The farm was all I ever knew, except for a hitch in the navy and two failed attempts at a business of my own.
When I got too old to pull my weight on the farm, the kids decided I needed to go into an old folk’s home nearby. They needed space for a hired hand that could do more work than I could. I lost my room in the house and a young man from down the road took over my room and my chores.
I tried the retirement home for a month, but could not stand being cooped up with all those old people just sitting there waiting to die. By gosh I had a few more things to do before I lay down for the last time. One night as the last visitors were leaving and the nurse’s aides were busy putting all the old people to bed, I joined ranks with the visitors and walked right out the door. The girl in the office was busy filling out the daily reports so she never looked up.
The night air was cool and refreshing as I walked back toward the farm. Lucky for me, I was smart enough to keep the spare key to my old truck in my pocket when they put me in the home. I was building up a sweat as I climbed the last hill up to the farm, despite the cool night air. It was after midnight when I arrived and the lights were out in the house. The kids, grandkids and hired hand were all asleep. Seeing the old house again made a tad of water run from my eyes. The little old truck was parked out by the barn and was none the worse for the time I was away. The kids had a newer, bigger truck so it had probably not been used since I left. I slipped the gear shift into neutral and began to slowly push the truck out to the road. I could not risk starting it and driving by the house. The little truck was very lightweight and was fairly easy to push out to the road, once there; I pointed her down the hill and coasted to the bottom before firing the old girl up. Lights on and I was headed west out of the county.
My lighter sparked and I took a full puff off my first cigarette since being locked up; I mean being put into the home. The glove box had several packs inside as I was the only one who smoked and the kids did not want me smoking around the grand kid. The thought process kicked up a notch and I began to imagine tomorrow morning’s scenario. The nurse’s aides would find my bed empty. They would do a search of the home and grounds and when they were absolutely sure I was missing, they would try to figure out what to say when they notified the kids. Once the kids were aware, they would look around the farm to see if I was there. When they found the truck missing, they would begin to wonder if I had retrieved it or if someone had stolen it. That would not take too long before they would realize no one would steal a beat up 30 year old truck. They would then call the sheriff and ask him what he could do. They would explain that I was old and perhaps not able to take care of myself, trying to get the sheriff involved and of course the truck might still be considered stolen. That being the case, I was heading out west on the old highways, thinking the interstate would be the place any patrol car would be looking. I was in no hurry, no time schedule, just heading west and looking to enjoy the scenery on the back roads of Missouri and Kansas.
The old truck started bucking and losing power just shy of Wichita, Kansas. The morning sun had not looked so good to me in a long time. I pulled the old truck to the side of the road when the engine completely died. There I was with just a few dollars in my pocket and nowhere particular to go. Another smoke and a few moments to think brought me a few ideas to mull over. Morning commuters began passing by, so I stuck my thumb out and caught a ride into Wichita. My benefactor said his name was Charlie and he worked at a truck stop over on the interstate at the edge of town. We pulled into the Petro stop and Charlie offered to get me breakfast in the kitchen. His girlfriend worked there so it was free to Charlie and me. We ate some delicious eggs, bacon and biscuits. His girlfriend Nancy was the morning chef and that girl could cook a wonderful breakfast. I thanked them for their kindness and said I was going out on the lot to hitch a ride. Charlie asked what I was going to do about my truck. I reached into my pocket and tossed him the key. Out on the lot I went from truck to truck asking for a lift. The third driver asked where I was going. I replied “West.” He said he was headed into Denver and I said that would be great. Ron was his name and Ron was a victim of too many big meals in truck stops, but he was a nice guy. We rolled along listening to country music and the occasional breaker over his old CB radio. Interstate 70 through Kansas seems to go on forever without change, but Ron was a funny guy, so time passed with enjoyment as Ron spoke about his wife, his girlfriend.
The next morning Ron was up early and ready to go. He was anxious to see his girlfriend in Denver. I would have liked a few cups of coffee, but Ron popped a top on a beer for breakfast and said, “Let’s go!” He grabbed six more on the way out the door and he fired up the big diesel in his truck. I climbed aboard and Ron wound up the truck heading down the Interstate. Ron’s excitement grew with each slug of beer and the speed of the truck kept climbing the closer we got to Denver. We were 20 miles shy of Denver when the flashing red and blue lights appeared behind us. Ron pulled over to the side of the highway and soon thereafter this tall, lean ex-Marine looking state trooper motioned Ron out of the truck. It was a dead giveaway when he tripped climbing down the side of the semi and knocked the trooper to the ground with him. The trooper barked out, “I am arresting you on suspicion of driving under the influence.” Ron was handcuffed in the back seat of the patrol car and I was given the option of calling someone to come and get me or ride downtown with them to headquarters. Since I did not have a cell phone or anyone to call I took the ride, thinking I could hitch a ride out of Denver.
I caught another ride with a trucker headed to San Francisco. John was a churchy type, making the run a long one. I listened for as long as I could before starting to question just how illogical the biblical stories were that he related to me. An hour later, he pulled over on the side of the road at the edge of Reno Nevada. John reached over, opened the door, shoved me out and actually showed me the single digit salute as he yelled, “go to hell you demonic bastard!” Maybe John didn’t read the parts of the book that speak of love thy neighbor.
I walked over to a casino and started looking for buses returning west from the casino and found one headed back to Sacramento. The passengers started lining up to board so I got in line with them. An old lady ahead of me stopped to bend the driver’s ear and some stoner behind me passed by and boarded with me following close behind him. The bus driver was busy trying to be polite so we wandered right on by and sat in the back of the bus. The stoner said his name was Daryl and proceeded to tell me stories that even I could not believe. Daryl (at least in his mind) thought he was the Charlie Harper character on the Two and a Half Men TV show. I thought I even remembered one or two episodes. We were nearing Sacramento when I saw a Roseville sign on I-80; Daryl said he needed to light up a fat boy and then proceeded to do so. Soon after, smoke rolled out and another old woman walked up to speak with the driver. The driver pulled into a truck stop and then came walking to the back of the bus. His intention was to remove Daryl from the bus and when he did so, he realized I was not supposed to be there so he removed me along with Daryl. There I was again, on foot with dwindling resources. What was I to do?
Stuck somewhere near Roseville, I weighed my options and tried to formulate a plan. Soon I was on a mission to catch a ride down to San Diego where my old buddy Kelvin lived. San Diego held a lot of fine memories from as far back as my navy days and I was beginning to think I needed to be around someone who was still sane and sober, but I had to get there first. Those old cowboys driving over the road can be taxing on an old man’s nerves despite how much fun they were.
I was at the coffee counter at a truck stop when the man ahead of me was paying for his coffee and he mentioned to the clerk (whom he seemed to know) that he was heading down to Mexico to deliver a package. I asked him if I could hitch a ride as far as San Diego and he said, “Sure old dude, a little company would be fine.” We walked outside and there I was looking at a late sixties Shelby Cobra.
“Nice car,” I said.
“It’s not mine,” he replied, “I’m just delivering it to a customer.”
Now had I known how rare the car was and how valuable it was I would have been even more impressed than I was, but I was just thinking about how lucky I was to have a ride in something other than a tractor dragging a big old trailer. We rolled out onto I-80 and were soon whistling down the freeway, heading south. We seemed to be passing a lot of cars, but I couldn’t see the speedometer, so I had no idea of what our speed actually was. We breezed through Sacramento and caught the 5 south toward Los Angeles. My driver, Hal, seemed cool and collected, so when he suggested I reach into the cooler and grab us a beer, I thought what the hell it was an open freeway and I wasn’t driving, he was. The beer was Budweiser, not my brand, not my choice, but it was free and I always did have a difficult time refusing a free beer.
We had a few beers along the way, making a pit stop an imperative. We pulled off the highway at a rest stop about 3 miles from Buttonwillow California. We were out of beer and Hal tried to purchase a little something else from two bikers who were also resting there. I was standing by the car, keys in hand and I don’t know what happened there, but fists flew and Hal was running for the car. I jumped in and fired that thing up. Hal jumped in and I popped the clutch, smoking the tires all the way down the onramp. That Cobra was busting 120 mph long before those bikers could make their way back to their bikes. I pulled off at the next ramp so Hal could get behind the wheel. Hal opened it up and within an hour we were starting to hit traffic just north of L.A. before Hal let off the gas and pulled off the freeway to fill the gas tank.
We picked up a 12-pack and some ice at the quick stop and headed on into L.A. Hal got up to cruising and we popped the tops off two fresh beers. We stopped and started a few times crossing the crowded L.A. freeway and we were just south when a highway patrol car started tailing us. Hal got real quiet as he started studying the traffic. The patrol car flipped on his lights and Hal pushed the foot feed to the floor. “What the hell!” I yelled as the Cobra roared to life again. “What are you doing Hal?”
“The car is hot,” he said.
“I know it's fast, but why try to outrun a highway patrol?” I asked.
“It’s stolen,” Hal replied.
“Oh shit, why didn’t you tell me that in Roseville?”
“Why would I take that chance?” He answered. “I told you it wasn’t mine,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, “But I never thought you meant it was stolen.”
“I didn’t lie to you,” Hal responded, “Did you think I would offer you that kind of information?” We were having our little conversation as Hal wove through traffic at well over a hundred miles per hour. I decided to shut up and not distract him while I tried to figure out what I was going to say when the patrol finally stopped us. I had planned to have Hal drop me off at San Clemente so I could hitch a ride over to Murrieta to visit with my buddy Kelvin, but Hal was in no mood to stop. He finally blew a tire near Escondido, sending us into a ditch.
I woke up in an Escondido California hospital, battered and bruised. I pressed the call button and a nurse showed up a minute or so later, with a policeman right behind her. She asked me what my name was while the cop stood by with a pen and notebook at the ready. I didn’t have any identification when I left the old folks home, so they didn’t know who I was. I told them my name was Bill Weber, (hoping there was no missing person data out there) and said I was homeless, just hitching a ride when all this started up near Roseville. She asked if I knew anyone in the local area. I gave them Kelvin’s name and said he lived in Murrieta. She and the cop left the room.
They ran a full body scan on me to make sure there were no internal injuries. I was rolled back to my room and the cop and the nurse came in shortly after that. The nurse who had contacted Kelvin said she said I could be released in 24 hours. The cop said that Hal had been a stand up guy and admitted that I was just a hitchhiker he had picked up to keep him company. That was a big surprise to me, but Hal did seem like an ok guy.
Kelvin arrived that evening. We had not seen each other in 18 years. He brought a bottle of tequila with him. I rang for the night nurse and she brought us a cup of ice water. She left, Kelvin poured out the water and we sipped tequila and shot the bull until visiting hours were over.
Hello, my name is Kelvin; I found these story notes written on a tablet Bill had with him. The nurse said his heart had stopped in the middle of the night and the staff could not revive him. I typed his notes and am sending them to his contacts and posting the story. His body will be sent back to the farm for burial, where he will rest in peace.
Brother Bill
