
In Colorado, we stopped for gas. Sam struck up a conversation with a young man. He was an American Indian, Tom Quickowl, returning from Vietnam, traveling home to Montana. He was missing an arm and seemed old beyond his twenty or so years.
As we climbed back into the Roadster, Tom leaned in and said, “Good luck to you. At the end of your journey, I hope you find what you are looking for. Sometimes it is what you least expect.”
I must have looked confused, because Sam jumped in, adding, “Tom means it’s all about timing.” Then he shook Tom’s hand and cracked, “You know, I like the name Tom. Maybe I’ll use it sometime.” We took off down the highway again.
Colorado became Utah. We were on a long-distance journey like Kerouac and Cassady in On the Road. It felt somehow right despite all the incongruities. We listened to the radio; Sam didn’t care much for rock and roll, psychedelic or otherwise, but he did express a certain fondness for Simon and Garfunkel. He said their music reminded him of old camp songs.
During a news update about Vietnam, Sam responded, “War is old men sending young men to fight and die before they can become old men. Even the most just war is a failure and not something to give the survivors metals for.”
I nodded in agreement. Sam knew war, then and now.
“Ben Franklin said that nothing is certain except death and taxes. I believe he should have added war, because taxes fund it and death results from it. And there is always one going on somewhere.”
Nevada was long, desolate and dry. We drove through it like the wind, leaving everything behind.
On the mythic third day, we hit California. By the time we got to San Francisco, I knew what both Tom and Sam meant. This was the end of the journey. It was what I least expected. I joined a group that fed the poor, and felt important and useful.
The last time I saw Sam, he was heading off towards Golden Gate Park, surrounded by hippies, who were laughing at his comic observations.
Rod Drake has been published in Flashing In the Gutters, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward and AcmeShorts. He lives in the neon fantasy city of Las Vegas.
You have brought the time and confusion of the sixties alive in this piece. I like the way you showed through Mark Twain that as much as life changes it stays the same. Thanks for sharing.