Summer of '82

In the scorching summer of 1982, I once again found myself jobless, ousted from my MoPac trainman job in St. Louis. Getting laid off had become a frustratingly familiar routine since I joined this freak show of a company at the tender young age of eighteen. For five long years, I tried to find my place as a brakeman and switchman, working across St. Louis, Jefferson City, and Kansas City. I must have spent half my time being forced to move or getting laid off. Why? Because that’s the way they railroad.

Working on freight trains was a head rush at first. Getting to work on the monstrous freight engines, climbing up and down their ladders, riding in the cab, controlling their direction, and harnessing their tremendous power was exhilarating. It didn't take long for the amazement to wear off, only to be replaced by inconvenience, the dirtiest grime imaginable, and the harsh prospect of tough manual labor for the rest of my life.

After working a shift—day, evening, or graveyard, which I got stuck with most—both my body and clothes would be covered in a filmy coating of black dust. The filth was mainly from the exhaust fumes belted out by the massive engines and the dust from the ballast rocks we walked on. Everything everywhere was coated in this dusty, dirty grime. Many of the diesel engines would also spit out tiny droplets of oil with the exhaust fumes. I quickly learned that I had to separate work and non-work clothing because my work clothes were permanently marked by droplets of diesel oil.

In addition to being extremely dirty, working on the railroad was physically and mentally challenging. And yes, it was dangerous as fuck. First, there was the constant exposure to the elements—cold rain and snow in the winter and the hot sun in the summer. Rain, sleet, snow, and ice made tasks more difficult and dangerous, especially in the dark. The railroad operates 24/7/365, and so did the train crews.

I worked on, in, and around freight trains. I climbed up and down ladders on locomotives, freight cars, and cabooses. I physically wrestled switches to direct trains from one track to the next. I climbed the sides of boxcars while they were careening down the side of a hill in the middle of the night to turn a huge brake wheel, which in turn pulled a chain to engage the brakes—all while holding onto a lantern, the primary and sometimes only source of light. One slip and I could have fallen off the ladder onto the ballast and broken an arm or leg. Or worse, I could have landed under the huge metal wheels and lost a limb or been cleaved in half. Accidents weren’t uncommon.

Working for the railroad was more than a job. It was a lifestyle—a lifestyle I didn’t like and a job I was not good at. I did not like the environment, the responsibilities, or the people I worked with. I didn’t fit in with my coworkers or the company vibe, and frankly, I didn’t want to fit in. While my blue-collar, factory-working father encouraged me to make the railroad my career, to me the job was only a stepping stone to something better. In my mind, the only way to move toward that goal was to go to college, so during the times I was laid off I would go to school at Meramec Community College and the glorious institution known as Southeast Missouri State University—SEMO. Life was a struggle.

So here it was, my fifth year with yet another layoff, and since it was summer break at SEMO, I was figuring out what to do next. Wouldn’t you know it, I got a call out of the blue from a distant college acquaintance inquiring about a road trip. I considered it for all of two seconds before I said yes, even without a solid destination. I was free of my railroad responsibilities and flush with cash. Despite the railroad’s unpleasantness, it did pay generously, though certainly not commensurate with the danger. I was ready and willing to split the scene and see what mischief we could get into.

Dave and I had embarked on a road trip once before, to the original sin party city, New Orleans, where we partook in the yearly debauchery of Mardi Gras. That drive to New Orleans had been a knuckle-dragging nine hours from our home base in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, where we were both majoring in Mass Comm at SEMO. Just in case that sounds at all familiar, this is where Cedric the Entertainer went to school. And yes, I had classes with him. And no, I didn’t know he was gonna blow up. And yes, he was a very nice guy.

Upon our arrival in the party city, after nine hours in the car together, we went in separate directions, eager to delve into the excitement and splendor that define Mardi Gras. It was a freak show everywhere you looked. Girls pulling up their shirts and exposing their “ta-tas” for a handful of beads, guys on roller skates playing electric guitars, people on floats tossing beads while wearing outrageous makeup and costumes, and lots and lots of booze everywhere. It was an alcoholic pervert’s wet dream, and we two young dudes from Southern Missouri jumped right smack dab into the middle of it all.

Soon I realized that the long drive had beaten me down. The few beers I'd had made me buzzed, dizzy, and tired. I found myself in a small panic, hoping to stumble upon Dave before I collapsed from exhaustion. Passing out on Bourbon Street was the last thing I wanted to do because past experience at Mardi Gras taught me that the cops paraded their horses down the street after closing time. If you didn’t get out of the way, you got run over.

I finally caught sight of Dave darting toward me, exclaiming, “Hey, isn't this fantastic?” I looked up at him with blurred vision, wondering where he’d been, but instead of discussing our next move, he thrust an extra-large container of beer into my hands and dashed off into the anonymity of the crowd. I was shocked and saddened, and I may have even whimpered a bit. But I persisted. I struggled to finish the mammoth cup, inadvertently filling it back up with tears as I drank.

Eventually, Dave reappeared, and our drunken slurs turned to the pressing matter of lodging. With thin wallets and zero reservations—who knew you needed a reservation at the busiest time of the year? We were young, dumb college students!—we ended up sleeping in the car parked in front of a stranger's house. We found different streets the next two nights, only to be woken early in the morning by homeowners clanging trash cans or mowing their lawns. Throughout our escapade, and because of our funky smells, the banger “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” by The Police became our anthem. As the festivities of Mardi Gras wound down, we journeyed back home, windows down, reminiscing about our wild, wild adventure.

The next time I saw Dave, who still lived near the university two hours away from where I lived in St. Louis, he showed up without a car. How he got there, I do not know, but he said he’d just returned from a trip where he’d hitchhiked around the entire planet, so my guess was he used his thumb. I had no reason to doubt him. He told me a few interesting stories, like having dysentery in India and an old woman yelling at him for crapping in a ditch. I could tell he was still amped and ready to continue living la vida loca.

Having no predetermined destination, we decided on California because why wouldn’t we? We loaded up my car with sleeping bags and beer and took off. We drove two hours west to Columbia, Missouri, hung out with my lifelong friend Pete, and tried to convince him to come along. Although he was up for a trip, the timing was bad and he asked if we could wait a couple of weeks. Otherwise, if we ended up somewhere interesting, maybe he would join us. For some reason, he talked us out of going to California, so since neither of us had been there, we headed north to Canada instead. With our eyes fixed on our new destination, we began our journey, and everything seemed righteous and copacetic.

First, we ventured into the majestic pine forests of northern Minnesota, where we camped and slept on a surprisingly comfortable bed of pine needles. Our initial stop in Canada was Thunder Bay, Ontario, for a bite to eat. Looking back, I should have taken this as the first red flag because Dave wanted to avoid all restaurants and opt for only gas-station food.

After a couple of glizzies, we decided to pay a visit to the local cable TV station because cable was the new thing in 1982. And after all, we were both Mass Comm majors! In the lobby of the station, they had a production job posted, so partly as a goof, I applied for it. Much to our surprise, we found ourselves receiving a comprehensive studio tour from the operations manager, and it seemed as though, for a quick minute, he thought about offering me the job. But since I wasn’t Canadian, he probably couldn’t have made it happen. It was still a memorable part of the trip. We had made a new friend, and a good time was had by all.

After our first week together in the car, the friction between Dave and me began to surface. It turned out that Dave's financial situation was dire. Splurging a dollar for a campsite shower was a luxury he couldn't—or wouldn’t—afford. While reminiscing about our days of carefree, odorous camaraderie in New Orleans brought us both laughter, the reality of our older selves confined in the close quarters of my car for days on end was not an experience I was interested in reliving. My boy smelled like a rancid fish, and it was nauseating to be trapped so close to him.

Dave's culinary budget wasn’t much bigger than the one for personal hygiene, so our meals consisted of hot dogs cooked over a crackling campfire and a six-pack of cheap beer. Even though my pockets were filled with a stash of railroad cash, enough to cover expenditures like gas, I wasn't in the market to become Dave’s permanent sugar daddy.

While driving through the wilderness of Canada, not having seen people in a couple of hours, we came upon a spattering of cottages near a lake, so we pulled in. The entire place was empty—no cars and no people, just a bunch of unoccupied cabins. We got the bright idea to break into a cabin to see if we could find some food and maybe spend a couple of nights sleeping on a bed as opposed to the hard ground.

We sniffed around a handful of cabins, finding them all as tightly sealed as a frog's butthole. Our options boiled down to either shattering some glass for entry or gracefully walking away. Since “breaking and entering” wasn’t really something we wanted on our résumés, we opted to move along and steer clear of becoming infamous Canadian outlaws.

Undeterred by our inconveniences, we embraced the wilderness of Canada in its summertime glory. From awe-inspiring mountain vistas to serene lakes and babbling streams, we soaked in the natural splendor. One unforgettable night, we took an off-road detour to camp by a breathtaking lake. We maneuvered the car down a steeper-than-anticipated embankment, sending a rush of adrenaline through us as the wheels slipped on the loose gravel beneath us.

After the thrill ride, we consumed our nightly roasted glizzies and beer and fell into an uneasy sleep on the hard gravel. We woke the next morning to the looming lip at the top of the steep, gravelly embankment. The upward climb appeared daunting and nearly impossible. However, my ride at the time, a four-cylinder, front-wheel-drive 1978 Audi Fox, had good traction and seemed to be up to the task of conquering a game of king of the hill.

The car battled valiantly to mount the summit, but with each futile attempt, its front wheels dug deeper into the unrelenting gravel. After a series of daring maneuvers, including almost rolling over, I finally managed to coax the Fox over the seemingly impervious crest. The sweetness of our victory was enough to hide our concerns about any possible damage done to the car. Little did I know the consequences of this misadventure would return to haunt me in the weeks to come.

I value sleep above all else, so I found myself in a particularly foul mood one morning when Dave decided to take the wheel and make an early departure. I was not a happy camper and returned to my prone position in the passenger seat, attempting to resume my uneasy sleep. Dave got lost and kept pestering me to wake up and be the navigator. Stubborn as ever, I refused to budge. I needed my beauty sleep.

This led to a standoff, culminating in Dave abruptly yanking the car to the side of the road, hopping out onto the highway, and declaring he would walk from there. Faced with his ultimatum and fed up with his company, I resorted to what I believed any exhausted and frustrated person would do in that moment: I hurled his duffel bag out the window, executed a swift U-turn, and left him stranded in the vast expanse of nowhere Canada. My logic was simple. If he had managed to hitchhike his way around the world, surely finding his way home from Canada should be a piece of cake.

As fate would have it, I immediately encountered a woman hitchhiker, and it felt like a sign from the cosmos that I had made the right decision. I stopped and asked her where she was going. She said her name was Angel and she needed a lift to the next town for her job. So she hopped in the car and threw her sack into the back seat, replacing Dave’s.

As we headed east, the memory of Dave’s stench and the image of him stranded in the middle of nowhere were quickly overtaken by the sweet perfumed smell of my new traveling companion. Turned out this very friendly and pretty young woman was a working girl trying to get to a nearby town for her upcoming gig as an exotic dancer. Upon hearing that news, I couldn't help but get a warm fuzzy feeling that some god somewhere was smiling down upon me.

While engaged in a pleasant conversation en route, she casually mentioned that her job came with a hotel room. Without hesitation, I jumped at the opportunity and begged to wash off the road funk. I needed a shower badly. And at that moment, the thought of getting clean was more important than the thought of sex with a stripper. She agreed: a ride for a shower.

When we finally arrived at the establishment, she secured the hotel key and we headed to her room, where she pointed to the bathroom and said, “Have at it!” I’d be lying if I claimed that while showering, the thought of her slipping in next to me for an amazing sexual encounter did not enter my mind, but alas, that remained just a fantasy.

I maintained my gentlemanly composure, kept my cool, combed my clean hair, put on fresh clothes, and got ready to leave. She was throwing off zero sexual signs and didn’t seem at all interested in what I’d been imagining. So I gave her a ride back to the club, and after a quick beer and a glance at her show, I knew it was time to hit the road. In that fleeting moment, I found myself marveling at the immense efforts people undertake just to exist on this planet, and inspired by this, I decided to conquer New York City. So I slipped out the door and continued on my journey, solo.

After seeing the magnificent Niagara Falls from both the Canadian and American sides, I continued southward toward NYC. While driving along in the dead of night, I encountered an otherworldly experience in Upstate New York. Out of nowhere, these sublime stripes of purple, green, and gold, reminiscent of the colors of Mardi Gras, filled the sky. I had never seen or even heard of anything so visually divine. The experience was both majestic and awe-inspiring. I pulled the car off to the side of the road and got out to get a better look. I marveled at the orgasmic explosion of celestial colors.

People who know me know I’m a staunch atheist, and people who know me really well know I grew up going to a Southern Baptist church. A lot. We—my family minus Dad—went twice a week: Sunday School and Wednesday night Bible Study. We also went to Vacation Bible School and Summer Bible Camp. Our church had an activities building with a large gymnasium where I played in a Pee Wee basketball league. It also had a roller-skating rink and bowling alley. I guess the plan was to keep us off the streets and out of trouble. In my case, it worked.

So being a good, young, naive Midwestern Baptist boy, I assumed this cosmic display had to be the Second Coming of Jesus in progress. But after staring at the sky for what seemed like an eternity, nothing happened. So I got back in my car and kept driving. I would find out later it was called the Northern Lights, and as spectacular as it was, it didn’t appear that it would be life-altering—just another great memory during an already eventful trip.

Back in 1982, Music Television—MTV—was brand spanking new, and at the same time, a start-up satellite service was gearing up to send live concerts to giant screens at colleges across the country. Both were headquartered in NYC, and between the two, I focused on the concert company, hoping to snag a job and dive right in. My plan was to drive into Manhattan, wow them with my moxie, and get hired.

So I headed there, driving down the West Side Highway, and wouldn’t you know it, my car started making a scraping sound near the front wheel, no doubt caused by the torture inflicted on it while escaping the gravelly embankment at the Canadian campsite. There were these carve-outs along the river designated for distressed cars, but they were occupied by burned-out automobile carcasses jacked up on concrete blocks. It looked like a war zone. I thought to myself, “If the car acts up any further and I have to pull over, will I have to fight to defend my car so it won’t become just another burned-out carcass?”

Luckily, I made it into the city without incident and found the company that did the televised concerts, which was located on Broadway. Once I found this famous street, I felt confident pulling into a nearby parking garage, figuring I could walk from there. Oh, silly little country bumpkin. I ended up having to take a bus and walk several blocks to get to the office, which turned out to be a funky old brownstone cut up into different office spaces.

Fortunately, there was a public bathroom where I splashed some water on my face and freshened up just the littlest amount, but enough to give me the confidence to walk in and declare that I’d made it to NYC and was ready to work. It was on that day I learned a valuable lesson: nothing impresses a New Yorker less than somebody from the Midwest with no relevant work experience, no college degree, and no local address showing up unannounced and uninvited. The woman listened to my story and said sorry, but without the address-experience-degree combo, they wouldn’t even consider hiring me. She patted me on the head and sent me on my way.

Dejected, I retraced my steps, got back on the bus, and found the parking garage. I hadn’t even been gone for two hours, and the dude said parking would be $50. Fifty bucks in 1982 was a huge amount of money. We argued for a few minutes and I refused to pay. It was just the two of us in a very dark and lonely spot, and he wasn’t that big, so I seriously considered knocking him out and just driving away.

I grew up in a tough neighborhood and I was no stranger to violence, but we were in an underground parking garage in the middle of a city I didn’t know, and I was all alone. If I lost the fight or someone else showed up, I could end up in real trouble, and I had no one within a thousand miles to help. Begrudgingly, I shelled out the cash. I’d been in NYC less than three hours and it had already kicked my ass. So I left.

I decided to go to Montreal before I headed home, so I got on 87 North, the New York Thruway. Somewhere around Lake George in Upstate New York, I picked up another hitchhiker. Robert said he was going to Lake Placid, where he had a summer job as a waiter in a resort hotel restaurant. I made the same deal with him as I did with Angel before: a ride for a shower.

Along the way, he told me about the place where he worked, and it sounded phenomenal. In addition to being a beautiful hotel and restaurant, there were live off-off-Broadway theater shows every night. That piqued my interest, so I asked him about a job, and he promised to introduce me to the man in charge.

The guru of the theater was a guy named Jamie, a young man in his twenties who seemed to do everything behind the scenes. He effortlessly managed it all—from lighting and set building to maintenance and sound. Watching him work, I couldn't help but think of him as a wizard of the stage.

The theater's productions were a captivating blend of live singing, dancing, and acting, along with a mesmerizing slide show expertly projected on three enormous screens above the proscenium stage. One of the most popular shows was called The Forties, a nostalgic journey filled with vibrant big-band numbers. The pictures transported everyone through time, showcasing hardworking individuals in factories, brave soldiers, and the poignant moments marking the end of World War II. One number, sung in German and accompanied by a huge pipe organ, was so emotional it prompted some members of the Greatest Generation to exit the theater.

The theater had just received a new sound mixing board, and Jamie asked if I could solder connectors onto long runs of audio cables. Fortunately, soldering was right up my alley. I found myself immersed in this task for the next few days. I got lucky and found an affordable room for rent with an awe-inspiring view of a towering mountain. Finding this room seemed like a huge stroke of luck, particularly for someone accustomed to the flat plains and rolling hills of the Midwest. Each morning, waking up to that breathtaking scene was like living in a dream.

After completing the soldering job, they asked me to stay on and take charge of mixing audio for the shows. Wait, what? I was now running audio for an off-Broadway live theater production?! Working alongside Jamie the Wizard for ten to twelve hours daily? It was the best opportunity I’d ever had, and it barely felt like work at all. It was pure enjoyment.

I found amusement in Jamie's daring antics, like standing atop a twenty-foot step ladder and making it “hop-walk” from one spot to another. Perhaps not the safest of moves, but Jamie was truly a shining star of the theater. The resort was a massive complex with golf courses, tennis courts, and boat docks situated between Lake Placid and the smaller Mirror Lake.

On the other side of Mirror Lake was a charming bar and restaurant with a deck overlooking the water. Most of my dinners were spent staring at the water and mountains while sitting on the outside deck. It's here I was introduced to a new kind of beer, Canadian-born Molson Red. It was a delightful discovery because every bar back in Missouri served the same four or five Anheuser-Busch brews, and they all tasted the same—light and devoid of flavor. The Molson had a unique character and a robust taste that just hit differently.

Life was humming along smoothly. My new job was too good to be true, and the acceptance I felt seemed genuine. Every day, I delved deep into the theater world, a first for me, working closely with the vibrant and flamboyant cast in conjunction with Jamie and the director, basking in their seemingly endless energy. Surprisingly, I even caught the eye of one or two performers, adding a spicy twist to the mix. Everybody seemed to be having a good time.

About a month into this unbelievable whirlwind, reality came knocking. The measly $5 per hour they tossed my way wasn't cutting it. While this was the best job of my life, I couldn’t exist on the salary. My basic expenses, like food and lodging, were draining my monetary reserves, and my railroad stash was dwindling fast.

Then came the theater's double booking, forcing us to take the production outdoors for a weekend, and that meant extra work. I crunched the numbers and seized the moment, asking for a raise. I needed a solid ten dollars an hour to keep my head above water and survive. Period.

With determination in my veins, I discussed my dilemma with Jamie, and he agreed to ask the higher-ups for a raise. When he returned with an offer of $7.50, my frustration reached a crescendo. I urged Jamie, in no uncertain terms—and probably with some off-color language—to deliver my message: I wasn’t negotiating. I couldn't survive on their offer. It was either ten an hour or I would quit.

I thought he’d have my back and explain that I couldn’t afford anything less, how good an employee I was, and how valuable I’d become to the theater. I guess I didn’t expect Jamie to repeat the colorful language I had used when relaying my demands. I thought we were buddies and he’d leave my rudeness out of it. But the unthinkable happened. I got fired.

And that marked the bitter end of my time at the Lake Placid Club Resort. It was the best and most exhilarating job I'd ever had, and I’d had a lot. Compared to working on the railroad, it offered me a vision of the person I could become. To add insult to injury, out of nowhere I got sick. Real sick. It knocked me off my feet and down into a rabbit hole of uncertainty.

I was twenty-three and I still had my tonsils. They were swollen to the size of large avocados. I was lying in bed when I noticed a red rash starting at the ends of my fingertips. Over the next couple of hours, I watched it grow until it covered my arms, then engulfed my entire body. It was now Sunday morning. No doctor’s offices were open, so I drove myself to the hospital. The diagnosis was Scarlatina, the younger cousin of Scarlet Fever, and the fix was a heavy dose of antibiotics.

So here it was, six a.m. on Sunday morning, and as luck would have it, on the five-minute drive home from the hospital, while making a right turn, my driver's-side front wheel detached itself from the broken axle—my car’s big middle finger for the damage I’d done driving over that gravel embankment at the beach in Canada. I was fucked.

Weakened by what seemed like the plague, I struggled to find a phone and call a tow truck. Somehow, I found one with intact Yellow Pages—the business part of an old-time phone book—and got someone to answer. Fortunately for me, the driver turned out to be another angel who gave me a ride back to my house and then dropped my car at a repair shop. After the two-hour diversion, I was able to crawl back into bed with a fistful of medicine and fall asleep.

On the second or third day of my sleep stupor, I heard voices outside my room's door. A man's voice asked if I was home, and the house host answered that she wasn’t sure because she hadn’t seen me in a couple of days. I heard a knock and replied with a crackling voice, “Come in.”

The door opened, and there stood my good friend Pete, who had hitchhiked all the way from Columbia, Missouri, to hang out with me. Seeing him was the most surreal serendipity I’ll ever remember. Had I not gotten sick and had my car not lost a wheel, I would have been long gone, and he would have traveled twelve hundred miles to find an empty room.

Food and antibiotics did their jobs, and I was quickly back on my feet, but unfortunately, my car wasn’t on its wheels yet. So Pete and I killed time by listening to the radio. That’s when we heard the news of a Genesis concert nearby at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center, a mere stone's throw away—or so it seemed to us. Genesis is one of my favorite bands, and I’d never seen them live. Pete thought it sounded like an excellent idea, so we set off to see the show, which turned out to be two hours away.

We had no car, but we did have our thumbs. We finally got to the main highway, but we couldn’t catch a ride. Both of us had been hitchhiking for over ten years, so this was unacceptable. I'm not sure whose idea it was, but we were desperate, so I climbed onto Pete’s shoulders and we both stuck out our thumbs. It must have been quite a spectacle because only three or four cars passed before someone pulled over and picked us up. They took us all the way to the concert venue.

We were able to buy tickets on-site and were milling about before heading inside. Pete had experimented with acid previously and suggested we needed some for the show. He spotted someone selling and bought a microdot. He managed to cut it in two, and then we marched inside to get our minds blown by Genesis.

Not sure if it was just the music or the added psychedelic, but the show was out of this world. I’ll never forget the purple and green lights used on stage. They kind of mimicked the Northern Lights and the Mardi Gras colors and became my all-time favorite color combination.

Somewhere close to midnight, we were still buzzing when the last note of the last encore was played. Somehow, we found our way back to the highway and stuck out our thumbs again. This time, we got picked up by a single lady a couple of years older than us. Why she picked us up, I couldn’t tell you, but she did, and she was great.

We explained our situation and that we needed to get back to Lake Placid. She wasn’t going that far, but for some reason she thought it would be okay to let us sleep at her house. I don’t remember her name, but for me she was Angel #3. We were like, okay, thinking one of us might get lucky, but everything turned out to be very innocent. The next day, she gave us breakfast and a ride back to the highway.

Finally, the repaired car was just like new, so the logical route should have been homeward. Yet logic often bows to spontaneity when you’re young, and with all my talk of the beauty of Canada, Pete thought he deserved a sampling.

It just so happened that an earlier chance encounter in a Lake Placid laundromat had introduced me to a striking individual named Sophie Marie, a mirror image of a younger Stevie Nicks who lived in Montreal. So northward we went.

All I can remember is that we found Sophie living with her mother somewhere in Montreal. We were just hanging out in her apartment, talking and listening to music on the radio, when once again we heard about a rock concert. This one was massive, and it was taking place in Southern California over Labor Day weekend—just one week away. We all looked at each other and said, “Let’s go!”

Sophie Marie wrote her mom a note saying something like, “I’ve gone to California. See you when I get back!” Sophie brought along a backpack, and we all hopped into my car. At one point, in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere Canada, Sophie and I jumped into the back seat to get some “sleep” while Pete drove. Later, Pete said he got nervous because he kept hearing a thumping noise and was afraid the front wheel was going to fall off again. Then he realized the noise wasn’t coming from the front of the car.

Pete had called ahead and talked his girlfriend into going on the trip with us. So we drove the 1,200 miles from Montreal to Columbia, Missouri, in record time. We swapped cars to give mine a rest, piled into Pete’s VW Bug, and started the drive to California. Somewhere in the middle of Kansas, we figured out we weren't going to make it in time to see the show. I was in it just for the adventure, but the others wanted to make the concert. So we drove to Denver, parked the car, and boarded a jet.

We landed in LA and then took a bus to San Bernardino to get to the US Festival. As we walked up to the entrance gate carrying our backpacks and sleeping bags, we heard the music start to play. We had made it just as the festival started.

For the next three days, we were in musical nirvana. Opening day was Punk/New Wave, with bands including The Ramones, Talking Heads, and The Police. Being in Southern California was hot—so hot they had water cannons spraying the crowd and portable outdoor showers set up in the back of the audience. Enormous video screens flanked both sides and the top of the stage, which back then was cutting-edge.

We ate food from vendors, smoked weed, and ate a few mushrooms. At night, most of the crowd left, but hundreds of us just wandered off into the scrub brush and slept under the stars. We had made it all the way across the country and were having the time of our lives. On Sunday morning, we had breakfast with the Grateful Dead, and then the day ended with Fleetwood Mac, Stevie Nicks floating and pirouetting across the stage. It was a surreal experience within a surreal experience.

Then reality smacked us in the face. The festival was over, and we had no exit plan. While walking out with throngs of people, Pete suggested we split up, thinking it might be easier for two people to get a ride instead of four. We could rendezvous back in LA to coordinate a strategy for getting back to Denver or Missouri or Montreal.

Then he just started yelling at the crowd, “Can anyone give us a ride back to LA?” Almost immediately, I heard this guy say, “If you can help me clean out my van, I can give you a lift.” At which point I said, “You got room for four?” And he said, “Yes!”

Turned out our new friend, Arte, was a photographer covering the show. He was staying at a friend's apartment in LA, and he said we could all crash there until we figured out a new plan for getting home. A true gift from the rock-and-roll gods.

Arte turned out to be one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. Not only did he let us stay at his friend's apartment, he fed us and gave us a tour of LA, taking pictures of us the whole time. He knew I was interested in video production, so we visited his friend's production studio for a tour. He took us to Mulholland Drive at night for an excellent picture of the four of us with the lights of LA in the background. We couldn’t have asked for a better outcome.

At this point, the four of us were all short of cash, so flying back wasn’t an option. It looked like we were destined to take a bus and/or hitchhike. Our options weren’t great. Then, out of the blue, Arte suggested that he might let us drive his ’67 Volvo station wagon.

We were like, “Wait, what?” He said he could use a car on the East Coast since he had an aunt in Boston. So we jumped at the chance. The next day, we packed up his car and took off. We stopped along the way to marvel at Bryce Canyon and played the slots in Las Vegas before making it back to Denver, where we picked up Pete's car from the airport.

Sophie Marie and I drove to St. Louis, where we stayed a couple of days with a friend. And then it was time. I was supposed to take Sophie Marie back to Montreal and leave the car somewhere on the East Coast for Arte. But I had run out of gas—emotionally, physically, and mentally.

With little finesse and no excuses, I bought Sophie a bus ticket. I’m sure to this day she’s still pissed. The car—well, Arte never got it back, a transgression for which I’m eternally ashamed.

And that’s how I spent the summer of ’82.