I had known Clark Kehley and his first wife Jane since we were all in high school in the early 60s, Jane at Nazareth High and Clark and I at Easton High. I had originally met Clark and his buddies Gene Kenerup, Charlie James, and Ken Varley, because they took care of the sound systems for the auditorium and gym at Easton High, and my father worked there as a groundskeeper/custodian, and as such got me into a lot of the events staged at those two venues, and additionally, the center courtyard dances in the summers as well.When I started dating my ex-wife Jean, I introduced her to them as well, and we all became good friends. Clark would eventually be best man at our wedding, Gene was an usher, and Charlie drove one of the cars and ramrodded the car decoration process.
In the summer of 1970, about the middle of July, when I was still working on my honors project in chemistry, Jean and I had been out doing something after supper one night and stopped in to see Clark and Jane on our way back to her house. At the time Clark was a truck driver for the contract carrier for the National Cash Register Company. He told us that the had to make a run to Boston to remove a NCR computer system (no doubt ancient by today’s standards) from a place of business that was dissatisfied with its performance. He could hire help when at a place like that to assist, but Clark preferred to take his friends with him, reasoning that he would rather pay people he knew than people he didn’t. He asked if I wanted to go to Boston with him. I could stay out on the road as long as I wanted to and make money we could use when we were scheduled to go to Rehoboth Beach with Clark, Jane, and their daughter Karen, later in the month.
Our limousine to Boston (sarcasm for sure) was an early 60s B model Mack, single drive axle, with a tiny, and I might add, not that clean, suicide sleeper. They were called that because if you were sleeping while the second driver was driving and there was an accident, you would have no way to brace or hold yourself. But team truckers have done it for years. The trailer was an old low bed furniture trailer loaded with a large pile of furniture pads which I am sure hadn’t been clean since they were new. Agreeing to go with him, I took Jean back to her house in Flicksville (so small I used to kid her that entering and leaving were on the same sign), drove to Easton to get a fresh change of clothes. I also got my slippers to wear in the truck, as my regular shoes were engineer boots and I didn’t think they would be comfortable for the trip ahead.
I drove back to Clark’s house outside of Wind Gap and we left around 10 that night. By the time we got to 209 north of East Stroudsburg, the fog was so thick Clark said we should stop and get some sleep. Of course, he had the suicide bunk, made considerably safer by the fact that the truck wasn’t moving, and I had to make a bed in the trailer. This had to have been the worst bed I have ever slept in. I had to take the aforementioned unwashed furniture pads, roll them up in the scant light coming in through the door into a sleeping surface, pillow and cover, and then use a tie down strap to hold the door shut from the inside. BY the time I woke up, not really rested and with my denim jacket smelling like an old furniture pad, Clark had awoken, and we were merrily on our way again.
I don’t remember much of the next few hours, until we crossed into western Massachusetts, but I do remember being struck by the large numbers of hitch hikers on the roads, most of whom were around my age at the time (23). I could not imagine what it would be like not knowing what the next hour, or the next day, would bring. I had seen much in the media of the time concerning the large numbers of people my own age with no better purpose in their lives than to be on the road without a plan. I felt sorry for them then, and now as I write this, 34 years later, I still do.
We were supposed to be in Boston (actually Cambridge) by 5 that afternoon, but early in the afternoon Clark developed a bad headache and said we had to pull off for a little while so he could maybe sleep some of it away. I paced up and down the shoulder of the road for perhaps an hour, when the door of the truck opened, and Clark announced that we could get on our way again. Soon after I crawled into the suicide bunk and slept for a few hours I think. When I awoke I asked Clark how close we were to Boston and he told me I could spit into Boston from where we were. Not wishing to prove or disprove that statement, I sat back in the passengers seat as we headed into the Boston area, and then to Cambridge.
The area where we had to go in Cambridge was a run down industrial area, not appearing all that safe or desirable to be in at night, but subsequently proving to be all right. We got to where we had to go about 10 minutes after the owner had given up and left. A phone call gave us the news that he wouldn’t be able to come back for 3 hours, so we decided to find a place to get something for supper. A deli on the next corner proved a ready source of fresh-made sandwiches, cans of soda, chips, etc. We bought an armful and drove back, doubling the truck up in the street, and sat down on the front steps of our destination to have our supper and read a copy of the Boston Globe we had gotten at the deli.
At this point, two young fellows drove up in a cab and began yelling at us. When they calmed down a little bit, we realized that we had parked the one fellow’s car in with the truck (he didn’t need it just then), and they were afraid we were stripping it. Assured of our honorable intentions toward their vehicle, they stopped to talk to us. As it had been proven that Clark and I had bought way too much food for ourselves, we shared our food with these fellows, and they told us that they were both Harvard graduates and that cab driving was the only job they could get. It is sad to have a good education from a first class university and not be able to use it. I know. After a while they returned to cab driving and we returned to waiting for the owner of the business.
The owner returned around 8PM and let us into his offices, all the while roundly complaining about how lousy the NCR system was and how they couldn't get it working to his satisfaction. The system consisted of a control console, several large upright tape drive units, like the kind you usually see in older science fiction movies, and the largest printer I have ever seen. The printer was the size of a large office desk and weighed over a ton. We were fortunately that all the units were on casters.
Everything but the printer went easily through the front door of the office, but the printer would not fit. We tried to roll it out the side door, but it wouldn't fit there either. Up until this point the business owner was decent to us, complaining to us about NCR, and a persistent leak in the frame around the side door, that had soaked the wall to wall carpet in that area. The owner called the NCR technical department in Boston, and several repairmen came over to partially dismantle the printer so we could push it out the side door to the truck. We had to remove the door and all the door frame as well.
After the technicians took off all the exterior sheet metal of the printer, Clark and I began to push it toward the door when I heard an ominous ripping sound coming from under the printer. Moving it back we found that something hanging down from the printer had ripped a 3 foot gash in the wall to wall carpet, already soaked with leakage from the doorway. The owner's attitude toward us changed dramatically at this point but we soldiered on and got all the bits and pieces safely stowed in the trailer.
Since it had never been my plan to stay out with Clark for more than this job, he took me into Boston to the bus station. He paid me for this job and I bought a ticket on the Hound for New York City. I think it was about 2AM when I left Boston. Sleeping thru Rhode Island and part of Connecticut, I got into the Port Authority building around 6:30AM. I soon found out that the next Hound to Easton didn't leave until 9:30AM and not wishing to enjoy the many facets of the Port Authority Building any longer than necessary, I traded my NYC to Easton portion of the ticket for a ticket on TNJ (Transport of New Jersey), which had the intercity local run to Easton. I only had to wait about 20 minutes for the next departure. Despite the many stops I actually got to Easton before the Hound of my original ticket had even left Port Authority.