THE FIRST TIME HE EVER HITCHHIKED

Here's why George hitchhiked for the first time ever.

He was 17 years old when he found out what happened to his brother. He had spent that spring day smoking grass in his friend Henry's bedroom, rolling joints on record sleeves, his mind on the end of the school year and whatever came next.

Henry put on a record he had just gotten at the shop that day, on the way home from school. He dropped the needle, then handed George the cover, which had a picture of a young man with brown flowers or something surrounding him. The title was “Blowin' Your Mind!”. Jim propped it on his knees, shook out the weed on top of the man's face, then pulled a pack of Zig Zags from the pocket of his Levi's and got to work crumbling pot gingerly into the bent paper and evening it out.

The joint was ready, and George licked it closed. He lit it, puffed it twice, passed it to Henry. The music lingered in the room, melancholy, filled with a cacophonous organ and harmonica that seemed louder and louder the more they smoked, the more time slowed down.

“What is this music?” Jim asked.

Henry laughed.

“Van Morrison, Van the Man,” Henry said. “Was in the band Them, but he's singing solo now.”

George shook his head.

“I don't know about all this British invasion crap,” George said.

“Oh yeah?” Henry said. “Well, what do you like to listen to?”

“I just got the new James Brown record last week, that's good.”

“Soul music?” Henry said, blowing out smoke and passing the joint back to George. “Shit.”

“It's fun,” George said. “Girls like to dance to it. You can't dance to this stuff. What's it even about anyway?”

“A friend of his in the hospital dying of tuberculosis.”

Now George laughed.

“That's the stupidest thing I ever heard. How do you know that, anyway?”

“Says it in the lyrics on the back of the record.”

George passed the joint back, turned the album over in his lap and read a minute.

“That's just weird.”

They didn't talk for a time. The song ended and the needle returned to its resting spot on the hi-fi. George handed the sleeve to Henry, who put the vinyl in the cover and gave it back to George.

“You just got this,” George said, trying to return it.

Henry refused.

“Take it with you,” he said. “Maybe it will grow on you.”

They stubbed out joint, now little more than a roach, and George walked home.

**

It was a beautiful spring day and the sun felt good on the back of his neck and his arms. A slight breeze blew through the trees in the yards of his neighbors, and he heard the sound of gasoline powered lawn mowers in the distance, along with planes taking off from the nearby airport.

As he walked, he remembered an educational film he saw earlier that year that showed the circulatory system, the way the heart pumps blood through the body. In that moment, George felt like warm maple syrup ran through his veins, and he giggled at the thought.

He got home just in time for supper, put the weird record in his room on his night table, and washed up.

“What's for dinner, Mom?” he asked as he sat down. “Can we have pancakes?”

His mother gave him a queer look as he chuckled to himself.

“Are you coming down with a fever?” she asked, putting the back of her hand to his forehead. “We're having meatloaf.”

“Great!” he said. His mother went back in the kitchen to fix plates. As George waited, he poured a cold glass of milk from the bottle at the center of the table, took a long drink and he looked around the little house, alert to every moment. The crackling sound his father lighting another match for his pipe. The crinkling sound of his dad turning newspaper pages. His younger brother sloshing in the kitchen sink with his toy boat. Walter Cronkite giving updates on the war on the TV while his sister knitted on the sofa.

Then the doorbell rang.

“Now who could that be?” his dad asked to no one in particular.

“Could someone get that, please?” his mother yelled from the kitchen.

George's dad peered over his newspaper. George took the hint and walked to the front door.

On the porch stood a sailor in his dress whites. He was young, face full of red pimples and free of any trace of facial hair. But he was well-built with a straight back and broad shoulders, and in his gloved hand was a telegram.

“Is this the Knight residence?” he asked.

George nodded.

“With the condolences of the United States Navy,” he said.

He handed George the telegram, saluted, clicked his heels, and walked crisply, almost robotically, back to his idling car.

George stood there, alternating between watching the sailor walk away, and looking at the piece of paper in his hand. His feet felt stuck in place, and he thought if he didn't move soon he would crumble to his knees.

The car drove off and he stayed in place, looking at the houses in his subdivision. The sun was lower in the sky now, not reaching him at his perch on the porch. A breeze still blew through the neighborhood, but it was colder and he heard a lawn mower suddenly sputter and turn off, and a plane land, tires screeching on the tarmac.

“Who is it?” his mother called.

George shut the door and walked back to the dining room. He said nothing, just handed his dad the telegram.

He watched his dad read it. Then he watched his dad take off his reading glasses, set them on the table, and bury his head in his hands. He had never seen the man cry before.

“John, what's wrong?” his mother asked as she set silverware on the table.

He kept one hand over his eyes, used his other hand to hand her the telegram, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed silently. She read it too, dropped it right on the floor, then screamed in a manner George previously imagined only a dying animal could.

Before he knew it, George was out the back door, running as fast as he could. He didn't stop until his legs let him down and he collapsed in a vacant lot.

**

That night, George heard his parents talking softly in their room for hours. Every time he got up to pee, he could see the light still on under their door. He wondered what they were saying to each other.

As for George, he had already made up his mind. His brother was in critical condition at a hospital only a few hours away, and he wanted to see him. He didn't know when — or if — he would get another chance.

He knocked on his parent's door. His mother, in her night coat, no make up, hair in curls, answered.

“Go back to bed, George,” she said quietly.

“I can't sleep,” he said.

“I know it's been a long day,” she said. “But the best thing for all of us is to get some rest.”

“When are we going to see him?” George asked.

“George,” his dad said softly.

“I want to see him,” George said.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” his mother said.

“Besides,” his dad said, “I don't know when I can get a day off work.”

“So you're telling me you’re just going to let him stay there alone?” George said in a voice louder than he had anticipated.

“Keep it down!” his mother said.

“Show your mother some respect.”

“Sorry,” said George. “I just...it's not right.”

“Listen, he's not alone, he's with his buddies,” his dad said. “Please. Get some sleep. We'll talk about it in the morning.”

“Good night, George,” his mother said. She shut the door.

Instead, George went back to his room and packed a bag.

**

It was too far to walk. He didn't have a car yet, and figured he'd be in even worse trouble if he took his parent's Ford without their permission, so he decided hitchhiking was the only way he could get there.

The bumper sticker on the car that finally picked him up on the side of CR 46 read: “Ass, grass, or gas: no one rides free”. They had pulled over just around dawn, right when he would have been waking up to the smell of his mom cooking bacon and eggs.

It was a light blue VW Beetle with three 20-something hippies, on their way to DC for a Vietnam war protest march. They had braided hair and bell-bottom jeans with patches on them and their shirts were colorful and paisley-patterned. They smoked joints that George gave them and talked about wanting to place flowers in police officer's lapels and levitate the Pentagon to stop the war.

George was stoned and hungry when they dropped him off outside of Bethesda hospital, shouting goodbye and throwing up peace signs out the rolled-down windows. George found a diner and ate the bacon and eggs he was missing that morning, which weren't as good as his mother's anyway. He drank a glass of milk and looked out the window to the imposing hospital building across the street. His heart thumped, either from the weed or from nervousness, he couldn't decide which.

His waitress dropped off his check, and that's when he knew he couldn't delay it any longer. He paid with a pocketful of change, picked his backpack up off the floor, and walked to the lobby of the hospital.

“I'm here to see my brother, Mallory Knight.”

**

His brother was on Ward 4-D, the plastic surgery reconstructive unit. George took the elevator up and walked right onto the floor. Rows of white sheeted beds with foot lockers at the end, all with clipboards and charts hanging off the frame. Some had IV drips next to them, others oxygen masks, a few men were in traction, casts over large sections of their bodies.

A small radio played nearby: “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds”, by The Beatles. A young legless man sat on his bed, grooving along to the music, waving his hands through the air, using a cigarette like a conductor's wand.

George watched him a moment, then heard a familiar voice:

“Goddamn, Tim! Turn that dumb song off!”

It was his brother. It was Mallory. He sat at a card table in a hospital gown, playing poker with three other men.

Tim stubbed his cigarette out.

“Ah, fuck you!” Tim said, then shut the radio off.

“Mal!” George said.

Mallory set his cards down, looked over, squinting.

“George!” he said, standing and rushing over to his brother. He almost knocked him down, he hugged him so hard.

“Mal, you're OK?” he said.

“I guess so!” Mallory replied. “What are you doing here?”

“We got a telegram,” George said. “ Said you were in...in critical condition, you might not make it.”

Mallory laughed. George looked at him, his hair partially shaved, a large scar on the side of his head, cuts all over his face, bandages on his chest and arms. Still, he was smiling.

“You hear that, boys?” Mallory said to his poker buddies. “Navy told my family I wasn't going to make it!”

They all laughed, took swigs of beers, puffs off cigars.

“Hell,” one of the men said. “Everybody knows Uncle Sam would never let Mal Knight die!”

More laughter.

“Come on, George, meet the boys.”

He led his brother to the table, where he met his brother's friends. They had all traveled from a hospital at a base in Southern California the week before, and were just getting settled at Bethesda for rounds of surgeries, physical therapy, and rehabilitation of all sorts. Many of them were on their second tour, all of them had purple hearts and various other medals and commendations, and would be getting medically or otherwise honorably discharged. The war was over for them, so they treated this ward like a fraternity house.

“You want a beer?” Mallory asked George.

George looked at his watch.

“It's 10 in the morning,” he said. Mallory grinned and shrugged.

“Oh, the innocence of youth,” he said to his friends.

One of the men sipped the last of his beer.

“All out.”

Mallory picked up his stack of money from the poker game and gave a look to George that reminded him so much of their father.

“George, I need you to do me a favor.”

**

The package store was just across the street, right next to the diner.

George walked to the shop, the bell over the door ringing, a five dollar bill in his front pocket. The clerk at the counter was an old-timer with thick black glasses on his face and faded tattoos on his forearms.

He grabbed a six pack of Schaefer from the cooler and stood in line behind a veteran holding a bottle of bourbon in one hand, the other on a single crutch. He was missing a leg, his pants pinned.

As he finished and paid, the clerk saluted him and he worked his way out.

George put the six pack on the counter.

“Good morning, how are ya?”

“Pretty good, you?”

“Fine and dandy,” the man said. “You're 18, right?”

“Sure,” George said. “Matter of fact, I just enlisted.”

“Yeah?” the clerk said, bagging the beer. “Which branch?”

“Navy,” George said. “Just like my brother.”

“Hot damn!” he said, clapping his hands together and showing George his tattoos. “Just like me, too. I was Navy, 42-45. Best years of my life.”

“Really? Be honest, I'm a little worried. What with the war and all.”

“Worried? What the hell you worried about, son? Don't listen to these long hairs out there – it's an honor to serve your country.”

He hands George back the bag of beer.

“Thanks. How much?” George said.

“It's on the house,” the clerk said, and saluted. “Give those gooks hell.”

George saluted back, then pocketed the money and walked back to the hospital.

**

As they drank the Schaefer, Mallory showed George around the ward, to all the men he had met, to circles of chairs where they did group therapy, to the aid station where they flirted to no avail with the nurses on duty. It didn't smell like a hospital, it smelled of old smoke and stale spilled hops, like a bar.

Maybe it was the beer and the lingering effects of the pot he had smoked that morning, but George felt warm and familiar there. They were all mixed together: officers, NCOs, enlisted men, every branch of the service. There was a sense of camaraderie, a sense of belonging, a brotherhood. He was happy Mallory was there, and he realized his dad was right: Mallory wasn't alone.

They sat on a couch in front of large floor to ceiling windows and George asked the question that had been on his mind ever since he found out about his brother being hurt: “Mal: what happened?”

Mallory laughed again, then took a long drink of his beer.

“We were in I Corps, near Hue, and a buddy of mine, Smitty, was making a run in his jeep to the ammo dump. I asked if I could ride along, because I heard the Marines nearby had just gotten a shipment of beer and smokes and canned fruit and I wanted to see if I could sneak in there and steal some of it. We always stole so much shit from those guys. So we hit the ammo dump and on the way back, right when Smitty was going to drop me off, we must have hit a mine or something, because all of a sudden that jeep was up in the air and I heard the loudest damn explosion you can imagine.

I tell you, George: it was like time slowed down, like I was in a movie or something. I can see it right now: just floating through the air, Smitty upside down, legs flailing. I hit the ground and passed out. Last thing I saw was the jeep fall on it's side, tires still spinning.”

“Oh my God,” George said. He didn't know what to say.

“I don't remember any of it, but they found me and were able to get me to some corpsmen nearby, then chopper me to a hospital ship. I guess it was pretty touch-and-go for awhile there. I guess that's why you all got that telegram. But I'm doing better now, they fixed me up pretty good.”

“I'm so happy to hear that,” George said. “What about Smitty?”

“He didn't make it,” Mallory said, and finished the rest of his beer.

**

George left later that afternoon after promising Mallory he would come back soon, and bring the rest of the family with him next time. All of his brother's friends on the ward hugged him as he departed, then loaded him up with cigarettes and cans of beer for his trip home, one of them gave him a beaded necklace with a “War Is Hell” sign on it as a present.

As he walked to the highway, he said the protest march in the distance, heard the chanting and drumming and shouting and thought about going over to see it closer in person, but decided against it. He was in enough trouble already. He found some shade under a street sign, put his bag down, and stuck his thumb out.

The semi driver who picked him up accepted a pack of Lucky Strikes in exchange for the ride, and before he knew it, George was fast asleep in the truck.

He woke up to the sound of a loud horn.

George jolted awake. The trucker laughed. George left the beers with the trucker, thanked him and got out.

He walked to the front door of his house with dread. He looked over at the tree in the front yard, already deciding which switch he would cut for his dad to skin his hide. It wouldn't be the first time.

When he got inside, his dad sat puffing his pipe, reading his newspaper at the dining room table, his mom was taking a casserole out of the oven, car toys were scattered around the carpet, his sister knitted to Cronkite.

His dad noticed him and set down his paper.

“Dad, let me start off by apologizing,” George said.

“No need to apologize,” his dad said. “How was Bethesda?”

“How...how did you know that's where I went?”

“Your brother called us.”

“What did he say?”

“Said you had visited him at the ward he's in, and it was damn good to see you. Lifted his spirits something fierce.”

“Well,” George said. “It was good to see him too.”

“You know, you gave your mother and I an awful fright,” his dad said. “But I'm proud of you. I suppose I need to stop thinking about you like a boy. You're grown now.”

His mother set the food on the table with a pitcher of cold milk.

“We're just glad you're OK,” his mom said. “You and your brother.”

She called his siblings to the table, handed him the basket of rolls, and they began to eat.

**

The next day at school, George gave Henry the Van Morrison record back.

“Where were you yesterday?” Henry asked.

“Played hooky,” George said. “I hitchhiked for the first time.”

“You dog!” Henry laughed. “Where did you go?”

“Oh,” George said. “Just rode around.”

He would hitchhike many times throughout the rest of the 60s and 70s, both in the States and in Europe – with more hippies on their way to Haight Street, with long haul truckers, with farmers carrying animals in their beds, with single mothers and returning vets and student drivers and people who couldn't speak English at all.

“So, what do you think?” Henry asked, putting the record into his own backpack. “Did it grow on you?”

“I listened to it over and over last night,” George said. “I like it a lot better now. I think I understand it more. Might even buy myself a copy.”

George couldn't sleep the night before, had played “T.B. Sheets” repeatedly on his hi-fi, dozing off here and there. He was tired that morning, but was otherwise was calm, in a good mood, a smile on his face throughout all of his early classes.

Midday, as they made their way to the cafeteria, Henry asked if he wanted to go out sneak out to his car to smoke a joint. George shook his head. Instead, he skipped lunch, went to the Navy recruiter's office across the street, and enlisted.