Sacramento
July 23, `69
It's late in the morning and I'm sitting on the pavement
somewhere outside Sacramento. I just received a random act of
kindness by a pig who gave me a warning after catching me on the
expressway hitchhiking. Would you believe it, an act of kindness in
Ronald Reagan city! I'm presently sitting at the entrance ramp for
westbound traffic, writing in my journal. At the gas station across
the street, I was able to put together a sign that read, "San
Francisco." I'm having trouble keeping the sign upright, but I'm
sure I'll figure something out eventually. Let's see, where to begin?
Yesterday morning, back at Long Beach, Jerry and Sherri gave
me a ride out to where the road turned east. We said our heartfelt
goodbyes, and I was on my own again. Two Canadians picked me up in a
pickup. In the truck, the washboard road was not nearly as hard on
my body as was Jerry's van. The fact that I was squeezed in between
two large fellows didn't make the ride any less comfortable either,
nor did the case of cold beer on the floor. For Canadians, it's
never to early for a cold beer. I rode all the way back to the main
highway with them. Just before I got out of the truck, they invited
me to go (they would pay my way) on a chartered airplane flight to
an isolated island up north. They told me the fishing equipment was
in the cabin waiting for us. After I said, "No," I could have kicked
myself. Anyway, as they drove away, it was too late to change my
mind.
Arriving in Seattle, with no place to go, was not so nice
however. I walked off the boat and hit the docks about 11p.m. As I
walked away from the boat, the lights dimmed considerably. It was a
hot and sticky night, as I carried my duffle bag on my shoulder and
my sleeping bag under my arm. There was one light between the pitch-
blackness where I was standing and the top of the stairs. After
climbing the first couple of flights of the three block long
stairway, depression hit me. I was almost out of money, I had
nothing to look forward to, and I was tired and sweaty. Glancing up
to see how much farther I had to climb, I saw this tall, black man
standing under the light. He was about 30 yards further up the
stairs, standing there, looking down at me. He was waiting for me. I
could feel the pit of my stomach grow larger as I climbed closer. It
was just me and the black man in an ocean of darkness, under an
island of light. I was defenseless, and nobody could hear my screams
if it came to that. I wasn't in some popcorn movie theater watching
a Brando movie, but I was on the waterfront, looking for the happy
ending.
I realized that if I kept climbing, I might not have to
worry about a place to sleep. What should I do? Moving forward I
knew I might end up just like the street garbage scattered about me,
but I couldn't just drop everything and run either. As I approached
running from the now huge man became less of an option. Five steps
away from where he was standing it hit me. I was ready for almost
anything except the smell that poured from his body. The stench was
so strong that when I tried to speak I choked. In a guttural voice,
the man said, "Can I help you carry your pack?" I didn't know what
to say. I cautiously looked into his face and then handed him my
duffle bag. He put the bag on his shoulder and reached for my
sleeping bag. "Sure," I said, as I handed it over to him, and then
he turned, slowly walking up the stairs. "It's a hot night and you
looked tired," he said. "Thanks," I replied, as I followed him in
silence. When we reached 1st Avenue, he handed my gear back to me. I
thanked him again, and proceeded to walk up to the city center while
he turned and headed down 1st Avenue.
Just moments earlier, I had convinced myself I was facing
certain death. Instead, I became the beneficiary of a genuine act of
human kindness. I was struggling with these opposing feelings, when
I was struck (as if someone had hauled off and hit me) with a total
release from tension, from anxieties, from ill will, from all the
things that keep you down, tied in knots, and miserable. After
facing down impending disaster, all my worries seemed to dissolve. I
was not ready for this feeling of well-being, but questioning this
feeling was, if not absurd, then certainly an exercise in futility.
I stopped worrying about my parents. I stopped worrying about my
parents worrying about me. I stopped worrying about a place to
sleep. I stopped worrying about what time it was, how much money I
had, or where my next meal would come from. I totally stopped
worrying about tonight and tomorrow. I didn't care; nothing mattered
anymore. I was really free. I felt peace, I felt euphoric, and as I
let myself go with this feeling, I became ecstatic.
I just kept walking. When I found myself in a deserted part
of downtown Seattle, under the zooming monorail train, I sat down
resting my back against the support girders. There was nothing to do
but savor the moment. I had no place to go and I was bursting
inside, so I began to sing, softly at first, then as loud as my
voice would carry. I began to sing the freedom song from the Who's
rock-opera "Tommy." "I'm free - I'm free. And freedom tastes of
reality. And I'm waiting for you to follow me." That song, one of my
favorites, was about a deaf, dumb, and blind kid who gained back
everything in a miracle recovery. In Seattle, on that hot, very hot,
summer night, I had found my anthem song. I continued singing until
my voice gave out. Only then did I decide to catch a bus up to the
University.
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