James Chase: There’s a Hippie on the Highway

Harry shrugged. The journey ahead of him was beginning to lose some of its anticipated pleasure.

‘Paradise City is about a hundred miles from Miami, isn’t it?’

‘About that. That’ll give you around two hundred from Orangeville. You take the dirt roads. I’ve got a map you can have.’

An hour later, Bentz, who had been talking most of the time about the Government, sport, his wife and the latest moon shot which he thought was one hell of a way to waste money, slowed the truck and turned off the highway onto a secondary road.

‘Nearly there,’ he said. ‘A couple of miles more for me. Just ahead is your road.’ He indicated a narrow dirt road that led off the secondary road and went winding through forestland. He pulled up. ‘You’ll have some extra walking but you could pick up a ride. Farmers use this road, but watch out. Nowhere is really safe in this district.’ He took a map from a rack in front of him. ‘It’s nice country, a little swampy now and then, and there are snakes.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t imagine they’ll worry you after where you’ve been.’ He reached up again and took from the rack an Indian Club. ‘Take this. I’ve got its brother. It’s a mighty nice weapon... you never know; you might need it.’

Harry shook his head.

‘Thanks all the same. I won’t need it.’

‘Take it,’ Bentz urged. ‘You don’t know what you might need.’ He pushed the club into Harry’s hand. ‘Well, so long... have sun and fun.’

The two men shook hands.

‘Thanks for the ride,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll look out for you on my way back. I don’t reckon to stay longer than a couple of months.’ He swung himself to the ground. A little self-consciously, he pushed the club into his rucksack and then hoisted the rucksack onto his shoulders.

‘Do that,’ Bentz said, grinning. ‘I’m here Mondays and Thursdays all through the season. Ask anyone at Orangeville for Sam Bentz They’ll tell you where to find me. I’ll be glad to give you a ride back. Maybe we’ll have time to talk about your war... it kind of interests me.’

Harry smiled.

‘That’s more than it does me. Well, see you, and thanks again.’

As the truck started, he waved and then set off down the dirt road with long swinging strides.

The dusty, winding road was deserted. Harry walked for five hot miles without seeing anyone or any car. Coming to a shady forest of eucalyptus trees, he left the road, sat down with his back to a tree and lit a cigarette. He studied the map Bentz had given him. The road he was on wound for some ten miles to a fork: the left branch led back to the highway; the other to a small town called Little Orangeville. The road beyond this town continued on through forestland to another town called Yellow Acres. Harry calculated he had about twenty miles to walk before he hit Yellow Acres. He decided to spend the night there.

He set off again. After three hard fighting years in the Army, he was in first class trim and full of energy. He looked forward to the walk.

Around 13.00 hours, he sat down under the shade of a tree on the roadside and ate an egg and tomato sandwich and drank a lukewarm Coke. He lit a cigarette, and as he was getting to his feet, he heard a car approaching. Looking to his right, he saw a police car turning the bend and heading towards him.

Two massively built cops were in the car, and when the driver saw Harry, he accelerated and skidded the car to a standstill right beside him. The car doors slammed open and the two men slid out. The non-driver, over six foot in height, with a red fleshy face and small cop eyes planted himself in front of Harry. The driver, a younger man, but with a similar fleshy, red face and hard eyes, hung back, his hand on the butt of his holstered gun.

‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ the older cop barked.

Harry saw the sergeant’s stripes on the cop’s sleeve.

‘Just walking,’ he said mildly.

‘Yeah?’ The Sergeant’s eyes ran over Harry’s short-sleeved shirt, over his neat khaki drill slacks with the knife-edge crease, over his new, but dusty walking shoes. He relaxed a little.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Harry Mitchell.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘New York.’

‘Got any papers?’

Harry unbuttoned his shirt pocket and took out his Army discharge papers, his driving license and his passport. He handed them over.

The Sergeant examined the discharge papers, then squinted at Harry.

‘Just back, huh? Paratrooper, huh?’ He suddenly grinned in a friendly way. ‘I bet you had a little fun out there, Sergeant.’

‘You might call it that,’ Harry said quietly. ‘I don’t.’

The Sergeant handed him back his papers.

‘Where are you heading for?’

‘Paradise City.’

‘That’s a step. Are you walking because you have to or because you like walking?’

The good-natured expression on Harry’s face began to fade. He was getting bored by these questions.

‘Is that any of your business, Sergeant?’ he asked, looking directly into the hard cop eyes.

‘Yes, it’s my business. Anyone we find heading South without money, we haul in. You got any money?’

‘Yes, I’ve got money: two hundred and ten dollars,’ Harry said, ‘and I like walking.’

The Sergeant nodded.

‘Got a job waiting for you in Paradise City?’

‘No, but I’ll find one. I don’t reckon to stay more than two months: a job’s waiting for me in New York.’

The Sergeant nodded.

‘You may not believe it,’ he said in a more relaxed conversational tone, ‘but this district is about as unhealthy and as dangerous as your paddy fields in Vietnam.’

Harry shifted restlessly like a man restraining his impatience only out of politeness.

‘You think so? But then you haven’t been in my paddy fields as you call them while I’ve been on your roads for the past two days. I think there’s a little exaggeration going on about this district. Frankly, I’m not worried.’

The Sergeant sighed and lifted his heavy shoulders.

‘A couple of hours back,’ he said, ‘five youngsters, one of them a girl, stopped at a farm about five miles back. They stole three chickens and a transistor radio. There were four grown men on the farm. They saw these kids take the chickens and they saw them walk into the farmhouse and take the radio. None of these four grown men did anything about it. They let the kids do what they did and when they had gone, they called us. I said they did right to have left these kids alone. If and when I catch up with them I’m going to talk to them with a gun in my fist... that’s the only way to talk to them. I guess the only way to talk to the Viet Cong is also to keep a gun in your fist. No, I wouldn’t say there’s any exaggeration in this district: that’s the last thing I would say.’

Harry’s blue eyes suddenly flashed with anger.

‘Just what the hell is going on in this country since I’ve been away?’ he said half to himself. ‘What makes grown men scared of dirty, boneless kids?’

The Sergeant cocked his head on one side as he regarded Harry.

‘Things change even in three years. What you’ve forgotten is we have a dope problem in this country which keeps escalating. Most of these kids heading south are hop heads. They really believe they are ten times larger than life. They will do things they wouldn’t dream of doing if they weren’t stoned. Folk around here know that. They don’t want to get maimed or cut or put in a hospital just when it is picking time. You remember that, Sergeant. Watch out for these kids, keep clear of them and don’t try anything heroic. I wouldn’t like to think your first vacation after three years could get spoilt. You don’t want to spend the next two months in a hospital bed, do you?’ He turned to his companion. ‘Okay, Jackson, let’s go.’ Nodding to Harry, he got back into the police car.