Forty Four

June 20, 1974

I am now 350 miles from home and am itchy to get there.  I get up at first light. I don’t wait for Mustache to get up and give me a ride east.  I am showered, brushed, dressed and on the road before 7. Unlike the night before, within ten minutes I am able to get a ride from the Etna exit. 

There are a number of stops and starts, but I arrive in Wheeling West Virginia by 10:07. I’ve written the time clearly in my log. It takes me an hour to get out of Wheeling but then only a little over an hour drive more before I’ve connected with I-79 North and find myself on the western outskirts of Pittsburgh.   

I am getting close. It’s not quite 1 pm when a tobacco chewing hot rodder picks me up on I-79. He’s got an easy dimpled smile and offers me some chew.  I decline but he takes no offense. Hot rod takes me north to Meadville, a city around 40 miles from Erie and wishes me the best. “You take care Kozak” he says.  I wait a while in Meadville and then get picked up by a trucker. He’s a young fellow, but he tells me that he always wanted to drive truck. Jackie is only going up to Erie, but he has a CB radio and, to do me a favor, Jackie gets on the horn every five minutes or so and barks out the same message.

“Hey how bout it. Hiker needs a ride to Buffalo. How bout it?

He gets no positive responses.  But he keeps trying.

“Hey how bout it. Hiker needs a ride to Buffalo. How bout it?

Jackie and I bid adieu in Erie. He tells me he tried and he had.  We shake hands. “Good luck Kozak” he says.  How many people have I met on this journey who wished me good luck. So many characters in my life’s play, exiting stage left and right wishing me well. Lurking there in the background of my every days.  Why there, over there, is Nelson holding his anti-union screed. And there’s Maurianne waving in an easy chair.  The four Mexicans who think I asked them for meatballs are smiling in a corner.  Jim is giggling, holding a Budweiser, urging his sister-in-law to play a risqué tape. Fred Mertz is parked on a folding chair shaking his head urging me not to sell chickens.  They are all in the background.  Sonuvabitch.

I am less than a hundred miles from Buffalo. It is not quite 3.

I score rides in quick succession as if the highways know that I want to get back and are helping me along.  A United States Marine takes me from a town east of Erie to Blasdell, New York. It is a ride of close to 80 miles. I now am only about fifteen miles from Buffalo. Minutes later I am picked up by an alumnus of the University of Brockport. He is driving to a reunion. Brockport is east of Buffalo. This fellow takes me all the way to my exit, 50 A.  

I am within a few miles now.  I stick out my thumb on a Buffalo main drag. Then, for the first time since Fruita, Colorado I am stopped by the state police.

“Where you going, fellow?”

“Coming back home. I’ve been hiking cross country.”

“Illegal to hike on these streets.”

This guy has to be kidding me. Should I tell him that I spent two days in plus 100-degree heat, that I got picked up by two madmen on consecutive days, that I ran into a charged wire fence. I’ve navigated over 5,000 miles in three weeks and he’s telling me I can’t hike these last few miles on a regular old street in Buffalo.

I tell him where I am going.  “Why not let me finish the trip off.” I ask.

“No can do.” He responds. “Tell you what I will do though. I’ll drive you myself to the corner of Wehrle and Kensington.  You can walk from there.”

Fine. “Thank you, officer.” I say.  So, my last ride in this cross-country journey is in a police cruiser. I sit in the back seat with a metal screen separating me from the front of the vehicle. The policeman drives the few miles to the junction of Wehrle and Kensington.  “Here you go.” He says as he turns to the backseat. He too wishes me luck.

I gather up my gear, exit the vehicle, and walk the remaining mile and a half to Becca’s apartment.

I knock on the door and ring the bell. She lives on the second floor of a two family.  She is home.  I hear her kerplunking down the stairs. Becca has a relieved smile for me when she sees me. We hug. There seems to be some reluctance.

We walk up the stairs and arrive at the top. Becca turns to the right into the bathroom.

“You need a bath, Z”

I’m home. It is a bit before 6 pm on June 20th 1974. Twenty-two days from when Becca kissed me on the entrance ramp to the New York State Thruway.  

Becca runs the water. I peel off my clothes, pile them to the side of the sink, and get in the tub. Becca sits on top of the toilet seat lid and listens to me regale her with stories from the trip. I leave out the dangerous parts.  Becca’s interested, but after a spell urges me to soap up.

 I finish washing and step out of the tub. Becca tosses me a bath towel. I use it and start drying off.  Becca grabs a hand towel and helps. When I am dry, she takes a look and smiles. She then pulls her shirt over her head, releases her bra, and removes her jeans. She makes sure to fold her clothes and put them on the toilet seat.  Then Becca takes my hand and the two of us walk our naked bodies to her bedroom. 

The next morning we enjoy another slow dance.  Becca then makes coffee for the both of us. I get out the map and log. I spread it all out on the kitchen table and tell her everything. Becca, go figure, finds a pad and starts making notes.