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10 GROUNDCOVER NEWS TRAVELS WITH DREAMER Dreamer and I glanced at each other, "Well, hell yeah!" we said. If this seems sinister to you, you are STEVEN Groundcover vendor No. 668 Dreamer and I took the advice of the giggly judge and smart ass cop and we hitchhiked away from Panama City. I've not been back but I've since seen it on MTV for spring break shenanigans and it makes me wish I'd been arrested somewhere cooler. We got a ride almost right away. It was uncanny and set us up for disappointment later down the road. Hitchhiking is mostly hiking. Our first lift was our only creepy ride and while for sure creepy to us, it really wasn’t. I didn’t believe for a second we were in danger. He pulled over as soon as I asked. He was a guy shooting his shot with a couple young dudes, got shot down and was cool about it. As a couple of 90s kids with a constant barrage of anti-gay (especially with AIDS) upbringing, we were pretty cool about it, considering. Many young men (sigh) to this day aver how they would kick someone’s ass for coming on to them. Well, we didn't think like that, but being dumb kids, we wanted out and he let us out with no fuss. Still, we were a bit shaken so we just walked for quite a while. If you thought we'd learned any wariness from this cautionary tale … you'd be wrong. We were, I remind you, nineteen years old. As we were walking in the Florida heat, a beat-up blue work truck and an old (probably middle-aged) blond, hippy-looking dude asked if we needed a ride. We jumped in without hesitation. He made small talk as we rode a bit. "Where we headed?" "New Orleans." "Where you guys from?" "Michigan." Dreamer didn't say anything. I asked, "What do you do man?" "I'm a house painter." "Cool, cool." Like this, it progresses a bit then he hits us with the plan he came up with. You see, he was seeing if we were cool while we were trying to see if he was cool. Both parties seemed to land on yes. His plan was pretty straightforward. He had some shit to do so he would drop us off at this cool spot he knew at a nearby lake to wait for him for a little while, then he'd come scoop us up. We'd swing by his place and we'd wait in the truck while his ol' lady whipped us up some sandwiches, Then he'd take us a good clip down the road. Oh and here's a matchbox of "Jamaican" weed for while you wait. “Cool?” smarter than we were, but it wasn't sinister at all. The darkest moment in this whole thing was while we were sitting at this beautiful, scenic Florida lake spot checking out the crazy buds this guy had given us, thinking we had no way to smoke it. We're looking for pop cans (locally called soda or Coke) and whatnot. No dice. When we got to the spot it looked real nice, serene, shaded. He had given us what he called Jamaican buds. I still don't know what Jamaican weed looks like; I sure didn't then, but I can see it clearly in my mind's eye today. Stuffed in this matchbox were the stickiest, stinkiest, stankiest, dankest, greenest, purple haired, skunkiest, High Times article kind of buds I'd ever seen. As he drove off was when we realized we had no way to smoke this Cheech and Chong shit. Dejected, finding nothing to use to smoke, we sat at this fantastic little beach and sulked. Absently, knowing it wouldn't be there, but like when you're looking for something and you check the same places multiple times, I reached into my pocket and jumped up from the log ecstatically shouting at Dreamer and brandishing my brass and wood weed pipe. We did our little happy dances then went to Jamaica. It was a great afternoon, no alligators, and the guy made good. He came back around dusk and picked our high asses up with a smirk. The three of us swung by his place. We waited not very long til he jumped back into the truck with a paper bag he shoved at me and which I promptly stored away and off we went. The old hippy took us a good clip down the road and dropped us off where he thought might be a good place for us, then off he went with a "good luck" and a "I wish I could come" and a wave. We crushed those sandwiches before anything else and his ol' lady's sandwiches were the best I'd ever had (sorry Mom). We got a ride pretty quick from there and I learned no ride is better than any ride sometimes. The guy had said he was only going as far as X. We didn't know shit but were in the mindset to just get the ride so we were like "whatever man, cool." After he dropped us off we walked through the muggy Mississippi night seeing no cars for what seemed like hours. Dreamer and I ended up sleeping in a ditch for a while, got up while it was still dark and continued our trudge. We didn't feel like we were hikers now we felt like trudgers. We didn't see the adventure at this point. We felt like Hobbits in cursed swamps. This curse, we agreed with a look, culminated when a Sheriff pulled up and ordered us into the back of his car. We were young and so tired we didn't say anything, we just got in and rode in silence. An indeterminate time later he pulls over, orders us out and drives off. All he said to us was orders in and out. We stood bewildered and elated watching his taillights diminish in the black, swampy distance. Dreamer and I looked at each other under the light cast by the stars of the confederacy, shrugged, slung our bags and moved off. It was slow going; Dreamer's ankle was still jacked. He was a tough kid but he didn't have his crutches any more. It seems the police in Florida didn't think he needed them anymore I guess. Anyway they were gone. He insisted he was fine to carry his own kit so we walked on into the bayou's night. It gets a bit weird here. I'd never heard of what happened and I haven't heard of anything like it since. I've been called a liar to my face over this, more than once. It happened. We'd walked less than an hour when another Sheriff pulled up and ordered us into his cruiser. It was the same deal, everyone sitting in silence; he drove a good ways then kicked us out without a word other than get in get out. Weird, we thought, shrugged as he drove off then started trudging. It was the middle of the night at this point. This happens a third time! I'm beyond nonplussed and have to speak up. I ask politely, what the F is going on here? The Sheriff, obviously not feeling up for small talk but maybe realizing I might be the type to pester him on this sighed and said, "Nobody wants the headache of a truck fulla good ol’ boys finding you long hairs and disappearing your asses in them swamps, sure as spit." That was that. There were a couple more Sheriffs but they seemed to stop bothering when the sun came up. We were pretty close to New Orleans by then and got MAY 16, 2025 Travels with Dreamer part IV: Hitchhiker's guide to ... Florida a ride pretty quick with some guy. I don't remember the guy. Just kept to himself but I remember the ride. An amazing, magical heart-rending stretch of road I'll not forget if I Methuselah this world. I should remember him better, he was a good ride. Drove us a long ways without any hassle and dropped us right in Jackson Square, which was where we wanted to go but didn't know it. Here's the rub; approaching NOLA from the east is this crazy long, low (like on the water low) bridge, I think it may be famous for how long it is or something? I'm not sure, I'll just say, it's no Mackinac Bridge. It sits right flat on the water and goes on forever. We were crossing going west in the morning hours. The sun was up in all its southern glory at our backs so we could appreciate its light. Of course the calm still water was the lead tech for nature's light show, but as with the driver I barely remember it. What I do remember with sticking clarity are the butterflies. The mf-ing butterflies. Delicate little white butterflies flitting all around in the thousands, tens of thousands. They too caught the sun's light as they danced. In my head they were singing. The memory is slightly marred however because the dawn light wasn't the only thing these "poems made life" caught. They caught the front of this guy's truck as well, in multitudes. Don't think this guy’s truck was the only vehicle on the road either. It put a pallet on my reverie but also I think was good for my mindset as I careened into The Big Easy with no plan, no money, no connections, nowhere to go. This was New Orleans in the '90s. It was on the news not so much for its jazz and restaurant scenes but for its daily tally of murders. I'd have done well to remember that. I mean, I didn't, but I would have done well to. This wasn't Disneyland we were going to. -

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