Fearless Puppy on American Road

By Doug "Ten" Rose

Travel through Fearless Puppy on American Road with our 15 year old hitchhiking runaway as he escapes a life of drug dealing in Brooklyn. This trip offers solid clues about how to leave excess fears in the dust. Follow the author's outrageous voyage through every stupid mistake (and most of the saving grace) that humanity has to offer. Laugh at our intrepid lunatic's ability to land on his feet in spite of himself.

You will meet: a man who is his own uncle; specialists in smoke, mirrors, and invisibility; Buddhist wisdom, Christian ethics, Jewish ritual; lurid sex, family values, oxygen orgasms; heavenly Hell's Angels, phony preachers, domestic violence, domestic solutions, racist killers in America, Canadian race wars; native American wise men, angelic witches, benevolent heroin addicts, magical birds, lesbian musicians playing a rock concert for the deaf, the musician raised by a multi-ethnic group of prostitutes, martial artists battling neo-Nazis, and the modern day Robin Hood. All manner of sinners and saints travel through this amazing true story that reads like a fantasy.

Why would a 15 year old boy with a New York City native’s knowledge of transportation systems shun both public and private transport and opt to spend the next 35 years hitchhiking throughout North America? Why would anyone bypass the relative ease and safety of bus, train, or a car of his own and open himself to all manner of possible disaster by braving the whims of fate and the moods of passersby? In his words: “I’ll tell you why. I have attended 8 different colleges and universities. I’ve learned more in other people’s cars.”

Check your mind carefully and prepare to lose some baggage! There’s a hell of a ride waiting for you without the pages of Fearless Puppy on American Road.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doug "Ten" Rose
• Release date: Apr 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311567734

Doug "Ten" Rose

“Once you accept the universe as being something expanding into an infinite nothing which is something, wearing stripes with plaid is easy.” - Albert Einstein.Doug “Ten” Rose has metaphorically worn stripes and plaid all his life. He has thirty years experience raising funds for various causes under some very adverse personal circumstances. He has invented and directed charity projects involving rock stars, pro sports teams, governors, and senators. These projects raised awareness and large sums of money for others, often while Ten remained homeless himself and panhandled for food money in the streets (details at http://www.fearlesspuppy.org).Ten has recently written Fearless Puppy on American Road and Reincarnation Through Common Sense. True to form, ALL author profits from these books will be donated to sponsor Wisdom Professionals (beginning with but not exclusive to Tibetan Nuns and Monks).Ten has degrees in Comparative Religion and the survival of heroin addiction. He is also the graduate of thirty-five years and over a hundred thousand miles of travel without ever driving a car, or having a bank account, telephone, or a bill in his name. Ten may be the most comedic smartass as well as the wisest and most entertaining survivor of the hitchhiking adventurers that used to cover America’s highways. The term “crazy wisdom” is often used, but rarely meets its match the way it does in this author. Ten Rose and his work are a vibrant part of the present and future as well as an essential remnant of a vanishing breed.

Book preview

Introduction to The Dog Soldier Trilogy

The Dog Soldier Trilogy is a collection of two books.

The first one was written second. The second book was written first.

There will be a third book written about what gets done with the money made from the sale of the first two books. That, of course, means that folks will have to buy the first two books in order for the third one to ever come about.

The Dog Soldier Trilogy is about many things but is presented as the story of a single human being. It would also be reasonable to say that it’s about all human beings. Most of us could easily relate to the main character. Many of the mistakes made by humanity as a species have been made, one at a time, by our individual hero.

He’s been busy.

If blunders were feathers our boy would have wings. He seems to constantly bounce between extremes of disaster and bliss that rarely rest in stability.

It is also true, to give credit where credit is due, that our protagonist occasionally embodies bits of what makes human beings worth the trouble it often is to deal with them.

These books read very much like novels. Many folks who have read them think that they are fiction or fantasy. They are not. Most of what you will read is entirely true. Folks who were my hosts on the road related some of the stories to me. I’m a pretty good judge of bullshit by now. If a person’s story appears at all within these pages, it means that I’d bet money on it being fact.

Some of the facts within these books may be jumbled, but very few have been embellished. Details have been recalled by a memory that is suspect. It will take only a few more pages of your reading to understand why the author’s memory is suspect. Most of what happens in real life doesn’t leave documented proof in its wake. These books are real life.

Some names and locations have been changed to protect the privacy of my friends. Some more have been changed for my own protection, legal and otherwise. Very few names have been changed to protect the innocent. Very few people are innocent, especially in this first book.

Considering how bad my memory is, and the several name and location changes within the book, perhaps we should say Fearless Puppy is based on real events instead of true.

The second book will be a different story. It is a very serious and more recently, more coherently remembered factual account that involves more folks who could truthfully be called innocent. Most of Book 2 was drafted while residing in an Asian Temple.

The experiences described in The Dog Soldier Trilogy can be considered very creative nonfiction, but they are nonfiction nonetheless. I know this to be true because I am the main character.

* * *

Fearless Puppy on American Road is Book 1 of the trilogy. It is about a teenage drug dealer in Brooklyn, New York who runs away from home to hitchhike around America for thirty-five years or so. The reasons for my never learning to drive a car are well stated in the Foreword (I’ll Tell You Why). Whether never learning to drive was a brilliant life decision or illogical stupidity is debatable—but the fact that some very interesting things happened because of that decision is not.

The second book is titled Reincarnation Through Common Sense. It is about my rescue and adoption by a Temple full of Monks and Nuns in Asia. I was there for almost half a year after suffering, let’s say, a near fatal incident. Most of the book relays the experience of living in a high-level atmosphere. There are two twists to the story. The first is that I couldn’t speak the native language and no one there spoke English, so the book is basically putting silence into words. The second is that I was adopted as family into a Buddhist temple but never studied any Buddhism (certainly not in any traditional sense). Some very interesting things happen in this book as well.

The third book will be about what gets done with the money made from selling Books 1 and 2. That will be called Sharing the Bones, or maybe God, Dog, Kibble, or something just as ridiculous.

Writing is fun for me. I hope this writing will also be fun for you to read—but The Dog Soldier Trilogy has a purpose to it besides entertainment.

Here it is.

* * *

There doesn’t seem to be any efficient political solution to the world’s problems. We can elect as many different Chief Bozos as we want. We’ll still be living in a circus of suffering. As long as the thoughts, conversations, and media of humanity are focused on war, greed, drama, and problems instead of happiness, peace, and solutions, we will always be, as we say in Brooklyn, in a world of shit. The images of life on Earth that we unconsciously live by keep most of us worried that we’re teetering on a planet that is dangerously out of control.

Actual horrors notwithstanding, life on Earth is a lot friendlier than we have been led to believe. It can be made friendlier still. Many of us regular folks have realized this and chosen to do something about it. We have assigned ourselves to the presentation of positive, truthful information to refute the overdose of negative information we’ve been depressed by, and to repair its result. The idea is that if people are presented with consistently constructive and positive options, ideas, and attitudes, we’ll all become more consistently constructive and positive people.

Most folks have some very positive tendencies, although these tendencies are often warped by stress and misinformation. These tendencies need to be exercised more by each and every member of the general population. We need as much helpful reinforcement and support in doing this as we can get. We need more people who are professionals at this happy-and-helpful kind of thing—especially the ones who are so serious about it that they completely dedicate their lives to making it happen.

In present day America we are blessed to have many such folks, and they are pretty blessed themselves. Many of our professionals of the positive are doing well. Deepak Chopra has sold a lot of books. Bernie Seigel, Iyanla van Zandt, Wayne Dyer, and many of our other brightest minds live in comfortable circumstances. Oprah seems to have a few bucks left over, even after the expense of all the wonderful activities she sponsors. That’s great. These people deserve any prosperity that comes to them and more.

My point is that many of their equals in America, and especially in other parts of the world, are not doing so well. There are many forms of Native American, African, Asian, Australian, European, and other assorted wisdoms that are endangered. Those who are preserving these wisdoms within their local cultures often lack the resources for decent survival, much less the wherewithal to make what they know available to us. I’ve met some of these folks. Some live in very average American towns. Some live on the other side of the world. A lot of what they know could prove essential to all of us.

Asia provides a clear example. Over there, much of the positive counterpart to greed, brutality, and ignorance arrives through the compassion and loving kindness of a school of thought (it doesn’t require a religious interpretation, folks) known as Buddhism. It is the route most folks over there (and there are a lot of them) use to get back to their more humane side. When life gets harsh, if people get lost and foul, the Monks and Nuns are well equipped to direct those people to the road that leads back to a sane manner of living. They have the training, dedication, and patience to help everyday folks find their individual peace. This of course helps the society at large to stay manageable, friendly, and happy. The Monks and Nuns of Asia are the Wisdom Professionals who remind people of the human decency within, and their obligation to exercise it.

Many of these professionals of positive thought throughout Asia lack some of life’s basic necessities—including food, clean water, clothing, and shelter. The resources and facilities do not exist for their numbers to expand in conjunction with modern humanity’s need for these people.

As a rule, Monks and Nuns don’t have paying jobs. Their survival is dependent upon the generosity and gratitude of a population that is nearly as poor as the Monks and Nuns are.

The life of a Buddhist Monk or Nun is austere, even in the best of material circumstances. The training is very rigorous. They do without most of the things that you and I consider essential parts of daily life. They are involved in the singular most difficult effort on earth—deep meditation. This isn’t some la-la brained, half-assed, 1960s flashback type of effort. The type of meditation done by Monks and Nuns requires full time mental focus. Facilitating the elimination of suffering from all living creatures and developing the skillful means to do so is the goal of that focus.

Starvation and frostbite can break anyone’s concentration. Although the spiritual rewards of their training are thought to be unparalleled, the trials posed by that training can seem too overbearing to endure. For some prospective beginners, those trials may seem too overbearing to attempt.

I’ve been lucky enough to see, firsthand, the powerful effect that professionals of the positive can have on individual lives. I’ve seen it in America, Asia, Mexico—actually, everywhere I’ve ever been.

* * *

Let’s crunch some numbers. Again—Asia is just an example. The cost of preserving North/South American, African, Australian, European, and other assorted humans and wisdom may be slightly higher, but is certainly manageable.

It takes one dollar a day to sponsor a Nun or Monk's food, clothing, and shelter in northern India, Mongolia, Nepal, etc. For that dollar, on any given day a Monk or Nun—by virtue of their extensive training, compassion, and dedication—may have an influence on anywhere from one to several million people. They do go on TV and make videos sometimes.

These people are trying to relay methods of enjoying a peaceful and productive life to people. They generally do not push religion. Spiritual Psychologist may be as accurate a term to describe them as Monk or Nun. They might influence a child to do better in school. This could result in the benefit of that child, the child’s family, community, and possibly all of humanity as well. That child could grow up to discover the cure for cancer, or who knows what.

Stranger things have certainly happened.

One of these Wisdom Professionals could catch an adolescent girl at a crossroads in her life, influencing her to become more like Mother Teresa and less like the crack whore down the street.

You may call investing a dollar a day to this process charitable. You may take (what is probably) a more realistic approach and call it functional or practical. Whatever angle you take, most of us would agree that this is a well-invested dollar.

These professionals of the positive provide the general population with a daily dose of kindness and emotional intelligence. This dose counteracts the effects of whatever bullshit has pissed off the members of that general population on that day, and often reaches further to assist with long term problems. Irate people are reminded that they can be patient, compassionate, tolerant people. People on the edge remember that the world can be a friendly place, and that stepping on others in order to feel in control of their own circumstance may not be the best idea.

If people in any part of the world feel more happy than hostile, then people in every part of the world are safer and more comfortable. This pumps up the odds for a decrease of hostility and an increase in the amount of peaceful coexistence by which humanity as a whole operates.

It seems that the information offered by these teachers of sanity spurs us everyday folks on to a state of mind more conducive to what could be called spiritual growth. Everyone benefits from having another good teacher around, especially when the subject of study is how to be a happier, healthier, and less hostile human being. Again—this spiritual growth is not some surface level, bullshit do-gooder, bumper sticker type figure of speech. The type of individual spiritual growth referred to here may well be the deciding factor in facilitating our survival as a species.

So, Book 3 will be about how we’re setting up perpetual funding operations to help support those who sacrifice everything to help the rest of us. The funding for this effort will be the money you and your friends spend buying Books 1 and 2.

* * *

 If you find Fearless Puppy on American Road enjoyable, please tell others about it. Maybe they’ll buy a book too. The funding from book sales will hopefully go a long way toward increasing the number of calming, helpful, enlightened, and sanity-oriented professionals we have available to us.

I love and respect my fellow humans, but in at least one regard we’ve screwed up to an embarrassing degree. We’re very late in providing support and sponsorship for emotional and spiritual intelligence. For whatever reasons, we have historically put faith in the need for destructive-type knowledge. This misplaced faith has backfired. Our destructive-type knowledge is running us over.

Priorities need adjusting.

If more of the folks who are willing to dedicate their lives to the increase of such things as functional, practical happiness and general sanity get the opportunity to do so, it may be our best chance to jack up the level of the circus before the bozos blow it up.

It is, after all, our circus. For all we know, the Far Eastern theory of reincarnation notwithstanding, this may be the only circus we’ll ever get to attend. Doesn’t it make sense to support more competent ringmasters and management?

Back to Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

This entire book is an acknowledgment of gratitude to everyone mentioned in it. We live in an interdependent world. Nothing gets done by itself. I’ve put the words on the paper, but more folks than I could possibly mention are responsible for those words becoming this book. Although there are way too many to list here, my eternal thanks goes out to them all.

Bob Geldorf (though I never had the privilege of meeting him), the bag lady with the soda in San Francisco, and the firefighter who bought me a beer in Brooklyn come to mind as inspirations.

I’m also grateful to a lot of dead people that I’ve never met. Mahatma Gandhi, John Lennon, Mother Teresa, Chief Crazy Horse, and Martin Luther King Jr. among others. They are a continuing source of inspiration too. It’s not just me, of course. Most folks are inspired by these people.

Getting back to the living—the Ortiz, Fort, Champeau, Farnsworth, Lewis, and Blomberg Jr. families as well as Steve Norse and the ever-present Mr. Bryan P. Ayers have continued to be there through thick and thin. They have offered too many types of support to recount. These people have fed, housed, loved, and cared for me long enough to allow me to get the writing done. Craig Sheppard and the New Paltz Hostel folks also deserve a nod.

When I grow up I want to be like Harvey Schaktman and Deb Katz of the Citizen’s Awareness Network. Their selfless, unwavering service to humanity is an inspiration to all who know them.

Peg Lyons has inspired me by accomplishing the impossible. I guess it wasn’t impossible after all. She and her business partner, Mr. P.J. Tumielewicz, run Theatre Directories Inc., a series of publications indispensable to the worldwide theater community.

Alathea Windsong Daniels has been instrumental in every aspect of this book’s production except the writing. It can actually be said that she had a great influence on the writing as well. For a long time, Alathea served as managing editor of the Good Medicine Society’s publication The Flowering Tree. Had I not spent so many hours reading what she published, I wouldn’t have developed the little bit of smarts that enabled the writing of this book. It’s possible I might not even have survived this long.

Professor Larry Gaffney of Pennsylvania and Mr. Bruce Anderson of Ithaca, NY and Thailand each have offered suggestions that helped to make this book readable. One hundred and seventy pounds of walking heart named Joe Fort did the incredible cover art. You should see some of his other work. Loretta, Joey, and the entire crew at the 4th Street Computer Lab in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico are incredibly talented, patient, and friendly. Some rich company should come hire and pay them a lot of money. Gale Andrade is head of the Chester, Massachusetts library and one of the nicest people you’d ever want to meet. Valerie Palar, Nessie Arbour, and Juska have been valuable proofreaders, and even more valuable as friends and allies. Sali J has been very helpful as well.

Nancy Crompton is an efficient organizer and a talented professional editor/proofreader/layout person. She is, even more so, as stunning an example of compassion and sweetness as a human can be.

Diane Gerber is incredibly sweet and kind. She showed me that a person can demonstrate the most generous nature imaginable despite having very limited material goods.

CJ Ondek can’t be human. Humans just don’t glow like that.

Anyone who has been open minded and brave enough to give me a ride in his or her car also warrants my continuing gratitude. This book, and most of my life, could not have happened without you.

I’m as grateful to all of you who are reading this book as I am to anyone mentioned here. In doing this you are taking the time and trouble to become my friend. I know you’ve got your own life and also your own expenses, but you are spending the time to read the book and have likely spent money to buy it. The time you’ll spend reading it makes me feel that the effort I have spent writing it was well worth the trouble. Any money you’ve spent in support of Fearless Puppy on American Road, and hopefully will spend buying the next two books of The Dog Soldier Trilogy, will help to accomplish a lot of good things in the long run. You don’t have to trust me on this one. The proof will be in the third book.

Last, and the exact opposite of least, my literally undying gratitude goes out to all people, of any occupation, whose main concern is the well being of all living creatures—especially those people who have mustered the strength and invested the energy to do something constructive with that concern. Many come to mind. One of them passed on before this book could come to print. Lama Kunsang Dechen Lingpa Rinpoche is someone you will meet toward the end of this book. While he was alive he taught a lot of people that they don’t have to be a slave to bullshit—not anyone else’s, or their own. The planet misses him. I miss him.

Without the training that I received from the Venerable Gape Lama, Most Venerable Lama Ontul Rinpoche and Tashi Dolma, and especially Venerable Lama Traga Rinpoche, all of whom are affiliated with the Drikung Kagyu lineage of Tibetan Buddhism, I would not have finished this book. They taught me how to stay focused long enough to finish something. They also helped expand my ability to recognize the things that are worth the effort such focusing requires, and have been incredible living examples of that goodness. There’s probably no way to ever thank them enough. I hope they all have very long and happy lives.

P.S.  Alathea and Nancy are top quality editors of incredible talent. I’m stubborn. They told me where the commas and hyphens are supposed to go. They know their business. I know how to break rules. If you don’t like the grammatical inconsistencies in this book, please know that I’m totally to blame. The pros did a pro job and I ignored part of it. If you do like the uninhibited way the material flows in spite of the grammatical snafus, you can also blame me for that.

Back to Table of Contents

Foreword (I’ll Tell You Why)

Coney Island historically may be the world’s most famous playground. To me it was always just The Neighborhood. I grew up within a five minute walk of the ocean, roller coasters, and Nathan’s famous hot dog emporium. Nathan’s has since gone the way of the chain/franchise, but back then it was the only Nathan’s restaurant in existence.

In the 1950s and early 1960s, before corporate mania, marketing, and God-as-economics took over the world, the franchising of a well-loved institution such as Nathan’s would have been considered a trespass punishable by death. Any attempt to minimize the sacred nature of an institution as beloved as Nathan’s would surely have resulted in a solid beating for the Madison Avenue weasel who came up with the idea.

Times have indeed changed with, and since, the series of mind-numbing assassinations that erased the America we knew. Now that the inmates indeed run the asylum, that same Madison Avenue weasel is a glorified hero instead of a despicable villain. In the America of my youth, it would have certainly been different.

Now that the manufactured fear of the Russians has been replaced by a very justifiable fear of ourselves, things have gone further astray. Back then the country was an open road, both figuratively and literally.

Coney Island is at the southernmost part of New York City, the feet of the metropolis, if you will. All the city’s nerve endings originate and end, as they do in any body, in its feet. The most spectacular and efficient mass transit system in the mid-1960s world was the New York City subway system. All its West End lines originated then, as they still do, in the Coney Island terminal across the street from Nathan’s. From Brooklyn’s ocean playground one could get to anywhere in the city and make connections to anywhere in the world. Miracles of educational outreach were accessible for the same price as one of Nathan’s hot dogs.

Why would a 15 year old boy with a New York City native’s knowledge of transportation systems shun both public and private transport to spend the next thirty-five years hitchhiking throughout North America? Why would anyone bypass the relative ease and safety of bus, train, or personal car and open himself to all manner of possible disasters by braving the whims of fate and the moods of passersby?

I’ll tell you why.

I have attended eight different colleges and universities.

I’ve learned more in other people’s cars.

* * *

DISCLAIMER—There may be a few misguided folks who will confuse this book’s tone as an encouragement of marijuana, alcohol, and drug use.

It is not.

The book is just an account of some living that was obviously overdone a bit.

Moderation, respect for the power of what you’re dealing with, intelligent self-control, and balanced thinking are the keys to success in nearly every undertaking. Forgetting this always costs some hide, and often some flesh.

DISCLAIMER TOO—Always investigate whatever you are getting yourself into. Discriminative awareness is not paranoia. It is intelligent selection. For example, it is standard practice for any authentic Tibetan Master to have a picture of the Dalai Lama within sight. If you go to a Tibetan teacher and do not see a picture of the Dalai Lama on the premises, ask why. You may be getting into something that’s not what you were looking for. If you are looking for a teacher, make sure you find a real one.

Back to Table of Contents

* First Roads *

1 The 36th Street Train Station

I sometimes skip the Introduction of a book I’m starting to read and get right to Chapter 1. If you just did this, please go back and read the Intro and Foreword. They mean a lot to this particular book. I’d also like you to meet the folks listed in the Acknowledgments section. As a matter of fact, you’re in there too. Thanks.

* * *

The 1960s produced a widespread cultural revolution. LSD was its sponsor. Music and philosophical mysticism were its parents. I was its child.

On one of that era’s electrified summer evenings my fifteen year old self and my seventeen year old best friend and drug dealing partner, Patty Ayers, decided to catch the subway train into Manhattan. We made this trip often and were always happy about it. We were going to our generation’s Mecca.

Greenwich Village was the hub of our people’s activity in New York City. No suits, ties, or briefcases stressed the Village atmosphere. Street musicians, jugglers, and a variety of other performers and artists graced nearly every corner with their freedom of self-expression. The Electric Circus, Fillmore East, Village Vanguard, Bottom Line, and a hundred other musical venues offered entertainment, prophecy, mind expansion, and fellowship as well as the opportunity to get laid. The free love generation did its best generating in The Village. Very few people over thirty years of age were visible on the streets. The Earth’s best energy was exploding as a lovefest created by a progressive youth that thought it was in the process of building a new world.

The Electric Circus was hosting our favorite band that night. The Chambers Brothers Band was a photo negative of establishment America, a reversal of all the stereotypes. Four black brothers played assorted instruments and did vocals. The drummer, the guy with the rhythm, was a white guy. The Electric Circus was free range. The music was ours. The light shows were otherworldly. You could be as high and young as you liked, as long as you weren’t sloppy, violent, or causing a hassle.

There was a totally foam-padded, strobe-lit room on the premises where the sexual liberation of our generation ran rampant. Patty had a charming way with women. I was a good-looking six footer as far back as thirteen years old. Women and men were on equal footing. Girls came on to the guys as often as we would approach them. A good time was always guaranteed at The Electric Circus.

There were standard, almost ritual, preparations for a night at The Circus. We ate our tabs of orange barrel Sunshine LSD and hung out on the Coney Island beach, smoking a few joints with the crew while waiting for the acid’s effects to kick in. The trip called for a thirty minute ride on the B line to Brooklyn’s 36th Street Station. There we had to change to the N line that would take us to Manhattan’s Greenwich Village. We liked to get good and buzzed before entering the Coney Island terminal. The train ride was an important part of the evening’s program. With the right buzz and attitude in tow, the ride became an amazing show.

Due to its cultural diversity, New York has always been known as the nation’s melting pot. A good tab of LSD allowed us to see the flesh melt off the bones of fellow passengers and reveal their deeper makeup. To us it was just good, clean fun and added an extra dimension to the melting pot point of view. We were too shallow and young to consider what percentage of our hallucinations might be a projection of our own mental bullshit, as opposed to the actual inner qualities of the folks we thought we were seeing through. Our more important and intelligent insights wouldn’t happen until we had traveled several more years down the road. For now we were content just to believe that everything in the Universe merged. For all the apparent individuality and difference in the straight world, we knew that humanity was really just one big melted-together thing and we were a part of it—although certainly a different part than that polyester geek melting down at the other end of the subway car!

We always accomplished a sufficient buzz on the beach before floating into the incredible organism that is the New York City Transit System.

Folks who have strong relationships (be they married couples, siblings, or friends), if they are paying attention to their living at all, develop some degree of telepathic or at least nonverbal communication. It could be as simple as a mother seeing that lost look on her toddler’s face and wordlessly helping the child to the bathroom. It could be as powerful as the reports of a twin sibling feeling pain when his or her other half has been involved in a trauma—even if the first twin had not been notified of the problem and the injured twin was a thousand miles away. Truly mind expanding drugs can account for an intense increase of clarity in this nonverbal communication. This intensification becomes even more pronounced in a comfortable, non-threatening friendship.

About two train stops into the ride, Patty and I simultaneously turned to look at each other. We exchanged a silent Wow.

We had discovered that we were in for a little something extra on this ride. It seems we had done a couple of unbalanced tabs. Our two tabs of the usually consistent orange barrel Sunshine type LSD seemed to have been the product of a chemist who had perhaps eaten some of the stuff while he was making it. Somehow, a lot more than usual of the active ingredient fell into the tablets we had taken. We were getting off like rockets.

We smiled.

No Fear.

We had spent our lives in a world that seemed to need a good pulling up by its roots. We had faced serial assassinations of our spiritual and political leaders, social upheaval, a greed and ignorance based not-so-silent majority population and leadership, race riots, dead Mafia bodies floating in Coney Island Bay, paranoia-provoking threats of world annihilation, and neighborhood friends dying in Viet Nam for the economic profit of the corporate government that kidnapped them. Our teachers and parents seemed more like prison guards and wardens. Nonconformity was often defined as mental illness. Profit and technology were constantly hunting an unarmed love and happiness.

We were not afraid to go out of our minds, or very far into them. Considering what our society had defined as in your right mind, a trip beyond those borders seemed not only logical, but necessary. We felt that our hallucinations couldn’t be worse than the so-called reality.

No Fear.

We did have the coherency to get off the B train at Brooklyn’s 36th Street Station to wait on a bench for the N train into The Village. That was about eight p.m. We sat on that bench with faint Mona Lisa smiles on our faces, incapable of speech or motion. To any observer it would appear that we were staring straight ahead at the dirty subway wall—but we weren’t. We saw nothing in our external field of vision nor did we hear a sound, although the deafening roar of trains continued.

All focus was internal.

Nothing external could compete with the power of the overdose.

* * *

It was about four a.m. when, without exchanging a word or even a glance, Patty and I stood up simultaneously from the 36th Street Station bench that we had been tripping on for eight hours. We moved in silent coordination to the other side of the train platform and walked through the open, waiting door of the B train heading back toward Coney Island.

We had never entered an N train for Manhattan, although dozens must have stopped and opened their doors for us.

A station stop or two before Coney Island, we snapped out of it well enough to agree on a hot dog breakfast at Nathan’s and a sunrise watch on the beach. Patty’s parents were not quite the abusive amphetamine and barbiturate addicts that mine were, but neither of us was in a hurry to go home.

Grounded by some solid food and a familiar beach, we recovered the ability to have pieces of a conversation.

What the fuck was that? exclaimed The Ayersman (as he was commonly known in the neighborhood).

Fucking chemist must’ve been eating the shit himself during manufacturing, I mumbled.

Where did that stuff come from? asked Ayersman.

One of the older guys. Said he brought it back from California, I managed in a voice that was becoming a bit more stable. Bits of coherency were starting to return.

That explains it, Patty said, as if it did. Incredible!

I agreed with a nod and the smirk of a survivor.

What did you see? His question was more reasonable than my answer.

Eeeeeverything, I muttered.

Yeah! Me too! I saw everything. All at once. It seemed like it only took a minute, but it also seemed it took a hundred fucking years.

With a nod of agreement I said, According to Nathan’s clock we were sitting at 36th Street for about eight hours.

Fuckenheyo, he said with a smile and a shake of his head.

Fuckenheyo, I concurred.

Ayersman decided he’d already had enough fun for one night. I’m gonna go home and sleep for at least twelve hours. C’mon. Let’s git.

My reply shocked him. Nah.

This unusual lack of coordination between us understandably surprised my friend. What do you mean—nah?

I surprised him further, and myself, when I answered, I’m gonna hit the road.

His eyes took on a serious glaze. What the fuck are you talking about?

I’m gonna hitchhike somewhere. I don’t want to go home.

My partner was not pleased. Hitchhike?!

Yeah, Patty man, you know. We’ve heard about it, we’ve talked about it, now I’m gonna do it. I don’t need to go home to get my ass kicked again by those scumbags, and I’m sicker of school than anyone’s ever supposed to be sick of anything. New York isn’t the only place in the world. I’m gone!

Where the fuck you gonna go? It was a sensible question.

I don’t know. Maybe the Catskills to get some bagels, was my less than sensible answer.

My senior partner was concerned. What do you think, like you’re fucking Kerouac or something? You’re a fifteen year old buzz boy with two hairs on his ass. Forget a bunch of lions and tigers and bears oh my, Dorothy—there are some real nut jobs that pick up hitchhiking kids out on the open road, not to mention the cops. Go the fuck home and take a nap. We’ve got a pound and a half of weed to sell by the nickel tonight.

My mind was made up. I may be a fifteen year old buzz boy with two hairs on his ass but I’m also six feet tall, got my own three hundred dollars in my pocket, my own bag of weed in my sock, and can kick ass if necessary. I’m also cute enough to get picked up by a single babe—one who’s old enough to drive. Maybe she’ll have a fucking grandmother I can hook you up with.

We both started laughing, but the serious tone of Patty’s concern cut right through his laugh. I’m going to sleep and I suggest you do the same. If you insist on doing this hitchhiking shit, be fucking careful—and be back by tonight. I’ve gotten used to your bullshit and I don’t want to have to break in a new partner. Goodnight, my brother. Keep the duct tape over your ass.

There’s an entrance ramp to the Belt Parkway within a three minute walk of Nathan’s famous hot dog emporium. The Belt Parkway is a highway around the fringe of New York City. It leads to every major thoroughfare in the known Universe. I walked to that entrance ramp and stuck my thumb out.

I never saw Coney Island again.

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2 Where Did You Think You Were Going?

In the mid 1960s, hitchhiking was a lot different than it is now. Sure, there were nut jobs on the road and you had to be careful. Certainly the cops would search you and break your balls. But there was also an atmosphere of freedom and trust counterbalancing the worldwide chaos. Peaceful hopes, free love, ganja, and a desire for reconciliation between man and Universe were forcing their way into the American psyche. Women’s rights, racial equality, sexual freedom, and the pacification of a nation bred on war and slavery had all gotten tired of knocking on America’s door and decided to kick it in.

There was a feeling of confidence in nonconformity. That confidence in nonconformity scared the conservative mentality of the 1950s into a state of shock, as it would again scare the reactionary attitudes of later decades.

For many folks the evolutionary movements of the 1960s provided the opportunity to be human again. All men are brothers was not just biblical claptrap to be pronounced in church on Sunday but ignored in everyday business. Many folks took this brother/sisterhood sentiment to heart.

This mindset was most obvious on the American road. The Volkswagen van became the unofficial (as was everything) vehicle of the brother/sisterhood. Each was a guaranteed ride for the hitchhiker. There was a Unity Consciousness among the folks who were all on the same progressive wavelength. It manifested in cooperation. The longhaired hitchhiker was the emblem of this process. She or he symbolized the fragments of humanity that had found the same philosophical and political road.

We all knew that we were going in the same direction. Each separate cause and individual person knew that they would be best served by traveling in the company and support of kindred spirits. The more idealistic among us actually considered kindred spirits to include everyone in the human race! The unification of the human spirit in peace and happiness was a larger common goal that accompanied each individual’s smaller personal goals.

Some of the same folks who were against this unifying process then, continue their attempts to murder that unifying process today. Exclusionary self-interest, fear, and greed were, and still are, responsible for crippling positive progress. These regressive tendencies have recently (and very unfortunately) made a political comeback. Whether positive human evolution will ever outrace our baser, more destructive tendencies has always been a good question. There may not be an answer. We may be faced with an immortal question.

* * *

The third vehicle that came on to the entrance ramp stopped for me. A pickup truck screeched onto the shoulder. What I was doing seemed weird, even to me—but a pickup truck in Brooklyn was even stranger. Fifty years ago, people who lived in big cities drove cars. There was no urban cowboy/make-believe-country-boy image thing going on. SUVs weren’t even a twinkle in an advertiser’s eye yet.

The vehicle pulled up on the shoulder. I ran up to it and took a gander at the driver before getting in.

Inside was a short, wiry-strong man of about thirty-five with a tooth missing toward the front and a two-day beard growth. I had my doubts about getting in with this character until the passenger door seemed to fling itself open. Out flew a cloud of sweet, thick, secondhand ganja smoke.

Hop on in, little brother, said my smiling host.

I did.

My name’s Dave Ortiz. Everyone calls me Crazy Dave but I’m not crazy—just a little different. Then the smile came off and with a straight deadpan face Dave said, So where did you think you were going?

This alarming comment was immediately set off by a very warm and disarming laugh. I’m only kidding, amigo. That’s just a line I heard a comedian say. Always wanted to use it in real life. Ha! Really though, where are you heading to?

Well, Crazy Dave, my name is Doug Rose and I’m grateful for the ride. I’m eighteen years old and will soon be a university student. Between high school and college it seemed like a cool idea to take a semester off and travel. You know, just to go out and see America. Right now that trip is going to start with some bagels in the Catskill Mountains.

Dave shot me a doubt-filled glance and responded, Buddy, if that’s what you’re wantin’, it’s no problem. I’m going further upstate than that. Got a farm outside of Ithaca, New York with cows, chickens, corn, wife, children, and all that good stuff. I was just down in the big city to visit one of my former college buddies, Tom Belgrade. Tommy was Computer Science. Me, I was Ag Tech—Agricultural Technology, that is. We belonged to the same fraternity, even had a couple of the same girlfriends, but at different times, of course. Ha!

Dave spoke on and on, and then on some more. He wasn’t selfish about the dynamic of the conversation. He would stop and listen when I wanted to speak. That wasn’t often. Listening to Dave was too much fun to interrupt. It was all very interesting, and it all came out so nonstop and high energy that I was starting to understand how he had earned his nickname. On first impression Dave seemed like a Methedrine freak, but that wasn’t it. I was born to an amphetamine freak and knew all the signs—bug eyes, shitty skin, disjointed conversation and motions. Dave didn’t fit the mold. He seemed to be a very high energy, well grounded, extremely intelligent, pleasant, and happy guy. He had that countrified tone of voice that urban folk sometimes mistake for a slight slow-wittedness. That mistake was a particularly big one in Mr. Ortiz’s case.

About an hour into the ride, Dave got back to talking about his college buddy again—or so it seemed until he turned the conversation around on me. My host suddenly showed me what a good sense of people he had, and how far from crazy he really was.

Me and Tom played lacrosse. I was good. But Tom, he was All-State. Ever seen a lacrosse game? Lots of speed and stamina required. You need lots of courage and confidence too. I bet you’d make a good lacrosse player yourself, my friend, because you seem to have a lot of courage and confidence for a—well—maybe fifteen or sixteen year old kid who’s running away from home. Yeah, you’re tall enough for eighteen but you’ve got that sort of baby-face, tough-guy look about you. Bet you ain’t got but two hairs on your ass. Ha!

We both laughed for a minute. I must have been quite a sight laughing through my drop-jawed surprise at the accuracy of his intuition. The similarity of this conversation to my recent one with Patty Ayers didn’t escape me. It didn’t comfort me, either.

Dave continued. "Now don’t worry, little brother. You and your secret