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“How in the world did we wind up here doing this?” Mary Ann asked, laying her hat carefully in the hat case and soliciting my help in removing the rest of her costume. With my top hat still perched upon my head I happily obliged.
“I know exactly how we got here,” I replied. “You lured me into this with promises of … What was it that you promised me?”
“I promised so many things I can’t remember them all,” she said coyly, “but I can tell you what I’m promising tonight. I’m promising that if you’ll pack those cases and load them into the bus I’ll make something for us to eat on the road.”
“Are we leaving tonight?”
“Well, don’t you think we should? We’re all done here, and whenever we finish up in a place you know it always feels safer after we’re down the road a little bit. I thought we might drive a hundred miles or so before stopping for the night. Far enough to know we’re alone, anyway.”
“I guess we can. I just thought… this being a special day and all… I guess I was hoping we could…”
“It’s not your birthday yet, Prentice. You’re birthday’s not until tomorrow, but I’ll tell you what… If I help you load up the bus we’ll have time to make it to that sandwich shop that sells the stromboli before they close. I’ll run in and get a giant stromboli, and I’ll feed it to you while you drive.”
“Can I bite your finger?” I asked jokingly.
“Not unless you’re in costume, and you aren’t driving with that hat on!”
It was the evening of March 9, 1973, and we were beginning the third month of our two year travels across America in our VW bus. We had been in Pittsburgh all week. We weren’t sure where we’d be tomorrow, but we were going to drive in the general direction of Indianapolis. Things had worked out better in Pittsburgh than we had hoped, and I figured I had enough cash in my pocket to keep us moving for at least a month.
American Indian Movement militants were entering their tenth day of a standoff with government agents at Wounded Knee, that place where U.S. troops slaughtered 300 Sioux in 1890. Across the Atlantic, militants from the Irish Republican Army had detonated two deadly bombs in London, injuring 150 and doing heavy damage to several London landmarks. The night was quiet in western Pennsylvania as we drove west on old U.S. 30, laying low on the back roads and staying off the Interstate.
“You know, I’ll bet if we got arrested, this would be the picture they’d put in the newspapers,” Mary Ann laughed as she turned on the glove box light and studied the photo of us taken earlier in the week, me in my top hat and cape and she in her fancy hat. “It’s the one Walter Cronkite would be showing on the evening news. They’d probably call us the TFL, Transylvanian Liberation Front, or something!”
“If we get stopped tonight we’re really in trouble! It looks like a mass murder has taken place in this bus, I’ve got so much tomato sauce on my shirt from that stromboli,” I responded.
“I checked before we left, and the tail lights are all working. You’re not speeding, so nobody’s got any reason to stop us tonight,” Mary Ann asserted. “When we stop I’ll wash that shirt and see if I can get the stain out.
“You know,” she continued, “if we ever do that again you’re gonna need a bigger hat.” Still examining the photo, she was clearly amused. “It sits on top of your head like…,” she broke into laughter.
‘Don’t worry about it. We’re never gonna do that again,” I assured her, amused myself at the trouble I’d had keeping that top hat on my head all week. “That was one of those things you do once.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was pretty ingenious. Do you know what time it is?” Mary Ann asked, closing the glove box and slipping the small photo into her purse. “As of two hours ago it’s your birthday. It’s almost two o’clock, I think we’ve gone far enough to stop for the night, and I’m ready to make some more promises.”
“Promise you won’t ever show that picture to anyone?” I asked.
“I promise you’ll never see it again unless you see it on the news!”
A few months later Mary Ann bought a small, decorative frame for the picture at a flea market somewhere in Michigan. Years later she sat the little photo on her desk at the office. When people would comment on the photo and ask why we were dressed up in those get-ups, she would make up stories to explain the picture. She always got a laugh out of it, and she always enjoyed telling me about the stories she’d told.
Tomorrow is my birthday, and Mary Ann has already announced that she’s ready to make some more promises. Like every birthday since that night in 1973, I’ve asked for stromboli, and a few other simple things as well.
“Can I bite your finger?” I always ask.
“Only if you wear that hat,” she always replies.
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Holi Celebration!
Happiness has entered my world – I’m getting back on your VW bus. Thanks Prentice for letting us join you and Mary Ann on the ride across America…and happy, happy birthday!