Having left Austin, Rodney and I headed North toward Dallas for one of the most interesting travelling experiences of my life. Our first ride was from two of the biggest Mexican guys I had ever seen. They drove an old Buick Electra and they sat shoulder to shoulder, that's how big they were- they took up the whole front seat. And, they didn't speak a word of English...they just nodded and smiled. They kept saying something that sounded like "Horton." Rodney and I looked at each other in puzzlement and nodded and smiled. There was no way I wanted to piss these guys off. As it turned out, they were heading to Georgetown, which is a ways North of Austin and when we got there, they shook hands, smiled and away they went. With more than a little relief, Rodney and I continued on our journey.

A ride or two later, put us in the company of a car full of black guys, who were nice but dropped us off in the black part of Dallas. We walked along trying to look as inconspicuous as possible carrying backpacks and walking past groups of black guys hanging out on street corners eyeing us suspiciously. Kids would stop playing and watch as we walked by. I was getting the feeling that white people didn't frequent this part of Dallas very often. I think I learned how a turkey feels just before Thanksgiving. My most fervent hope at this point was that we weren't going to have to fight our way out. As I learned with my experience with the cult back in Texas, Rodney wasn't much of a fighter, so if push came to shove he'd likely prove useless. Finally, after about three miles (and no incidents, thankfully) we began to see white people. Some guy in a pickup picked us up and took us to Ft. Worth where we spent the night under a bridge before hitching out in the morning. We made it to Texarkana the next day.

We pulled into Texarkana around dinner time and went to the Sally, The Salvation Army. I only mention this because of one oddity- before you could eat or stay there, you had to go to the Police Station and get run through NCIC (the National Crime Computer) to make sure you weren't wanted anywhere. The next morning we headed toward Ft. Smith. The road was a secondary one not a highway and we walked for miles. It was April and hot already and we were tired and thirsty. We came up on an old farm house, run down with peeling paint. But it had a faucet on the outside. Seeing how we were in unfamiliar territory and not wanting to get shot or anything, I knocked on the door to ask permission to get a drink. An elderly woman came to the door. Now we were a pretty rough looking pair, having been on the road for a while. I could see a hint of fear in her eyes, but the old lady looked at me and said: "You boys must be hungry. Go around and wash up and I'll be right back." She came out with sandwiches, cold fried chicken and a pitcher of cold iced tea. We said grace and dug in. When we were done that woman handed me a $20 bill. I tried to refuse, we would have just bought beer and cigarettes, but she said: "The Lord would never forgive me if I didn't." That's Christianity.

When we hit Mena it was pouring down rain so we waited it out in a laundromat. After it quit we headed out. It was getting dark and a couple of miles out of town a couple of guys in a pickup stopped and chased us into the woods with pistols. I didn't know it at the time, but this was the height of the Clinton/Mena drug operation, so in retrospect, I figure we had probably stumbled into something they found threatening. I hid behind a tree and popped the first guy in the head with a rock I had picked up. He went down and I picked up his gun that I used to pistolwhip the other guy who was heading toward Rodney. When it was over I emptied both guns and swiped off the prints, taking the bullets with me. I threw them in the woods up the road. I would say that I hope they're ok now, but I really don't give a fuck. Some chick picked us up a mile or two later and dropped us off near a construction site. We slept in a house that was being built and took off at dawn. We got to Ft Smith that day.

We hit the mission and got a place to stay. The next day I went to a couple of job sites and got hired on at one. About three blocks from the mission they were converting an old schoolhouse into apartments. Now here's something that makes no sense. If you have a job, you can't stay at the mission. So, it was either have a job and no place to stay, or a place to stay but no job. I tried to negotiate with the guy at the mission, but I couldn't get him to understand that you can't help someone to get back on their feet if you don't let them work. Luckily, the mission was looking for a cook, so I was in luck, if you want to call it that. I got them to let Rodney stay as my assistant/dishwasher. After a couple of months, some guy brought in some plums that were starting to get too ripe. So I made some plum jack and one of the other bums turned me in. I was banned from the mission for life! So Rodney and I decided to head for Denver. In a way I was sorry to leave Ft. Smith, there was something about the people there, or maybe the place itself- or both that made me want to stay.

I had never hopped a freight train in my life, but we decided to give it a try. In Van Buren, across the river, was a freight yard and we caught a train for Nebraska. In Nebraska we had to switch trains for Denver. The first train was stopped and easy to get on. When we switched it was to one that was moving. I had two shoulder bags, one with clothes, one with my tools. My hands slipped and I fell over a bridge. Rodney jumped off. I fell, I guess about 20 or 25 feet and landed on my back on some big boulders. Rodney said I jumped up and started running in circles like a chicken after you snap it's neck yelling holy fucking shit over and over. I just remember it hurt like hell. The guy stopped the train and he and Rodney helped me get in and he let us ride in one of the engines. Let me tell you, freight trains are NOT built for comfort... I've been beat up, stabbed and shot, but I've never been in that much pain in my life.

When we got to Denver, I could barely walk. We found some other bums and found out where the hospital was. They had a walk-in clinic. The first doctor was an intern and said he had to get his boss. This other doctor came in with my x-ray and said: "It's no wonder your back hurts, it's broken." I had ridden all the way from Nebraska on a freight train with a broken back. Well here I was, stuck in Denver with a broken back, no money, no job, I was pretty well fucked. The doctor, Alex, was an orthopedic surgeon and was a pretty cool guy, he even tried to get me help from social services- but it was no good. He gave a script for oxycodone which kept the pain manageable. We tried staying at a mission the first night which proved more dangerous than staying on the streets. Some Mexican guy wanted to fight me because I didn't speak Spanish and I wasn't in any shape to fight. I spent the night sleeping with one eye open. The next morning I had an idea...

Across the street from the hospital was a bridge and we took up residence there. It wasn't actually that bad, you could crawl up inside the bridge and get out of sight. There was a stream there where we could wash and it was handy to the hospital where I had to go every week to see Alex. Denver isn't that bad of a place to be homeless- at least it wasn't back then. I hear the bums have taken to pissing and shitting all over the streets now- some people just got ni respect. Back in 85, if you don't mind walking, you could eat steady from about 9:00 in the morning until about 8:00 at night. Rodney got a job telemarketing so he took off, but by that time we had a colony of about five guys under the bridge. It really wasn't that bad. We had all gone up to Denver Mattress which was about half a mile away and dragged back a bunch of foam rubber. We found carpeting that was fairly clean in the trash to put on top. We bought a bunch of candles for light and there was a used bookstore not far away, so I could lay around and read... it was actually pretty comfortable.

This black guy I met turned me on to some Mexican guys that lived above a pawn shop up on Arapahoe St. They sold quarter ounces for $5.00 so we'd roll up joints and sell them for a buck to the businessmen who came to the park across from the Capital for lunch. The guy's name was Juan and he didn't speak English. The first time I went up there he asked: Mexicano?" I shook my head and said: "No, Italiano." "Bueno," he said. Every time I went up I would lay out five dollar bills and he would lay a bag next to the bills. Quarters were selling for $25.00 so I made $20 each. Plus he would hand me an extra one and say: "For you." One night I went up to make a buy and an old lady answered the door. "Juan aqui?" I asked. "No Mexico," she replied. I was just about to leave when she asks, "mota?" "Si," I said. She lets me in and I lay out the bills like always and she lays out the bags... and, to my surprise, an extra with, "for you." This is what kept me going for awhile.

I asked Alex when I could get back to work. He told me whenever I felt up to it, just be ready for the pain. He said I would probably wind up in a wheelchair within 5-10 years. He asked what I did and I told him carpentry, drywall and remodeling. He told me he and his girlfriend had just bought a house and he needed help remodeling it. I had a job. Alex made sure I had plenty of pain pills (he kinda liked them himself) and between the pills and the beer I was doing ok. I lived under the bridge and brought a bunch of bricks from Alex and Barb's house to build a bbq. Barb, Alex's girlfriend, was a psychiatrist. We all got to be good friends. One day Alex and I went car shopping. He had finished his residency and wanted to celebrate by getting a really nice car. He got a Maserati touring sedan. When he had to do overnighters at the hospital, he let me borrow it. I'm pretty sure I was the only homeless guy in Denver driving a Maserati.

As it turned out Alex was screwing about half of the nurses at the hospital and Barb wasn't having it. Alex moved out and Barb kept me on to finish the house. By now it was late September and getting too cold to stay outside. Barb invited me to move into the guest bedroom. This lasted about a week before she came calling one night. After that I was a resident of the master bedroom. Barb was nice and nice looking as well. But she saw a shrink herself. I told her one day that her problem was too much money (apparently she had been married to some rich guy who invented non-alcoholic wine- go figure- before and took him for plenty in the divorce) and too much time on her hands. If she had to worry about where her next meal was coming from, she wouldn't have time for all the mental bullshit. She said I was the most sickeningly sane person she had ever met. Shows what shrinks know. By April the house was finished and I was finished with the neurotic shrink, so I decided to head for Phoenix.