It wasn't long after that they walked in. One of 'em would've been too many but here was a whole damn troop, four in all, parading themselves like some strange refugees a couple of years too late for the Haight. They were the bedraggled tribe of long haired, bearded hippie lookin' weirdos who had set up camp on the small patch of grass between the east bound off ramp and the mega-way. Hopin' to get a ride, they took turns standing thumb out before all those who rolled up to take advantage of this last chance refill site before heading across the vast deserted landscape the lay adhead.

They carried with them few possesions, backpacks and assorted instruments, preferring to travel light as possible on their trek down to New Orleans to busk the crowds during Mardi Gras season. Still, their backs were bent from the weight of too many miles of walking and not enough rides. Three of them had guitars in cases as worn and tattered as the clothes they wore. There was a crazy looking washboard strapped to the outside of one backpack, all fixed up like something Spike jones might use. Another had a violin case stuffed inside his pack and a third, particularly lean, straggly, stringy haired, buck-toothed blonde hiked his washtub bass up higher on his shoulder as they all scanned the room looking for someplace to sit.

Every head seemed to turn at once to gaze in disbelief at the sight. The boys moved across the room and settled at a table at the far end. The air conditioned interior made them forget momentarily the heat and discomfort outside.

The waitress made her way directly to them and in lowered tones issued the directive. "We can't serve you.", she whispered. One of the group, adorned in a well patched vest and trousers, responded first by asking what the difficulty might be. Her only reply was, "You'll have to go elsewhere."

Never having experienced the sting of prejudice at this level before one of the four sporting a derby interrupted, "What, our money isn't good here?" He was as much shocked by her statement as by the realization that for the first time in his life he was being treated like some kind of less than desirable element. The patched one quickly quelled the rising feeling of resentment at not being served and led the way back outside and up the hill to the off ramp.

Time seemed to stand still there, and with each passing motorist it became more and more difficult to keep from giving in to feelings of despair. Would they get another ride and if so, when? How long had they even been there? Not one of them wore a watch or carried any kind of time piece. One thing was certain, they had been stuck there waiting longer than at any other location so far. They had hitched from Seattle all the way down the west coast and now, on their first leg east of LA, they were stalled. It was against all odds that they had even made it this far. After all how many people even pick up one hitch hiker these days, let alone four, ladden with back packs and instruments?

They all seemed to handle the incident in the cafe that morning differently, but there was little disscusion between them about it. After a time each stood strangely mute along the off-ramp trying to deal with it in their own way. The only sounds were those of the wind rustling the tall grass and the occasional drivers speeding east or west along the asphalt that stretched endlessly straight in either direction as far as the eye could view. While it was true that the band made very little money in their attempts at busking, hence the need to hitch hike and sleep in the bushes on the side of the road at night, it was apparent, by the reception they received from the audiences they drew while playing, that they were never considered something to be reviled.

Trying to maintain a positive attitude each of the four began to slip into something of a meditative state. Always, one stood waiting, peering into every approaching windsheild, then turning and watching for brake lights. It was only after staring long and silent at the grassy area next to the off-ramp that two of the four began to walk about exploring it, pausing here and there to pick some of the small wild blossoms that grew there. The area was dotted with the refuse often found along modern day super highways. Thinking perhaps that he could influence the cosmic odds stacked against them by doing something positive for the planet, one of the four began collecting the trash. Soon there was a large central pile all sorted neatly into proper recycling sub-catagories of paper, plastic, glass and metal. As the sun began to sink lower in the west the four stood together and began to sing. First a few words, "Standing on the road," then each adding a few more "All alone and blue." and then harmonizing, "What do I gotta do, to get a ride with you? What do I gotta do, do, do, do, to get a ride with you babe, to get a ride with you?" Several more verses came to them and they sang and harmonized like never before and then fell silent again. It was a song born partly out of their need but mostly out of their love for the life they had chose to lead. The sky grew darker still as twilight began to give way to night. Then, to their surprise, came the familiar tap on horn and they were off again.