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There is no bathroom. A funnel in the semiprivate stairwell up front is supposed to serve the truly desperate. Thank God, rest stops are frequent. There is a tape deck, though, with speakers fore and aft. As we pull out, the Beatles pump out Here Comes the Sun. And supper starts as some kind of spontaneous combustion. "I've got organic carrots," says Linden, rummaging in a satchel. Before you know it, dates, French bread, salami and a bottle of Mr. Wente's best Grey Riesling are passing from hand to hand. Monksee announces that he will be too busy to count heads after every rest stop, but he doesn't want to leave anyone behind. A buddy system springs up as spontaneously as food and drink. Dennis, the whale man, is matched with Linden and Jerry, a large, long-haired Texan who is taking the trip, he says, because he "just can't stand the craziness in San Francisco any more." It is Jerry who produces a deck of cards, and the first hand of what turns out to be a five-day rolling poker game gets under way, wooden matches serving as chips.
All this is oddly troubling, for it stirs memories of nippier times, the sweet side and the irritating side, that kind of compulsive counterculture togetherness so full of pressure to conform in nonconformity, everybody maddeningly casual about who owns what. Ungenerously the traveler decides to keep special track of wallet and money while aboard.
People start falling asleep early. By flipping a few panels, the sofas and card table turn into more sleeping platforms. By 2 a.m. there are sleeping bags as far as the eye can see. As the passenger stumbles among them a voice hisses, "There is room here!" It's Adam. He whispers that he is a biologist from M.I.T. Maybe that explains the scrape. He was "designing an incurable virus," he says, when he realized what he was doing. He's been on the road for several weeks sorting things out. Daybreak and breakfast in Arizona. Sleeping bags are rolled. The poker game reconvenes. Jerry cheats theatrically. When someone pulls a hidden card out of his pocket, Jerry acts flabbergasted to see it. Everybody laughs. Dennis proudly reveals that he has been an art-class model for five years. "I try to give them more than others do."
So does this underground Trailways. Last year its buses delivered low rates and lots of laughs to more than 1,000 coast-to-coast passengers. The prototype was a VW van on the Portland-to-Berkeley run ten years ago. Its success prompted a flock of imitators, which still crisscross the continent summers and during the Christmas break. "We all know we're working on borrowed time," says one of the owners, who also doubles as a bus driver. "One of these days we'll be found out, and it will be over." At Big Spring, Texas, we have to trade drivers with the westbound hip pie bus. Dave, the night driver, has to get home to Portland. He passes a tequila bottle around as he leaves. "Well folks, it was really organic." Sniffs his replacement: "Smells kind of moldy in here." Very true.