Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I had Gary Cooper's number from when he bought my motorcycle in Munich the summer
before. He still owed me a few bucks, which was cool, and I called him on Stevie's phone to see
if I might crash on his couch there in Venice a few days. That call was a major event in those
days known as long distance. Back then dinner and long distance both ran a couple bucks, but
Stevie wanted to study. That was cool, especially since the Wolf Man likely picked up Stevie's
phone tab.
“Sure, come on,” Gary said.
It was on again, hitting the road to Mecca with an LA detour on the way. San Francisco
glowed in the distance. If Gary Cooper paid his debt, I'd be flush and on my way to Freedom
Central.
Stevie drove me through town to avoid what he called the urban hassle, out to the main
artery heading south. Pulling over at the on-ramp he said don't worry, he could head down to
the next exit and get off, because I'd fare best at the on-ramp, where cars slowed down. I felt
generous, letting Stevie explain the ways of the road. He didn't get out so much, and there he
was studying accounting in a prime fillet summer. Fuck.
We shook hands. Flipside, motherfucker. And the freedom freeway opened again on any-
thing possible. A grown man on an interstate on-ramp with a rucksack and a cardboard sign
that said LA might doubt his meaning in life today—he might question his place in society,
his contribution and his value to anything and his long odds on getting a ride. Back then,
waiting on a ramp was like a line in the water—perfectly baited over a deep hole with surface
ripples indicating lunkers down there; who knew what might come along? I could feel things
working out and getting higher, not just on reefer but on the evolving beauty of road society.
That wasn't the same as a natural high, because a natural high required no reefer. I couldn't
quite get that one. Besides, if we could get high with no reefer, then a little reefer on top of that
would be really nice.
But chronic reefer wasn't a problem then, what today would be called an issue. 60s dope
had less THC, so you could smoke more and adapt more easily. Life felt higher in general,
away from campus delusion and intellectual confinement. Smoking dope had been a means
of dulling the edge during the student deferment. After graduation, before the physical and
adrift in the DMZ, dope smoking felt like a natural supplement to life on the road. Just as a
water colorist uses a tinted wash as a pleasing backdrop, so the dope put tinted pleasantry on
the world in movement.
Every brother was a trip in those days, when brothers came in all colors, and every trip
unfolded with ups, downs and revelation as the puzzle parts of peace and unity tried to fit
together. Every sister enjoyed equal status in what we shared, which was everything. If the
chemistry was on, a brother and a sister had sexual relations, which wasn't incestuous or any
kind of nasty. It was natural and set us apart from a nation of suburban inmates. We felt free.
They seemed envious.
