Trudy

You might have noticed that the literature on road trips lacks many long-winded entries on winter jaunts. Let’s say that pristine snow and frozen feet do not inspire depositions on the glory of being on the road again. Most smart Pius Itinerants find a pleasant place to lodge for the stinky season and travel by plane, bus, or prearranged ride ( going all the way).

So it was only with great need that I agreed to the relatively short hop between Boston and Bridgeport in early March with Christine’s younger sister Trudy. Trudy had been a very bad girl in a section of Boston that you don’t misbehave in ( 1967), and some very bad people were looking to do her some serious harm. She needed to be gone from Boston, but her family, Brain Trust, decided that conventional means of travel via air, bus, or train were unsafe and that family members might be watched. Extreme and very paranoid measures were needed.

It was decided to ship Trudy off to live with her great-aunt in Bridgeport. A car trip to Bridgeport usually takes two and a half hours. But the idea was to sneak her past the bad guys’ suspected spy network; it might take longer. My friend and erstwhile roommate, the Teahead of the August Moon, had the bright idea of her hitching rides to get out of town. Who’d be watching for a single cute chick with a thumb out? Right. So the idea shifted to having some patsy accompany her. It would be a young couple going to visit Aunty.

Unfortunately, I owed the Teahead more than a few solid favors for rent-free living and food. I could do it, or the next time I breezed into town, find other quarters to crash in. So we bundled Trudy up, and off to the highway we went. You might think a “cute couple” on a cold day in March might get many ride offers. Not so that day. We got lots of short hops, and by about four in the afternoon, we were in a stretch of deserted highway as the sunset. I decided that hitching after dark was not the wisest thing, with Officer Opie on patrol and people whizzing by at high speed. The road was icy, and it could be a hazard for someone to stop for us.

Luckily, I recognized the stretch of road and determined that there was a good spot to bivouac not far into the woods. It was a little hollow protected from the wind on all sides by a stand of hemlocks. I even located the circle of stones my buddy and I used two years ago for a fire.

I had placed a carefully packed sleeping bag and a tarp at the bottom of my backpack. It was a “just in case” preparation. I never knew if my next host might only offer a spot by a radiator for me to sleep. It took half an hour to improvise a tiny shelter and a carefully constructed fire. Out came the can of beans, and soon, there was a quick impromptu dinner. Everything that could conceivably be used to warm us was pulled out of the packs. Luckily, the weather cooperated, and we were uncomfortable but not freezing.

Now, two people sharing one regular-sized sleeping bag means lots of compromises in comfort and warmth. What results is a tug of war. Move one way, and one person is exposed, tug the other way, and the other is open to the elements. Somewhere around two in the morning, I was accused of sexually accosting Trudy because I embraced her in the interest of warmth.

Vituperative is one way to describe the eruption of foul language. If it had been fuel, we could have stayed warm and toasty till the sun was up. I tried to explain that there was nothing sexual in the hug and that I’d never think of sex with a good friend’s little sister. Well, take your pick of anything in those statements that might have caused the eruption. But one, some, or all caused significant offense, and the result was that Trudy had the sleeping bag to herself while I huddled by the tiny fire.

Come morning, I was stiff, cold, and mad. I found a diner for breakfast, and I sat at the counter; she took a booth. By ten AM, we were in front of her Aunts. Aunty was at work. Trudy looked at me and asked what we could do till five when her Aunt returned. I pointed out that I had delivered her to her Aunt’s door. I would get some coffee, find the bus station, and grab a bus to New York; she was free to do whatever she pleased. She smiled, grabbed my arm, and suggested that she’ll tell her family that I’d attempted to molest her. I reached into my pocket and took out a dime. As I walked away, I tossed it to her, “Go ahead; the call is on me.”

I didn’t see the Teahead for almost six months. Trudy had indeed poisoned the well with untrue tales. It turned out that her taste in bad boys continued to be a problem, but she had burned her bridges with family over the wild and untrue stories of mob gang members searching for her.

One night, a large group of us were drinking together at Harvard Gardens. In walks the Teahead with some other friends. He comes right over and tells me the rest of the story about Trudy, apologizes, and asks for forgiveness.

So, that was one very unmemorable road trip. It was short and not sweet.