Finally, the time came for us to leave England. We had visited every place we wanted to see, north, east, south and west. We were to meet Greg and Shirley in Dover the next day. That’s when we got cocky. We were seasoned hitch-hikers, we knew how to pick a safe ride and how to avoid trouble. Just an hour from Dover, what could go wrong?
A little man in a little car pulled up next to us and motioned for us to get in. With a big broad smile that covered his face, we felt pretty safe. Charles opened the front door for me, then sat in the back seat with our back-packs. About one mile into the trip, we knew we’d made a mistake. The little man had a strong Scottish accent and an even stronger smell of alcohol on his breath.
“Well, yi goddamned little yanks, pollutin’ ar land whaerer y go. I’m gonna take ye fir a ride yi won’t soon forgit.” I turned back to see Charles eyes mirror the horror in mine. The little man laughed a wicked, evil laugh when he saw our fear. Separately we contemplated throwing ourselves from the car, then he slammed the gas pedal down to the floor. We braced ourselves for the ride in hell. Quickly, we flew from southern England all the way to the top. We knew the face of prejudice, but only in the form of rejection. We weren’t prepared for the violence.
Charles tried his inimitable softness of speech. I cried. Charles tried reasoning. I begged. We both did everything we could conjure up. But we were the GODDAMNED YANKS. We could not neutralize the poisons behind this act of violence. The only thing we had on our side was time. We knew that his car would eventually run out of gas or crash. He hadn’t shown a gun or a knife. But where was he taking us?
In a little town called Carlisle, on the border of Scotland, the little man slammed the car up against a stout stone wall and screamed at us to get out. My mind flashed on the fact that he was a lot less drunk now and finally conscious of his actions. He was letting us go. We stumbled, fumbling for our packs, but before we could even take a breath of relief, we realized he had thrown us into the horror he had planned.
Carlisle, we were about to learn, was notorious for its boot-kickers. They were bald-headed, angry young men who traveled in gangs. They were the self-appointed problem solvers, who were getting rid of the hippie on their shores. They encircled us. My whole life flooded my brain with pictures. This was it, this was how I was going to die. Charles attempted a few neutralizing tactics, but it only raised their ire. Thank god he didn’t try the Thed trick. Then, for the first time, Charles and I touched. We wrapped our bodies close in an effort to form a human shield.
Across the street, three elderly women, bent from many years and strong with courage, pushed their way through the circling gang, scowling and yelling and brandishing their umbrellas. If they had been middle aged or younger, we would all be dead. But their age and sureness made the boys back down. Like cocky but frightened little dogs, they growled and left the scene slowly, never showing their backs. The women took us to a safe home on the outskirts of the town where we stayed while trying to locate Greg and Shirley, to notify them of what had happened.
When offered a housekeeping job in the home where we were staying, I accepted. My spirit of adventure had temporarily diminished. After finding Greg, Charles and he left for the Continent and Shirley went back to school.
Eventually, Shirley and I took up hitch-hiking again. We traveled through several countries, experiencing some wonderful adventures then headed for Switzerland. We were walking up a deserted road in the Alps when I spotted someone walking toward us a couple of miles in the distance.
“Shirley, I think it is a man.” We had learned to be always cautiously fearful.
“You’re right. And isn’t that a black hat he’s wearing?”
“Oh, my. Could it be Charles?”
When I was sure enough to not make a fool of myself, I dropped my back pack and ran. Fate had thrown us together again!
We rented a room in the chalet where Charles was living. This time, however, things were very different. His looks had not changed, but his demeanor was different. He asked me to dinner soon after we arrived. We traveled to Vilar and walked into a restaurant and were led to a table where an old man was sitting. As the man arose to greet us, Charles made the introductions.
“Bobbe, I’d like you to meet Peter.”
The man read the confusion on my face as our eyes locked momentarily.
“Please sit down. I know you are wondering what this is all about.” Peter slowly and deliberately spelled it out.
“I am a…. I am his…. I…. I look out for Charles.”
“What do you mean, you look out for Charles? You mean like a body guard?”
“Well, of sorts.”
Together they told me what I already suspected. Charles was no ordinary fellow. Not then, but later, I wondered where Peter was throughout our many ordeals in England. In my mind I asked many questions, but to Charles and Peter I remained silent, listening. My head was spinning and my heart was pounding. I felt small and inconsequential. My reaction was to get the hell out of Switzerland, get the hell out of Europe, get the hell away from Charles, as far as I could get. Abruptly, my European travels ended. I went home.
Three months after I returned home, Charles called me from somewhere in the Orient. He said he was ready to go home and asked if he could stop in Los Angeles to see me first. He wanted help cleaning up before he presented himself to his parents. He could not go home looking like a hippy. It had been a long time since they had seen him. I couldn’t say no, even though it killed me to have him see how I lived. We cut his hair and bought new clothes, throwing away every remnant of our travels and our life together. Every few years we reconnect, but never in person. Once, last year, I called him and he said he was looking at my picture on his desk. We planned to meet for breakfast while I was traveling near where he was going to be, but I could not do it.
There is an ugly prejudice among us, one that turns us against ourselves. May you never experience it, or any kind of prejudice, for that matter.
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