Tales from the Trails of a Rock ’n’ Roll Bus Driver

by Jerry Fitzpatrick

  The next few weeks were pretty routine with several moves going well. Bill didn’t disappoint. Every day, there was yelling, screaming, cursing at people and bitching about something. As for me, I simply did the job and enjoyed meeting a girl – or several – in each town, hanging out with the carnies and feeling like this was my life. Bill had taken the time to show me some of the basics to driving a truck and some of the maintenance. The ride itself was a constant chore to keep in order. It was a dangerous ride so upkeep was top priority.

  It seemed no one was looking for me anymore, and I settled into a routine of fun and hard work. By the time a couple of months had passed, we had worked our way south through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois and into Kentucky. I had learned the job pretty well and had gotten to know just about everyone who was traveling with the carnival. I had discovered what the best jobs were on the midway and was quickly discovering that just about everyone was tired of Bill’s constant pissing, moaning and threatening. He was causing arguments everywhere.

  I had started hanging out with the guys who were running the Sky Wheel. Our ride had been set up next to them in one city, so we became familiar with one another. They were more in tune with the times, embracing the hippie movement, which was a refreshing break from Bill’s military style. When one of them dropped out one day they invited me to come work for them. The turnover with people working the carnival is pretty quick. A lot of people come and go.

  I was considering it the next day when Bill lit into me over some silly bullshit.

  “Fuck you!” I was done with Bill.

  I grabbed my stuff and headed over to the Sky Wheel. It took me several days to get the money he owed me, but he finally paid me after many arguments and confrontations. Even people like other vendors and breakfast cooks stood up for me. The lady who said I’d always be fed on the first day of my carnie life told Bill if he didn’t pay me, she was going to piss in his oats.

  I will give Bill credit for teaching me mechanical aspects of the rides on the midway, which made my move over to the Sky Wheel go off without a hitch. Setting up carnival rides was like building Legos. All the parts have their place and learning where they all went and why and how they worked was always a fascination to me. Today, I see that fascination in the setup and tear down of a rock show. After a couple of setups and teardowns, I became comfortable working the machine. The Sky Wheel was a cleaner ride to work on and operate. Tom, the guy in charge, was into cleanliness so we spent a lot of time cleaning the ride and ourselves. What a long way from Bill’s standards. The ride was bright yellow with white buckets and lots of lights. Each day we could spend an hour or more keeping things in order. On warm days we carried numerous water hoses with us to wash the ride. After we were done cleaning the ride in the morning, we would stretch the hoses out and fill them with water and let them bake in the sun for a while and then set up makeshift showers with the hot water that had been heated up by the sun.

  It was about that time that I was learning to drive the small truck and trailer. A Ford 9000 Super Duty truck pulled the small 35-foot trailer. It was a single axel gas powered conventional style truck with an eight-gear shifter. Shift it four times, pull an air valve and shift it four more times. The trailer had a single axel and was steel plated. It was heavy. The entire unit loaded weighed in a little less than 30,000 pounds. Once I made the first move with it from one town to another, I got a raise. Drivers made a few extra bucks for the skill.

  It was late August as we traveled farther and farther into the South. I had worked almost five months traveling with the carnival. I had several thousand dollars in my pocket stashed away. Life was looking up. The carnival had moved into Jackson, Mississippi, and things were seemingly normal throughout the week. As we were tearing the ride down in Jackson, I was on top of the trailer securing some beams when I slipped and fell about 12 feet to the ground, landing square on my back.

  The fall took the wind out of me, and I was paralyzed for a few minutes. A lot of folks gathered around and commented, but no emergency people were called. At daylight they helped me get into the truck and I drove it to Alexandria, Louisiana, convoying and following Tom’s lead. When we arrived I was very sore and could barely move. When the guys started the setup all I had the capacity and energy to do was tell the local guys what to do. I hadn’t been to a doctor and thus had no medication for the pain. A few of the carnies had various pills that I refused. I didn’t like to take pills.

  I realized I had to save myself. I reasoned that since there was Barksdale Air Force Base north of Alexandria and Fort Polk, an Army base to the west, I could call my dad to arrange for me to get some medical attention at one of their facilities. As an Air Force dependent, I had an ID card that would allow me to be treated. As soon as I made contact with my father, he blew up. Another failed plan on my part.

  “Where the hell are you? You have screwed up this time! I won’t be able to help you.” It hadn’t occurred to me what I might have been doing to him or my mother, for that matter, while I had been gone traveling with the carnival for the past four to five months.

  I gave him some details about my accident and about which bases I was near. He said to call him back the next day and he would see what he could do. I got high and drank some whiskey someone had offered up and passed out.

  I awoke to a Rapides Parish sheriff’s deputy shaking the cot I was sleeping on. I moaned because of the pain.

  “Boy, get up. We got people looking for you!”

  He allowed me to get some things together and say goodbye to a couple of people. He wouldn’t let me wait to get the money I was owed.

  He took me to the parish jail and then to see a doctor. I was telling them about my travels, and they seemed pretty interested that I had gotten so far without being arrested somewhere else.

  After getting checked out by the doctors, I was taken to the Alexandria Youth Services facility somewhere on the outskirts of town. Tired and sore, I was given a room where I slept for two days. When I woke up on the second day, I learned that the Michigan Department of Child Services was sending someone down to pick me up. It was going to be a few more days before they arrived. If I obeyed the rules, I was promised no lockdown. I was too tired and sore to run and didn’t have a clue where I would go even if I did.

  A few days turned into a week before someone arrived to take me away. I spent my time hanging with several of the kids there. Some had gotten into some mischief but nothing too serious. They were there because their parents were screw-ups or in jail. Most were teenagers, and I hit it off with several by sharing my stories of running away and traveling with the carnival. The facility had a couple of horses that we rode in the afternoons. I connected with a girl there and we snuck out a couple of nights and held each other talking about the world and the future. I didn’t have a clue what mine would be once I landed in Michigan again. I thought I would be sent to prison when I got back. She didn’t have a clue what was going to happen to her either. But for a few days, we found security in each other.

  When Frank arrived at the facility to take me back to Michigan, I was depressed about being trapped back in the system. I had lived a free life, and the routines of being in an institutional setting following authoritative rules and regulations saddened my frame of mind. Frank was a young guy in his mid-20s with medium length hair and a big smile. A bit of a football player build like a linebacker. He was easy going enough. When he arrived some people from the facility showed him around giving him the low-down on the place. They were impressed that he was from Michigan. Michigan’s approach to troubled youth was unique in the ’70s. They seemed to really care and were trying to make a difference in young people’s lives.

  We met in one of the concrete rooms and he explained the plan of return to Michigan. He wasn’t going to cuff me, although he had a set of cuffs on his belt under his sports coat. He said if I tried to run he would take me down and use them and be a really big asshole to me so there was no point in attempting an escape
. I assured him he would have no trouble out of me and that I was ready to go back. We were on a late flight to Detroit then into Grand Rapids. From there we would drive the rest of the way to Muskegon and back to the Harbor House. I was ready to go back and face my punishment.

  It was a three-hour ride back to the New Orleans airport, and Frank announced that we were going to go to Bourbon Street in New Orleans to kill a couple of hours before the flight. I agreed. I assured him I would stay close and out of trouble. We had been talking on the ride to New Orleans and I was comfortable because he listened to my adventures and troubles and commented with some good advice. He didn’t know what was going to happen to me, if I was going to go to jail, stay at Harbor House again or what. I certainly hadn’t a clue.

  After finding a place to park, we walked down Canal Street to Bourbon and strolled by the Bourbon Street bars. He drank several shots at the street bars as we walked along and then he darted into Pat O’Brien’s and got a Hurricane. The memories from that trip and many others have makes New Orleans my favorite town in America.

  By the time we made it back to the car, Frank was pretty tipsy. We argued a minute about me driving. Crap, I had been driving tractor-trailer trucks all summer, I explained He caved, and I got us to the airport. We stumbled onto the plane and flew all night to Detroit. Frank slept the whole way. We switched planes in Detroit and flew to Grand Rapids. Frank freshened up at the airport, and we made the hour or so ride to Harbor House.

  When we arrived, the staff gave me the cold shoulder. There was only a couple of kids still around that I knew. Everything had changed. When Pete finally came in he expressed his deepest disappointment in me. I was doing so well, he said. I assured him that I had done well in my travels also. I tried to make him understand that being a carnie was my destination. He laughed so hard and encouraged me to strive for so much more, but I wouldn’t listen. I had to get back to that carnival, I thought.

  Pete explained that since I had run away from Harbor House I could no longer be in their program. Since I was over 16, I was going to be released to the custody of my dad, to whom he had already spoken. He gave me a place to sleep until my dad arrived the next day. By the time my dad came for me, it had turned into a sad farewell for the staff and me. I learned a lot about life and myself during my short time at Harbor House. I had discovered pent-up feelings of anger that probably led me to my troubles. I often wonder about the people who passed through my life at Harbor House.

  The drive north to the Upper Peninsula was long, and when we arrived I could feel the changing seasons in the air.

  My dad didn’t know what to do with me. I had changed from the kid I was who had run away in the Mustang. Not long after we arrived back at the base he had to go to temporary duty to another base, “TDY,” the Air Force called it. I sat at home and didn’t do much of anything. I played many hours bouncing a baseball of the side of a wall that would produce pop flies I would catch. My friend Chris and I started hanging out as the winter weather started getting cooler and cooler. He had an older brother named Chuck who had joined the Marine Corps while I was away.

  Chuck had been somewhat of a troublemaker like me, and when he was caught for the who-knows-how-many-times, he was given the choice of jail or military by a judge who had come to know his name pretty well. Chuck chose the Marine Corps. I had been home a few weeks, not doing much except bumming around when Chuck graduated from his boot camp in San Diego and came home on leave before he was headed to his duty station. It was a big day when he arrived at the airport with people holding welcome signs and balloons. A few folks were waiting at the house for his arrival. I went down the street to their house, about two blocks away, for the homecoming and cake. Chuck was wearing his dress uniform with a blue coat and white pants. His expert marksman’s badge shined on his chest and his shoes were spotless. A very sharp looking Marine by any standard. He had longer hair than me when he left for boot camp and now he was bald and clean-shaven. He was in better physical shape, easily noticed by the way he wore his uniform.

  After the hoopla over his coming home, Chris and I were in the basement getting high when Chuck joined us. We had a ton of laughs going over all the crap he went through in boot camp and the stories he told mocking the drill instructors. It was tough as hell and the way he poked at the toughness of it all made me laugh.

  People were looking at Chuck differently. I noticed they all had that “what a great guy Chuck turned out to be” kind of look about them. I started thinking I could clean up my act and follow in the footsteps of my father. I wanted to pursue the path Chuck had taken. With my 17th birthday approaching, I started making plans to become a United States Marine.

  Chapter 43 Some Fun Now

  In October of 1974, I was approaching the age where it would be legal to join the military. I was thinking if I could stay out of trouble, I could bypass everyone’s bullshit and be my own man. I believed that on the day I turned 17, as long as I stayed out of trouble, I would be a free adult. No one would be able to tell me what to do with my life, and I was going back to the carnival to live happily ever after until I heard Chuck’s stories.

  I had returned to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to K. I. Sawyer Air Force Base where my dad was stationed. I was just trying to bide my time until December. The Vietnam War was still going strong, and the images of it were being plastered on the news and in the papers. The protesters were getting louder and louder. The separation the military had caused my family was something I had never seriously thought about. After spending a couple of days with Chuck, who had just returned from Marine Corps boot camp, I changed my mind and began to chart a different future.

  I came home from my friend’s house late one night, and my dad had just gotten in from working out on the flight line at the base. Winter was coming, and it was a terrible time to repair K.C.135 Tankers in wide-open spaces. I had been looking forward to hitchhiking my way out of there before the snow got waist deep.

  Dad was sitting in his chair eating when I came in and sat beside him. We really hadn’t spoken much about anything. He didn’t ask me too much about my life or what I had been through the last year when I was with the carnival. So I just blurted out my newfound intentions.

  “Dad,” I said. “I want to join the Marine Corps.”

  He looked at me and smiled.

  “You don’t want to do that.” He kept that grin on his face.

  “Oh yes I do.” I launched into a thousand reasons why I thought it was the perfect path for me. I knew that this was the best thing in the world.

  Dad had returned from his second yearlong tour in Vietnam just a few years earlier. Many of the memories of the conflict were still fresh in his mind. It was still being plastered in the news of our kids dying, and the protests were stronger and bigger.

  “Listen, everyone in our family has been in the Air Force or Army Air Corps,” he told me. “The Marines are just a different type of service.” He didn’t say much else. He must have felt he didn’t have to. To him, the subject was moot. I didn’t let up for several weeks. I had explained that I went to the Air Force first, but the recruiter told me my age and not having a high school diploma would slow me down. I didn’t want to wait. I was ready to go now.

  I had hitchhiked to the Marine recruiter office in Marquette and talked to a recruiter. He gave me a ride back to the base when we were done, and he checked on me every week. During one of our visits, I told him I wanted to be in the Air Wing of the Marine Corps. He had said that wasn’t going to be a problem. I just had to keep working on my dad to sign the papers. With a parent’s signature, a youth could join the military. A few days before my birthday, Dad was tired of me nagging him, and he agreed to sign the paperwork.

  I was ecstatic, and I headed to the recruiter’s office the next day. The young corporal had befriended me, and he had my trust. I thought so much of him. He had a Vietnam Service ribbon on his shirt along with several others. He called my dad while I was sitting in front of him
. He talked to my dad the way I always thought I wanted to.

  “Master Sergeant Fitzpatrick, sir: I have Jerry here in front of me, and he is telling me you have agreed to sign the paperwork necessary for him to enter the Marine Corps, sir.”

  They talked for a couple of minutes. He was being so respectful to my father, and maybe something like that was all it took. When he hung up, he smiled.

  “Congratulations. You’re going to become a Marine.”

  From a carnie to a Marine. At least I wasn’t boring.

  He took me in a room and explained that to start the process I would have to take a written test and pass it. Then we would take the next step. It took me several hours to complete the entire book. When I had finished, he brought me into an office and started giving me details on what I would have to do next. They loaded my hands with documents to be filled out and signed. They gave me copies of everything in that entire office, and at the end of the day, he returned me back to the base. It took several days, but when everything was in order, I was told I would go to MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) in Milwaukee, Wisconsin after Christmas. Only a few more weeks and I would be changing my life for good.

  Dad approached me differently during those weeks and opened up to me like he had never before. He started to explain some of the things he had witnessed in Vietnam on his two tours. He felt that if I were going to be in the Corps, I would probably end up over there. Dad had been on a forward base where planes would come to and from supplying the war. He saw everything that came and went, from ammunition to body bags. He had assisted with loading Agent Orange onto the planes that sprayed the jungles. He had seen probably more than he cared to.