Forty Three

June 19, 1974

An excellent day of hiking might get me to Buffalo by sundown. I hope that will be the case, but I doubt it. Seven hundred miles would be a great day and I am not even on the interstate when I begin.

The Lincoln Lodge sits on US highway 150, a road that parallels I-74 to the south.  I stick my thumb out a few feet from the entrance to the Lodge. The first car that stops is going east on 150 for thirty miles. I consider not taking the ride and waiting to find a lift going North so I can access the superhighway. I decide to take the guaranteed 30 miles on 150. 

The driver drops me off in the town of Tilton, where I-74 and 150 intersect.  From Tilton I start and stop and start my way across the Indiana border toward Indianapolis.  It is around noon when I arrive on the eastern side of Indianapolis. There I can connect to I-70 and proceed east. Thanks to cocktail party Artie I have taken the scenic route to get here, essentially travelling two legs of a triangle. I likely would have been at this spot last night had I not heard the divorce monologue while sitting in Artie’s travelling cocktail lounge.

While I could connect with I-70 at this juncture I do not. Getting through the city was complicated. Several rides took this route or that.  When I emerged on the east side of the city, I was not on 70 but the parallel east west secondary road, United States highway 40.  This road, I learn later, has been called the highway of America as it travels nearly across the entire country from Utah to New Jersey. Highway of America or not, taking 40 instead of I-70 slows me down. The good news about taking the route is that it allowed me to meet my second very quirky character in as many days.

About ten miles east of Indianapolis a station wagon pulls over.  The back of the wagon lumbers ahead of me over the uneven shoulder. Lumber is the appropriate verb as extending beyond the caboose of the wagon is a cluster of wood. My driver later tells me that the pieces jutting out are dozens of 2 by 4s that he is hauling to a construction site.

The vehicle stops way to the right of the shoulder so that the driver can emerge without risking contact with oncoming traffic. And given this man’s girth he had to pull over as far as one could. Out from the station wagon a very large person appears.  He has to be every bit of six and a half feet.  That is height.  This tall man is also the owner of an enormous gut. High and wide with a mountain man’s long beard.  

He comes to greet me.  “Where you headed?”

I tell him.  “I can take you for a spell. I’ll be on the sonuvabitch 40 ‘til Richmond.” 

We shake hands.  “Name is Bunk” he says to me. “Every sonuvabitch calls me Bunk.”

“Kozak” I say.

“Kozak? Sonuvabitch. What kind of sonuvabitch name is Kozak?”

“Nickname.” I say.

“Nickname.” He repeats. “Sonuvabitch. Well come on in, Kozak, you ole sonuvabitch.”

I get in the car with Bunk. He is a very amiable fellow and a delight to ride with except that he uses the word sonuvabitch as an all-purpose adjective, noun, as well as expletive.  As if to illustrate, within a few moments of pulling back on the road, Bunk points to another vehicle. “That sonuvabitch Chevy thinks he owns the whole sonuvabitch highway. Sonuvabitch.” 

Bunk, I learn, is taking US 40 and not I-70 because of the sonuvabitch 2 by 4s sticking out the back of his sonuvabitch wagon.  The sonuvabitch two by fours are tied tight as a sonuvabitch but the sonuvabitch smokies will pull him the sonuvabitch over regardless. Sonuvabitch.

I start counting. He has said the word sonuvabitch fifty times in a ten-minute span. Bunk narrates the motoring. “Will you look at that sonuvabitch Pinto? Use your sonuvabitch signal,” he admonishes not intending for the driver of the Pinto to hear.  The chatter is benign and humorous but the repetitive sonuvabitches are close to insufferable. 

Bunk pokes around in his shirt pocket and can’t find the sonuvabitch directions to the sonuvabitch construction site. Sonuvabitch.  He tells me that the contractor is a decent sonuvabitch, but some of the sonuvabitch subcontractors can be a real sonuvabitch. Eventually he locates the directions. Bunk yanks a piece of the paper out of a side pocket of his size enormous jeans. He glances at it. “Here’s the sonuvabitch.” he says holding the note aloft.

We bounce along US 40 not going much more than 50 miles an hour at our speediest. Suddenly we hear rattling and then a loud crashing sound from the rear of the wagon. Bunk pulls over to the shoulder and stares at me eyeball to eyeball.

“Must be the sonuvabitch two by fours.” He says.

“Must be,” I say. What the hell else am I supposed to say?

Bunk hops out and trudges to the back of the car. He works with the lumber, then returns. As he nestles his wide load butt into the seat, he assures me that he tied “the sonuvabitches up tight. Those sonuvabitch 2 by 4s aren’t going nowhere now.” He shakes his head as if still puzzled at how the wood got loose in the first place. “Sonuvabitch,” he says in conclusion.

Bunk really is a good egg, but I don’t know how many more sonuvabitches I can take.  He tells me that he travels a lot and who knows when he will get to Buffalo.  He asks for my coordinates when he drops me off.  I really don’t have any coordinates. I’m staying with Becca until I begin my work in Pennsylvania at the end of the month. Becca will slaughter me if I give this guy her phone number.  I write the address of the apartment I’ll be at in the fall.  Bunk stares at the address, nods, and then apropos of nothing says, “Sonuvabitch”. We shake hands on the side of the road and Bunk exits stage left for the rest of my life. Sonuvabitch.  

Bunk has left me in a good spot. I am where the highway of America and I-70 connect and where Indiana and Ohio unite.  

I get one short ride into Ohio, and then get picked up by a fellow with an impressive mustache that must take quite a bit of time to get right. Mustache is going all the way to Columbus and beyond. He will be travelling over 100 miles. And we are on the interstate. This could be a very good ride. I am unlikely to make it to Buffalo today, but I might get close.

Mustache seems decent, and turns out to be, but about halfway through the ride he begins to talk about sex and I become guarded.  By the time we get to the west side of Columbus he has told me that he is bisexual and wonders if I might be. The man is no predator and while disappointed that I am not interested in engaging we continue through Columbus chatting amiably.   

We get through the city.  I am disheartened when he says he is ready to turn in for the night. It is not that late in the day though we did get lost a bit going through Columbus.  We could easily make it to West Virginia before dark, but mustache says he needs to turn in. We exit the highway in a town called Etna. There is a very run-down motel in Etna, rooms for less than 10 dollars a night. Mustache makes one more stab and asks if I want to share a room.  I tell him no. “Okay.” He said. “Thought you might be looking.”

“No problem.” I say.  

He nods.

When he gets off the road I return to the highway and attempt to make some more miles before I end the day. Nothing is doing for an hour. I go back to motel shabby, get a very spartan room for 9.99 a night, and spend my last night on the road. 9.99 brings me down to about twelve dollars left.  No problem. I’ll be in Buffalo tomorrow. Might even get there in time to get to the late Thursday night hours at the bank.