Kingman Arizona is not a place to be. It is hot, dry, brown and the main drag is the Andy Devine Blvd. (You will have to Google Andy Devine to fully appreciate the name). The town sits on the border of California and I40. Trucks and cars go through at what ever speed they choose, chancing getting a ticket for any excessive speed. If a truck of car should stop, it is to gas up, get food, or sleep for the night. It was the getting of food in Kingman that brought me back to when I was14 or 15 years old.
That memory came to me at Denny's coffee shop on the east side of Kingman while having breakfast with Carol, We were on our way to Albuquerque and as we sat there, I stared out the window; I recognized that road and knew I had been there before. It brought a flood of memories of when I had stood there those many years ago. The street was the old Route 66 and the time was in the middle 1950's
Experiencing my youth and getting in trouble with my friend Bob was my purpose in the 1950's. Of course, being in our mid-teens, we were not that bright (some think that has not changed). That being the case, on one warm summer day Bob and I decided that we should go to Kingman to see his mother. How in the hell, two teenagers would get there was our first decision point after agreement that such a journey was what we needed and noting that we barely had five dollars between us.
Again, this was the 1950's, before freeways and hitchhiking still had some legitimacy. So we started in San Gabriel, where we lived, on what was then Route 66, "the mother road"; the road that was traveled by Steinbeck's Tom Jode. Route 66 was the road of migrants during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. We were the anti-migrants, we were going east and we had our act together.
With our thumbs out, we stood on the "Mother Road" with that nonchalance that only teens have. We got lucky right away. We caught a ride to Barstow, a major segment that made life easy (keep in mind that this first leg was about 100 or so miles). From there we got a series of rides through such towns as Ludlow, Siberia, lets not forget Bagdad, Amboy and of course Needles. Today many of these towns are just a railroad signs and forgotten as the interstate system marked their fate. Finally we reach our destination, Kingman.
Stumbling around Kingman and asking where Bob's mother lived (he had a piece of paper with the address written on and would flash it to some hapless resident we would encounter) we managed to find the place, but his mother was not at home. We conned the manager of the bungalows (that's was what passed for apartments back then). We immediately went to the "fridge" for what ever was there to eat. After eating we waited for his mother to come home. She never did.
After about 3 days and eating everything that was there we decide we had to go. Where, was not something we gave much thought to, we just knew we had to go. So the next morning Bob suggested that we go back to the east side of Kingman on Route 66 and let luck decide where. The method for invoking luck was that he would stand of the north side of the highway (heading west) and I would stand on the south side (going east). Which ever one of us that got a ride first, that would be the direction we would go.
It was one of those clear mornings without any wind and dust. The desert heat was coming up slowly and you could see forever. On this morning while looking at forever I had my first encounter with existential angst (not that I would know what that was for some years). Not knowing what was out there, looking at the horizon (there is nothing a lonely as the desert) fear and that angst knotted in my stomach. I had no idea what Bob was experiencing and frankly didn't give a damn as I was trying to keep my cool. We stood there for about an hour. I think it was the longest hour of my life.
Heading into Kingman, came a car with three teen girls. They stopped for Bob and I ran over to the other side of the road to join up with him. As I ran, I was not sure if it was relief at knowing we were heading back west and home or the fact that we were meeting "some chicks" the gave me such a rush. Whatever it was it was good. Bob, me and "the chicks" went back into town and being a couple of guys we of course tried to hustle the girls (we were from L.A., a big city was our pitch). We managed to get them to buy us lunch and later they got some beer and we all went back to the bungalow to enjoy the rest of the day (Bob's mother never did come home, maybe she knew and was trying to avoid us).
As I sat at the Denny's having my breakfast all of that came back to me as if it was yesterday. My big adventure that today would not be possible. I do know that it is part of me and I still quietly laugh thinking about how foolish the young can be. I was no Holden Caufield, just some punk kid from San Gabriel, California who knew there was something out there for him to know.
This story will continue soon with our return to San Gabriel . Be sure and tune in.
