chp 5 pt 2 "travellin' man"

chp 5 pt 2 "travellin' man"

I was a loner so it was just a matter of time before I discovered "mystic stuff." Long before reading Carlos Castanea and Lobsang Rampa I invented "my ritual magic". When I'd done something I thought of as "shameful" I'd draw a straight line across a footpath, make my mind blank (to symbolize being newly born) and step (right foot first) across the line. Any past trauma was labeled "dues paid" and buried in my subconscious. Then I'd step across the line a braver and more interesting person.

 

With Tom Yobbo's 30 bucks I hitched up to Taree on the Manning River and bought a bucket (to protect sleeping bag and transistor radio from my night swim) and breast-stroked out to a moored half-cabin motorboat. After untying a canvas covering I slid into the boat and dried out. .

"No one will know I’m here." If I needed to pee I used a tin can then tipped it over the side. My shitting was done at night, over the side.

 

Ravenous mosquitoes sensed my warm-blood from 100 metres so I was quick.

My boat was cramped, hot and uncomfortable but I pretended I was down in Louisiana, a teenage Huck Finn, surrounded by alligators. Or hiding out, a escapee from a chain gang. At night under a canopy of stars I'd play my trusty transistor radio, volume down low. Laying there rocked by the river, I mused,

"I'm the luckiest man in the world."

 

After 2 days on the boat I got hungry and headed for shore.

A few more rides got me to Macksville, another river-town where a cop questioned me, but finding I was not a wanted outlaw, he let me camp 2 days on the riverbank.

 

Finally, after three nights in old wooden grandstands of two small towns I made it to Brisbane and had enough money left to stay 2 days at the Peoples' Palace hotel. Every capital city had a 'palace’. They were cheap and patronized by conservative types, farmers visiting town and recovering nut cases.

Enigmatic lonely lost souls (like me) roamed the stark hallways and fed change into coin-operated TVs in empty communal lounge rooms. Some levels were "for women only". Sad faced men in Salvation Army uniforms dusted severe "no alcohol allowed" signs.

 

Freshly bathed I'd slip naked between clean cotton sheets and lie secure and warm knowing tomorrow would throw something good in my lap. Even now when I hit the sack I meditate on the luxury of having a bed.

Back in '62, young and invincible, I played juke boxes ,gambled at racetracks and visited noble rundown old movie theatres .When my money ran out I hitched north to Mackay to visit poor old Uncle Edgar who hiccupped every 20 seconds.

 

I went via Toowoomba. Back when I was 12 my grandparents had taken me there to visit relatives. My cousins tried teaching me to tackle rugby union style but I didn't like it. I showed them how to drop kick properly but they thought Aussie rules sissy. This visit I sweltered in the humidity and trudged around trying to find their house. Night fell and everything cooled. Lost and faint with hunger I found a sports field. It had no grandstand so I flaked out in the middle where street lights didn't reach. The dark made me feel safer. I awoke to find a Ford V8 doing unmuffled figure 8s around me 30 inches from my head. Scurrying away into the night I walked until I came to a nice bus shelter. I stretched out on a bench 'til dawn.

 

Something happened next day that made me sad. As I waited to cross the street a big beefy bloke pointed me out to his pal and roared,

"Look at the bloody front row forward !"They laughed and passed from sight. I felt freakishly thin. A feeling of inferiority took root and I imagined the whole world thought the same. Hopes of attracting a girl dissolved for two days .On the 3rd I drew a line on the pavement, stepped over it and began life again.

Back on the highway I saw other hitchers. Since leaving Adelaide I'd seen only two, but in Qld even mums with kids were on the road. Every 100 miles I'd see someone new. We picked up an AWOL army bloke and a woman with a baby heading home to mum after a fight with her man. My next hitch was a misery guts salesman who couldn't understand how I could stand being without a job. As I got out he tried to feel me up so I slapped him on the side of his head: but not hard.

 

Thumbing through the tropics was exhilarating. Ducking through a farm fence I broke off a sugar cane stalk and sucked the juice. In '62 all Aussie states had different radio and TV stations, newspapers, beer, milk, ice-cream and soft drinks. Crossing a border was like entering a new country. I got a ride in a red and white Ford Thunderbird convertible that seemed to bounce along in slow motion. It felt like we were flying. The guy yelled

"It’s got brand new shocky springs!"

 

The car was just like Elvis drove in "Loving You" and I was thrilled to go so fast. The highway was only two lanes and when we passed cars on blind corners I'd tighten my gut muscles to prepare for the crash. Praying sincerely to Buddha I readied my soul for death promising to be less selfish if I lived. The speeding T-bird let me out at Mackay with renewed awareness of how smashing it was not to be mangled and dying.

 

In Queensland you need a sleeping bag or weird tropical bugs crawl up your nostrils and cane toads sit on your face. I turned 18 just as I reached Mackay. I'd planned to stay with uncle "hiccups" Edgar and eat for a week: but when I knocked at the door my aunt must've been scared by my scruffy appearance. She told me,

"Uncle Edgar's much too sick to see anyone. Sorry, but you can't stay."

Too proud to ask for food I went south to Sarina but couldn't find my other uncle's place so I headed for home. Hitching was easy in the 60s when there were no freeways. Cars had room on the road verge to stop and pick up. It took only 7 hungry days to get to Adelaide and knock on granny's door. She was happy to have me back and I promised her I'd get a job.

 

While composing the synopsis for this tome I thought I'd discovered Kerouac while in jail: but it was before that. I saw a "The Dharma Bums" paperback in a book stall and, having heard he was "beat", actually paid money for it. The pages inflamed an unquenchable yearning to join those crazy wild dharma lovin' bums. But first I had to find some.

 

When I had the price of a coffee I'd bop down the stairs of the Jazz Cellar in Grenfell Place. There the cats might've been cool and the musicians with it but no-one spoke to me and, as I wanted to appear "far out", I never talked either.

One night after the Cellar closed I followed a sax player through early morning back alleys thinking he might lead me to some communal pad where the cats would dig me. I'd been half-heartedly trying to teach myself to play a small flute. Following at a distance through the silent morn I began blowing the one tune I (almost) knew. Keeping out sight I haltingly blew "Maria" from "West Side Story". If that muso's alive I'd love to know what he thought that night. He kept stopping and looking around. I think his was the first mind I ever blew.

 

My alienation came from lack of communication skills. I never instigated a conversation. Unaware of this I thought "squareness of society" was the cause of my loneliness: but I never gave up hope my dreams would happen. It was just a matter of when and where.

 

A week later, as I sun baked on granny’s front porch, the local police sergeant called me over to his car and told me to get in the back. Handing me a John Martin's store sales docket he asked, "do you remember signing this?" I denied everything but next day I fronted court and was given 3 months for larceny as a servant. I wouldn't say who'd received the suits. In those days the Adelaide Advertiser printed details (with names) of every court appearance. Laurie and Joe must have s**t themselves when they read I'd been busted.-------end of chpt--------