Forty One

 

June 18, 1974-Emporia Kansas.

It is about 1100 miles from Emporia to Buffalo. Eleven hundred to go. I’ve traveled over 1500 miles since I left the campus of UCLA three days ago.  A wild ride for most of that way.

My best days so far have been 700 miles. I’ve had two of them. Nelson on day one, and Maurianne who took me from Salt Lake City to Pacifica.  It’s not impossible for me to be home in two days if I get lucky.

I don’t get lucky.  My day is not like the Needles and Gallup nightmares when I had to wait forever to get a lift.  I am able to get many rides on this day.  They just don’t go for long distances.

It is about 730 am when John the Savior drops me off in Emporia on a ramp for I-35, a highway that heads northeast.   Four rides later, around 1030, I am at the junction of interstates 35 and 70 not far from Kansas City, Kansas. From this spot I plan to take I-70 east for a very long time.  Somewhere south of Pittsburgh, I-70 meets I-79 north and at that point I will take 79 north. That junction is over 800 miles from where I stand in Kansas City.   

 

I get rides that take me across the Missouri river travelling from Kansas City, Kansas to Kansas City, Missouri.  Shortly thereafter I am picked up by what must be my 7th or 8th ride of the morning.  We travel east and almost immediately I can see, looming impressively, both stadiums where the professional football and baseball teams play their games. The stadiums sit side by side to the southeast of the intersection of 70 and I-435. It is quite a sight to see these large venues from the highway.  

Will, the driver at this juncture, has about twenty years on me. A little bit on the round side but looks like he could have been an athlete in his day.  When I remark on the majestic looking stadiums, I learn that he is a big sports fan.  We chat about the fortunes of his hometown teams. Will claims to have been at the very first Superbowl game in January of 1967. The Kansas City Chiefs played in that game. They lost, but as Will quickly tells me, they were down by only four points at the half. He then adds that the Chiefs returned to the Superbowl three years later and demolished the Vikings.    I remember both games and he is delighted that he can converse with a knowledgeable fan.  Will tells me that he was at the stadiums today because near the complex there is also a multipurpose gym to which he belongs.  He had travelled to the facility to play racquetball with a buddy who, alas, did not show up.  

I mention to Will that I play.  I see him hesitate.  I think he is considering inviting me to take his no-show buddy’s spot.   He doesn’t, and that is likely a good thing. I might have been tempted.  I’d enjoy a workout but want to end this voyage already.  I’ve been on the road for nearly three weeks. It is time.  

There are dozens of exits in Missouri along I 70 and I must have visited twenty percent of them. I am getting in and out of cars throughout the whole state.  In Columbia about midway through Missouri, I stand on a ramp when a gust picks up while my thumb is out. The hat I’ve worn the entire trip when enduring high heat, the hat that I soaked in Needles and Gallup and felt it dry like a bone in an hour on two consecutive days, the hat that has saved me from sunstroke—lifts off my head in Columbia.  It’s as if my hat was saying, “Enough of this already.  I’m ready to rest on a hook in one place.”  I can’t snatch it before it flies like a kite the width of the ramp and descends into a deep valley, beneath the highway itself.  Goodbye hat. Fortunately, today is nowhere near Needles hot, so I am fine without the lid.  And besides, today I do not stay outside very long as I’m hopping in and out of vehicles almost continuously.

It’s about 4pm when I get through St. Louis and arrive in Illinois. It is there, on the other side of the Mississippi, when I get one of the coolest rides of this journey. A thirty something accountant picks me up in a Corvette. He has the top down and we fly along 70. It’s tough to hear him what with the noise from the road, but this guy is Mr. Happy talking about his car and how fast it goes and how much fun he has driving it. “Of course, the upkeep”, he says, “Forget about it.” And at one point despite the apparent pleasure he derives from the vehicle, the accountant shook his head and blurted some unsolicited advice “Don’t buy a Corvette, Kozak. Money drain.”  I’d enjoyed the ride and had commented appreciatively but had given no indication that I was in the market. His counsel reminded me of the Fred Mertz looking chicken farmer outside of Needles who, without any inquiry on my part, advised me not to go into the chicken business.  This thirty something accountant looked nothing like Mertz, but he reminded me of the sad chicken farmer when he said that I should not buy a Corvette that I had not considered purchasing.

Corvette dropped me off a few exits west of Effingham, Illinois. It was now close to 5:30. June 18th is one of the longest days of the year.  I figure I have a good three hours more of hiking available before it gets dark.  In three hours there was a good shot I could make it to Terre Haute, and a decent chance I could get all the way to Indianapolis.  There was even a real outside possibility with a great lift that I might make it to Dayton Ohio-700 miles from Emporia.  Dayton would be unlikely, but even Terre Haute 500 miles from Emporia would make it a good, if long and serial, day of driving. 

None of this was to be because of one of the more quirky rides I experienced on the cross country journey.  I was a few exits and maybe 15 miles away from Effingham when a fellow in a long snazzy Buick stopped.  

***

The Buick pulls over to the shoulder of the ramp.  I trot up to the passenger side and the driver buzzes down the window. “Where ya going.” He says.  I tell him. He waves his hand toward his face. In another context it would look like he’s hot and trying to cool off.  “Come on in.  Going that way myself. Not as far as Terre Haute but close to the border. Come on in.”

I hear a button pop when the driver releases the lock on the Buick. It has all the fancy gizmos that are standard for vehicles now. I begin to enter. The driver keeps speaking. “Where I’ll drop you off is close to the Indiana line. You’ll have no trouble getting a ride from there.”  

“Great” I say. I get myself settled, extend my hand and say “Kozak”   

We shake hands. I get a good look at him. This fellow has the watery eyes of a man who has had a drink in his day. When he says “Artie, call me Artie” as we shake, the words are not quite slurred but blend in a bit. 

“Watch the bucket” says Artie.

I look around.  I am surprised and amused by what I see. In the console between Artie and me is a highball glass with an ice cube or two and what appears to be an adult beverage.  There is actually a cherry in the glass.  Next to the glass is a pint bottle of whiskey of some sort.  The bucket I was asked to watch out for contains ice.

“Want a drink?” says Artie. “There’s another glass in the glove.”

I tell him no thanks. I feel like quipping, “No thanks. I’m not driving” but resist. While I would prefer a perfectly sober driver, the guy does not seem sloshed and he is taking me close to the Indiana border to an exit that he said was a good spot for another lift.

Artie drives up the ramp. As he merges onto the highway he begins to converse with me as if he is resuming a conversation that we had been having for some time. I’ve known Artie for all of 45 seconds, one-minute tops.  He is talking about his wife.

“She wants a divorce. My wife. My wife wants a divorce.  No good reason.” He says the last three words while taking a glance at me then returns his eyes to the road. 

“No good reason, that’s as far as I’m concerned. She has, if you ask her, she has reasons. But they’re not, if you ask me, good reasons.”

Artie pauses to take a sip of his drink with a cherry in it.  He replaces the glass and then, with the dexterity of someone who has done this maneuver before, unscrews the cap on the whiskey bottle, pours some more in his glass, and replaces the cap.  All with one hand.

“Sure you don’t want a drink?”  This guy is acting like we are in his screened in porch during cocktail hour.

“Nah. That’s okay.”

Artie shrugs.  “She thinks I am messing around. She thinks I’ve BEEN messing around.  I’m not messing around.  Not once.” He holds up a finger so that I get the point. “Not once.” He pauses for a spell.  “I’m not talking about before we were married. Then, you know, I was single, and what’s wrong with that. Right?” he looks at me.

“Right.” I say. “Sure.”

Artie nods.  He speaks on for a spell while I look at the map. We are coming to a junction where I-70 continues east, and another interstate, I-57, goes north.  Artie is talking more about his wife’s confounding decision to seek a divorce. I see him put his signal on indicating he is going to exit.  Maybe he has to hit the head with all the liquid consumption. But we have only been driving about 15 minutes.

Artie exits, but does not get off the interstate. What he does is follow a long ramp and merge onto interstate 57 heading north toward Champaign Urbana.

“I thought you were going toward Terre Haute?” I say.

He waves at me. “I am. This is the way.” He takes a sip. “So when she says she wants to have a divorce, I say why. Reasonable question right.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I mean she has it pretty good with me, if you know what I mean. Big house.  She has her own car, that I paid for. Give her a large, I mean large, budget for clothes which—I’ll tell you Kozak—she has no trouble spending. She has it good. So, I ask her why she wants a divorce. What does she say at first? What does she say at first? At first, she says, ‘Because.’ That’s it ‘Because’” Artie snickers before he takes another swig.  He’s got an ice cube in his mouth. “What kind of answer is ‘because.’”

“Uh Artie, are you sure you’re going the right way here.”

“Yeah, yeah” he waves me off. “I’ve been living here my whole life.”

We are not going the right way. We are on I-57 heading north.

“I’m looking at the map, Artie, it looks like we are going north.”

“Hey Kozak. I know where I am going.  I’ve lived here since I was a teenager.” I try to show him the map. He waves me away.  “We’re going right.”

I think maybe he has a way of circumnavigating I 70 to get around a regular spot where traffic jams up, but as I look at the map there is not a whole lot in Illinois on 70 between where we were and the Indiana border for there to be traffic such that there would be a jam.

Artie proceeds to speak on the subject of his marriage. “So I say, Reasonable right. ‘Because why.’ Give me a reason, don’t just say ‘because’. Right?” he looks at me. 

“Sure” I say without a whole lot of enthusiasm because we are driving in the wrong direction, and I would like to get to Buffalo sooner than later.

Artie continues. “Right. So I say ‘because why’ and she says, ’I don’t know.’  First ‘because’ then ‘I don’t know’. Two great reasons.”

“Artie, we are on 57 north.”

“Don’t be a pain in the ass Kozak.  I know where we are going. You’ll be in Indiana before you know it.”

Again, I look on the map to be sure. I am sure. The only good news is that eventually I will have to go north to get to Buffalo, but it looks like the next east west road north of 70 will just take me to Indianapolis anyway just like I’d get to it on 70.   But it’s no use. Artie is sure. Maybe Artie here will talk about his marital woes for hours. I-57 goes all the way to Chicago.  Then I’d just take 90 east.  

What the hell, I think, at least he is not asking me to rob a gas station. I made pretty good time today anyway, I’ll go with the flow and take a side trip. 

I’ll play. “So what did she say then? After you asked her to give a good reason. Did she give you any good reason besides I don’t know and because?”

“Well, not for a while. But eventually she spills and says it’s because I’ve been messing around. Now I have not. Not once” again he puts his finger in the air. “Not once since we’ve been married have I done anything with anybody.” He pulls the cherry out of the glass and plucks it in his mouth. He says “Not once” again. Artie chews on the cherry and then the stem.  He pulls the stem from his mouth and holds it between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m not counting before I was married.”

“Sure. Can’t count before you were married.”

“Damn right. But she does. She does.” Artie sighs. “Who knows? Maybe she just wants out.”

“But she’s got it good” I say.

“Damn right she’s got it good.”

We are now a good thirty miles out of our way. Artie continues to speak about his marriage.  He is petering out some when I hear him yelp:

 “Arcola. Arcola. How the hell did we get to Arcola?”

We have just passed a sign for Arcola, Illinois. I can see on the map that Arcola is a town off of I-57 equidistant between Champaign and Effingham.

“Arcola” he says again. “How the hell…How the hell…Look, I gotta turn around Kozak. That’s all I need is to be late tonight.”

Artie gets off at the Arcola exit and deposits me on the ramp to 57 North. 

“Good talking to you.” He says when I get out.

“Just great” I say. I don’t think he got the sarcasm.

I decide I am going to go north on 57 and connect with I-74 east. The University of Illinois is thereabouts.  If I can’t get a ride east from 74 right away, maybe I can find a place to sleep at the university.  I muse that I could be in Indiana now if I had not run into that goof.  I smile anyway. What a character.

It does not take me long to get to near where I-57 is close to I-74.  I am deposited not quite near the university on what turns out to be my final ride of the day.  I find myself on a secondary road, route 150 east, a road south of 74.  There is still light left, but I am not on an interstate. I consider calling it a day.  I notice that there are several motels on 150. A number with signs advertising very inexpensive rates. Maybe I should just check in to a motel. My deliberations end when it starts to pour.  I am without my hat and am getting soaked.  I see a motel called the Lincoln Lodge.  It is cheap.  11.99 a night. I check my wet body into the Lincoln Lodge, watch tv and crash in Champaign Urbana for the night. I’ve traveled about 500 miles today.  More than 700 left until I get back to Buffalo.