Terry and Juan are crashed in the backseat, drooling and snoring loudly. Sleep seems to me the best way to get through Texas, so I try to doze off, but Dad doesn’t want me to.
“You asleep, Dawn?” he teases whenever he sees me nod off.
“Hmm? No, I’m awake,” I lie, my neck sore from snapping to attention. “Hey, look! Right on! There’s New Mexico!” I finally announce, making the border call loud enough to wake both Terry and Juan.
“Far out! Finally!” Their heads pop up from the backseat.
New Mexico is much better. Once we are in the state awhile, the scenery is overwhelming. Massive multicolored rock formations appear out of nowhere and seem to follow us for miles along the highway. We gawk out of the windows as we travel through the most amazing state parks.
The music gets better too, thank God! Radio stations now play rock ‘n’ roll again with some groovy new tunes that send our “air guitar’” strings flying wild again. Our spirits are lifted as we cruise on Interstate 40 and head for Albuquerque, then continue west through the southwestern part of New Mexico.
We are relieved that the monotony of Middle America is behind us, and when Arizona’s border call is made, we are all hoots and hollers. “California, here we come!” we chant, laughing at the cliché.
Flower power, peace, and love are everywhere. Dad especially relates to these emotions because of Vietnam, he tells us. Hitchhikers flash us the letter V with their fingers as peace signs to prove, “Hey, it’s cool, man,” even if we don’t stop to pick them up.
Some of them look desperately needy, and out of sympathy, I ask Dad why we can’t give one a ride.
“Ehhh,” he says, shrugging it off, “it’s too much trouble.”
He’s probably right, I think.
Then, as if he’s had a second thought, Dad asks, “Why? You think any of them have weed?”
“Hey! That’s a good idea!” I perk up. “I’m not sure. Maybe… We’d have to check ‘em out to see.” I point to an approaching hitchhiker. “Look, there’s one!”
“Ooooh, let’s take a look at him.” Dad sits up in his seat. “What do you think? Quick—does he got any?”
I wait until the car gets closer, and then I lean toward the window to look at our prospective passenger. “Uhhhh, nawww, nope!” we conclude simultaneously as our car whisks past a straitlaced-looking young man.
“He looked like metro,” I tell him, using a Florida term for the police. “Did you see his hair? Too short.”
Dad agrees. We keep the search going for many miles into Arizona and eventually turn it into a driving game.
“What about him? Nawwww, nope!” We excuse each prospect for various reasons, driving by too quickly to stop anyway. Sometimes it is just because the hitchhiker doesn’t look “cool” or looks too dirty, creepy, or crazy. Or they look like they might want to smoke our pot! “No way!” we shout, insulted at the idea.
Dad keeps driving on Interstate 40 through Flagstaff. We eat sparingly in the car. Except for bathroom breaks, he doesn’t like to stop much. He insists repeatedly there isn’t the time or money to do any sightseeing, even though we don’t have anywhere in particular to stay once we get to California. “We’ll figure it out,” he tells us, not leaving room for me to ask the obvious questions about Pen Ci and Jack.
Finally, when we realize we are close to the Grand Canyon, we can’t resist pleading with him to take the short detour north. “For just a minute?” we beg. “Please!”
We win. Dad is just as curious to see such an amazing natural beauty, and he gives in. “Besides,” he rationalizes, “we need a bathroom break.”
“Whoa! Is that it?” we yell, crooking our necks out the windows to get the first look.
“Yeah! I think so. Over there!”
This was it.
“Wow! It’s beautiful!” we whisper in wonder as we get closer.
Dad pulls up to an open parking space and shuts off the engine. Paper and cans spill out as we open the doors to scramble to the edge of the roped-off canyon and gawk with the rest of the tourists.
It takes our breath away. Standing there speechless, I realize time is nothing; it slips by without notice. We listen to the sound of the wind whistling through the miles of ominous levels below.
“All right.” Dad breaks the silence after only a short time. “Let’s get going. We gotta head out. We wanna get to the border tonight, remember?”
Reluctantly, we peel ourselves away from the spectacular view and wait in line for the john.
By the time Terry, Juan, and I get to the car, Dad is putting away his bandage kit and quickly presses down the ends of the tape that hold the gauze to his face. He doesn’t want to clean his wound in the bathroom here because of all the people; he always wants privacy when he faces the horror of his uncovered image.
“Is it okay to come in, Dad?” I ask respectfully, so as not to embarrass him. “Are you done?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m done.” He turns away and secures the bandage a final time. “Get in,” he says, signaling the “all clear.”
Protective and sensitive to my father’s pain, I feel deeply sad watching him suffer such a disfiguring ordeal. Although he doesn’t ask, I try to help in any way I can, even if it is only making sure he has his space, time to himself with his affliction. What else can I do?
On the way out of the Grand Canyon, we pass many more tourist outlooks, but Dad refuses to stop and we don’t press it. It is obvious he is hurting quite a bit. We remain quiet as the car winds back down to Interstate 40 and out of Arizona. Dad finally breaks the uncomfortable silence and begins the hitchhiker game again.
“Hey! Does he got any?” he says, straining to sound lighthearted.
Everyone’s mood lifts, happy that Dad seems to be in better spirits.
“Well, maybe,” I tease back.
“Nawww! No,” chime Terry and Juan.
“Well… maybe?” Terry changes her mind as we quickly pass by, smiling and waving.
“Well, I hope someone looks good soon,” Juan pipes in, “’cause I need to smoke a joint!”
In fits of laughter, we agree, and not much farther down the highway, we see him. “Oh! Oh! What about him?” Terry and I shout, pointing at the road ahead.
“He looks like he’s got some!” We’re excited as we spy the groovy-looking blond guy with his thumb sticking out. Dad slows the car.
“Wait. Wait,” Dad warns. Then suddenly he makes up his mind and urges us, “Quick! Quick! Yes or no? Yes or no?”
“Yes. Yes!” It’s unanimous. “He’s definitely got some. He’s carrying a bag. Look!”
“Okay! Okay! Here we go.” In one fast move, Dad pulls off the road while Terry, Juan, and I stick our heads out of the windows, smiling and waving him over.
He runs toward us, clutching his suede, fringed shoulder bag close to his side, and a bad feeling suddenly comes over me. Catching up to the car, he stops at my window and in a breathless voice says, “Hey, man. How far you going?”
“California,” I reply, trying to keep my cool.
“So am I. Where in California?”
“Ah, don’t know.”
I look toward Dad.
“Get in, man,” Dad offers hurriedly from behind me.
“Are you going as far as LA?”
“Yeah, sure, man. Get in.” Dad waves for him to come on board and not hold us up. Smiling big, the blond guy climbs in.
His name is Marty. He is from Los Angeles and returning from a trip to Colorado, where he was visiting an old girlfriend. When his car broke down, he decided to hitchhike home, stopping to see the sights along the way. He has long, sandy blond hair with a lighter blond moustache, and he wears a button-down shirt, white pin-striped elephant bells, and a headband that hides the beginnings of baldness. He is older than I first think, around Dad’s age, and not as cute. Draped across his shoulder is an overstuffed leather bag decorated with different-colored beads tied on the fringes, and there is a sleeping bag strapped to his back.