Leave The Driving To Us

This ridiculous story is 100% true.

In early 1976, I had decided to move to the town of Paradise, California and leave SoCal behind for good. I'd help Dad run his recently-opened Mexican restaurant in that sleepy mountain burg nestled in an oak forest within view of the Sierras. 

At least that was the plan. I wound up leaving Paradise and returning to SoCal less than 18 months later, but that's not the subject of this story.

Before moving North, my good friend Patti had set a date for her upcoming marriage and demanded that I come back to participate in the festivities. Of course I said yes. Since it would involve a 3-day quick trip turnaround, Dad gave me that Friday and Saturday off and I decided to take a Greyhound bus rather than put more miles on my sweet '72 Capri. That way I could be as high or hungover as possible on Sunday and not have to worry about keeping it on the asphalt for the trip back.

I left my car at the Greyhound terminal in Chico (about 12 miles from Paradise) early Friday morning and started my journey with only three scheduled stops during the 8-hour trip on Interstate 5: once in Sacramento for a transfer, once in beautiful Kettleman City for a rest stop and the final destination in Downtown Los Angeles.

For the uninitiated, back in the 70's Kettleman City was only rest stop on I-5 between Bakersfield and Sacramento, a stretch of over 275 miles. Kettlemen City smelled of pesticides and manure. Otherwise, the I-5 corridor was a desolate sea of agriculture.

I'd planned to stay with Mom during the weekend, so she picked me up in LA and after I dropped her off at home, I used her new Camaro as my sled for the festivities.

Just like Mom's Camaro!

 The wedding was great, we partied like monsters and I was indeed very ragged on Sunday morning when Mom dropped me back at the LA Greyhound bus station. I staggered into the terminal, confirmed my ticket and crawled onto the bus. I was barely conscious as we pulled out onto the freeway around 9AM when the driver made an announcement that woke me right the fuck up:

"Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen... thanks for choosing Greyhound. We hope you'll enjoy this express shuttle that will make scheduled stops all along Interstate 99, with our planned arrival in Sacramento at approximately 9PM tonite. Welcome Aboard!"

Holy Crap!!! How did I wind up on a shuttle that would take 4 hours longer for the return trip?!?! I scrambled for my ticket and sure enough, it said 'Express Shuttle'... I'd picked the wrong bus for the ride home and would be lucky to get home to Paradise before midnight.

The trip to Sacramento was unending. No booze, no weed, with stops in literally every city along I-99. I had pretty much calmed down somewhere near Glendale, resigned to the long ride and just slept off my hangover for most of the trip, waking up each time the bus pulled into a dusty terminal near the freeway.

We arrived in Sacramento ahead of schedule (!!) just before 8:30PM and as I was exiting the bus to hit the restroom and get some snacks, I asked the driver if the same bus was headed up to Chico, he said yes and for me to leave my bag on board.

BIG MISTAKE.

I returned to the bus (with a new driver aboard) and settled in for the 2-hour run to Chico, my car and home. The bus made its way onto the freeway around 9PM, heading North on the I-5 when the driver made the following earth-shattering announcement just outside Sacramento:

"Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen... thanks for choosing Greyhound. We hope you'll enjoy this non-stop express bus, with our planned arrival in Redding at approximately 1AM. Welcome Aboard!"

I jumped up out of my seat and ran up to the driver.

Me (trying desperately to remain calm): "Wait a minute... did you say our next stop is in REDDING?!?!"

Him: "Yes Sir, we'll be there right on schedule."

Me: "But that's impossible! The last driver told me this bus would continue on to Chico!!"

Him: "It was, sir... but there was a schedule change due to a mechanical issue and the Chico route is being handled by another carriage."

Me: "WHAT?!? But but but the other driver told me..."

Him: "Sorry sir... perhaps you should have double-checked the updated schedule at the Sacramento depot. This bus rolls on to Redding and then back to Sacramento, non-stop both ways."

I was frantic, standing there at the front of the bus, knowing the driver was probably getting pissed, knowing most of the other passengers were watching to see if I was insane or drunk or violent and needed to be restrained for my own good.

I looked out the front windshield and saw that we were fast approaching the exit from the I-5 to the I-99/I-70 road that would lead to Chico and home.

Me:  "Please stop the bus and drop me off at the upcoming I-99 exit."

Him: "SIR... I'm not able to do that, it isn't safe!"

Me:  "PLEASE, I really need to get off this bus because it's headed in the wrong direction from my home!!! I can't go all the way to Redding because there's no way I'll make it to work in the morning!!"

Him: "Sorry Sir, that's just not..."

Me:  "PLEASE!!!!!!"

A few moments later, the bus stopped to drop me off on the side of the freeway, then slowly drove away.

And there I was, standing alone with my bag beside the desolate freeway interchange at 9:30PM on a Sunday night, 10 miles North of Sacramento and almost 80 miles away from my car in Chico.  I stood there for a few minutes, wondering what the hell I'd just done, really pissed at myself for this revolting development.

After about 5 minutes of mental self-flogging, I picked up my bag and started walking down the I-99 exit. Once I got off the exit incline and onto level ground, I did the only thing I could do: I stuck out my thumb in the hopes of hitching a ride.

I stood there for about 30 minutes while cars whizzed by until one slowed down to pull over and pick me up.  I ran down the road to jump in... it was a Black Pontiac Trans-Am with the t-tops out and the giant 'Screaming Chicken' decal on the hood. I looked inside at the driver, a dude with a buzz-cut, sleeveless t-shirt and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

Me: "Hey man... thanks for the lift! How far you going?"

Him: (obviously totally drunk, with a can of beer in his hand): "Oh hey, maaaan... howyadooin'? Ahm going back to Beale Air Force Base outshide-a Marysville, that cool with you?"

Me (alarmed but desperate): "That sounds great, but... are you OK to drive?"

Him: "SHUR I YAM! Hop in and let's boogie!"

I tossed my bag into the back seat, climbed in and buckled the seat belt. He stomped the accelerator and peeled outta there, fishtailing and throwing up a rooster tail of gravel and dust.

Just like the drunk Air Force guy's Trans-Am!

I was petrified. Here's this drunk Air Force guy, driving along a desolate four-lane country highway at 85 miles an hour, barely keeping the car in the lane, talking to me with slurred speech while the radio was blasting so loud the music was distorted, pounding down a beer and laughing.

Him: "HAW HAW HAW... Good thing I picked yew up, I almosht din't see you there standing by the side of the road, what th' hell are you doin' thumbing in the middle of nowhere, anywaysh?"

I started trying to explain my sitch, but decided not to distract him from the task of trying not to drive into the deep irrigation ditches that bordered both sides of the roadway. He just kept on drunkenly talking to himself, drifting from the one side of his lane to the other, barely conscious and alert.

By some miracle, we made it all the way into Marysville and I asked him to drop me off at the corner of 9th and B... B Street turned into I-70 once it left town and would eventually get me to Chico. I jumped out and he once again peeled out, covering me in dust and tire smoke.

It was now about 11PM and I was almost halfway to Chico. I decided to grab something to drink at the small restaurant/bar located on the corner, so I stashed my bag behind some bushes and went inside.

It was smoky and noisy inside but not too crowded, so I sat at the counter next to a couple of half-drunk girls and started talking to them. They laughed at my predicament and said they'd be glad give me a ride to Chico where they lived. What luck!!!! I bought them both a beer and we talked for awhile before they decided to go to the restroom.

I sat at the bar for about 15 minutes waiting but they never came back. 

They ditched me. I'd been had.

Now it was past Midnight and I was still only halfway home. I walked outside, grabbed my bag and walked up B Street about a quarter mile, stopped in front of an all-night gas station and stuck out my thumb again.

After about 15 minutes, a ratty green Dodge truck pulled over to the curb in front of me. I opened the door and looked inside to see the driver was a grizzled older Black guy wearing a stained cowboy hat with a cigar in his mouth.

Him: "Howdy, Son... need a lift?"

Me: " Uhhhh... sure... thanks for stopping! How far you going?"

Him: "Well, I live in Gridley... where you goin'?" (Gridley is about halfway between Marysville and Chico).

Me: "I'm trying to get to Chico, but I'd really appreciate the lift to Gridely."

I got into the truck. He sat there smoking for a moment.

Him:  "You know, I jus' flew into Sacramento from Europe this evening and ahm pretty tired raht now. If you don' mind driving so's I can take a nap, you kin drive all the way to Chico and ah'll jus' turn 'round and head back to Gridley. How does that sound?"

Me: "WOW... that would be amazing!!! I'd be happy to drive, and THANK YOU!!!"

Just like the old guy's truck!

A few minutes later I was driving the truck out of Marysville with the old guy smoking away in the passenger seat.

Him: "Yep, been a long week. I play harmonica and been in Germany doin' a few shows, just got back into Cali tonite."

Me (suspiciously): "Germany, eh? Did you do any recording there?"

Him:  "Sure did! Here... pull over and look'a diss."

Once I'd stopped the truck, he pulled out several newspaper articles and copies of playbills from under the seat featuring him, Andy Rodgers (click the link) a world-renowned harmonica player who was famously known as the 'Midnight Cowboy' and had done session work with musical legends for decades. He gave me a couple of the copies to keep.

I was floored, amazed and humbled that this famous human being was willing and able to be so nice to me, a total stranger, in my hour of need.

After a few minutes on the road, Andy fell asleep while I drove through the dark Northern California countryside on a winding two-lane road, bordered by trees and farms and small isolated communities. I kept my speed at about 45mph so as not to take a curve too fast and wake him up.  He was leaned up against the passenger door, hat covering up his eyes, snoring loudly.

About 90 minutes later, I slowly pulled into the Chico Greyhound terminal and parked next to my Capri. It was well past 2AM. I woke up Andy and in just a minute or so, he was in the driver seat and I was shaking his hand like crazy.

Me:  "THANK YOU, ANDY!!! You have no idea how grateful I am that you helped in in such a big way. I'm so glad to meet you and will never forget you!"

Him: "You welcome, Bob... ahv had many people help me in mah life, so I jus' wanna' return the favor as often as I can. Maybe I can get mah wife to come up to yo Dad's place in Paradise sometime! It ain't that far from Gridley!"

With that, Andy slowly drove away, waving his arm out the window at me.

I stood there in the empty terminal parking lot, leaning on my car, taking a few hits off a joint, thinking about the 16-hour journey I'd just been on. 

The bus ride to Sacramento was endless, thanks to my own stupidity. 

I was really lucky to get a ride outside of Sacramento and not to have died in a fiery alcohol-fueled crash on the way to Marysville.

And I was especially lucky that Andy Rodgers, world-famous harmonica player, took the time to stop and help a brother out. I got into my Capri and drove the 12 miles home up on the ridge in Paradise.

I wasn't worth a shit at work the next day, and Dad made sure I knew it.

**********************************************************

I wish I still had those playbill copies that Andy had given me, but they went MIA in the many years since like so many things do in our lives. He never made it to the restaurant, and by the end of 1977 I had moved back to SoCal where I'd soon meet my future ex-wife.

Hitchhiking is now a thing of the past, relegated to behaviors that we just couldn't or wouldn't do in our modern world.

But I did a lot of it in the 70's, when the world seemed so much bigger and other people seemed far less mean and dangerous.

R.I.P. Andy Rodgers (1922 - 2004).

"The great thing in the world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving." -- Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)




All images, Gracias de Google Open Images; CCR 'Sweet Hitchhiker' video, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube; All vehicle images are indicative of vehicles referenced in this essay and are NOT the actual vehicles involved, M'Kay?