In 1967 I was driving my old Ford station wagon up 101 from San Francisco on a rainy summer night. It was one of those heavy Northern California storms where the wipers can’t keep up and it’s all you can do to stay in your lane. I was on my way to Eureka to spend the weekend with some friends and as I came around a corner on that dark, wet highway I saw a figure standing soaked on the shoulder with one hand holding down his straw hat and the other with a thumb out. I thought my god, it wasn’t fit for man nor beast to be out in that kind of weather so I pulled over to give the poor soul a ride. He picked up a battered guitar case and an old army surplus duffel bag off of the wet pavement and ran to my car. He opened the back door and tossed his stuff inside, slammed the door shut then hopped in the front with a relieved sigh. I asked his name and where he was heading and he replied that his name was Gary and he was hitching his way up to Eugene to join a group that was going to protest the Vietnam war the next weekend. I looked over my shoulder at his gear in the back. A peace sign was stitched to the duffel bag laying next to the pawn shop guitar and I realized that I’d picked up a fucking hippie. God damn it, I’d never get rid of him. I looked over at Gary as we pulled back onto the highway, at his long hair spilling out from under that dumb old straw hat. He was quite a bit older than me but he had a sparkle that said he had a much younger spirit than most middle aged men had in the sixties. We chatted about the war, about music, about our lives. He disagreed with just about everything I said but he kept most of his judgements to himself. After some time he pulled an old cigarette case out of jacket pocket and selected a fat joint from inside of it. We passed it back and forth as we drove. Then another, and another. Soon the rain came down even harder and we pulled over into a gravel lot to wait out the storm. We were high, and relaxed. Feeling more at ease with each other. The next thing I knew we were kissing and touching each other. We moved to the back of the wagon. Gary unzipped his duffel bag and pulled out the largest dildo I had ever seen. It was the size of my forearm and fist! I told him there was no way I could handle that thing. He said it wasn’t for me, it was for him. Then he handed it to me. I worked it into him, then buried it. Gary was electrified with it. It was sickening and exhilarating at the same time. Afterwards, without a word, we moved back to the front seat and continued on our way, eventually we passed an all night diner and he asked to be let out. I never saw him again but I think about him all these years later. I actually found him on Facebook. He’s an old man now, living in San Diego.
