Only one person in a thousand aspires to become a Subway Hitchhiker. Nobody knows why, either. Of those aspirants, only one in a thousand is chosen. That aspect’s equally mysterious.

Question: With 2,371 cars operating in Tokyo, how many Hitchhikers?

DL pondered Soviet subway systems in Moscow, Leningrad, Kiev, Tbilisi, Baku, Kharkov, Tashkent, Minsk, Yerevan, Gorky, Novosibirsk, Kuybishev, Sverdlovsk, Riga, and Dnepropetrovsk. To say nothing of related Warsaw Pact, Eastern Bloc operations.

At least they didn’t suffer graffiti. Not with spellings like theirs. No, both Hitchhikers and vandals in those realms have different problems to confront.

Not a single ballot had been cast, either.


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In the IRT Subway Speakeasy, a young poet played a Japanese bamboo flute. While DL admired black nylons straying from a neighboring table, the poet’s candy-apple choppers whispered lascivious instructions. The evening’s crystal stemware of chilled notes lobbed the Dionysian-on-the-lam into the legendary Minoan labyrinth at Knossos. He yielded to temptation, whipped out his camera, and began photographing that Earth-Mother-of-all-later-human-channels-unto-rock. Each flashbulb carried him closer to the sewage tunnels of the Indus Valley. He was soon thirty-five thousand years from the music. His must be the oldest photographs on record. DL’s Nikon began impressing lost snippets from the Hebrew Bible. Fortunately, his lenses read in both directions. From what DL could determine, Joseph of the Technicolor Rainbow Dream Coat hadn’t been thrown into a cistern after all, but had been held captive at the Dothan Station instead. This journey started to sound like modern-day hostage-taking in the Middle East. So that’s what it was like to have an ayatollah for a brother! As for everybody involved, that Joseph incident would become a pretty expensive ride on Pharaoh’s Subway. DL wasn’t so sure he wanted to know any of this.

Just as he turned about, he bumped into Dante Alighieri. At least this wasn’t Dante’s Station, the Black Hole! DL counted his blessings. No, this station was Virgil’s, that satanic sorcerer who’s capable of burrowing through entire mountains in a single night. As usual, Virgil was the tour guide. This evening was getting too thick with poets for the photographer’s blood. If DL had been thinking clearly, he’d be snapping portraits of both Italians and would thus possess history’s only known photographs of them. Instead, he was interrupted by a friendly hiss – Zimm, the lovable newspaper editor and poet from Upstate. The night was definitely dripping with poets.

“Hey! This way!” he whispered, motioning to a side corridor. The impoverished journalist had been sent to rescue the lost protagonist. “This 1810 French canal tunnel was never used,” he said, leading DL along a narrow towpath. “The boatmen united in their fear of its endless darkness. You might be interested in knowing,” he continued, “of a similar situation that arose on the Sandy & Beaver Canal in southeastern Ohio. After hearing splashing in the permanent night, no one dared enter that tunnel. Not even an offer of eternally toll-free travel could induce a barge to pass through.” In the echoes, DL heard English clergymen prophesying the fruits of damnation to anyone who dared venture into the London Underground, circa 1863.

DL could tell they were coming back toward the surface. In a four-hundred-yard tunnel beneath the Thames River, they passed Marc Isambard Brunel’s historic digging machine. “He spent eighteen years here, launching the modern subway movement,” the editor explained.

“Let me get a shot of it,” DL said.

“We don’t have time,” Zimm retorted. “I’ve got to be at the office in another two hours.” He set a wicked pace, and DL had trouble keeping up.

In this stretch of history, they feared the newly constructed tubes would cause buildings to collapse. A few more steps put even that behind them.

A few more steps, indeed, brought them up to 1912. A clutch of astonished engineers was too engrossed to notice the time-travelers. The excavators had just broken into a totally unknown subway all of three hundred and twelve feet long. In 1870, it seems, Scientific American editor Alfred Beach had built his private line under lower Broadway. Its fountain, wind machine, and voiture were still in place.

“Let’s go back and check that out,” DL suggested.

“DL! Come on! The world already has photos of that discovery.”

Their spiral to the surface continued.

While feathering his own nest on the elevated, Boss Tweed opposed the underground efforts.

As a burly foreman constructing the Moscow system in the 1930s, Nikita Khrushchev grasped the full power of moving ahead by snuffing entire shifts of workers in cave-ins and underground drownings.

In Tokyo, muscular young oshiya have been hired to cram more riders into each car during rush hour.

“It’s a good thing Khrushchev didn’t know about Tokyo!” DL mused.

“Hurry up, will you?”

“Ok! I’m coming!”

They circled again, betwixt Stockholm’s masterpiece and New York’s disgrace, superstitions and dreadful truths.

DL wondered how good Minoans were at Subway Hitchhiking. Why couldn’t Brunel dig at Virgil’s speed? What connection did the Catacombs of Rome have with subway construction? DL’s world had quickly shrunk in time and space. Simultaneously, expanding like a Milky Way.


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Forget the office towers, exclusive boutiques, world-class symphonies and operas, museums and galleries. Nothing defines a great metropolis as much as a subway. Consider the cities that have them: London, Paris, New York, Moscow … Then consider the remainder. Underground the collective psyche of a people and place ride.

For many individuals, a metropolis becomes a destination, a nexus where dreams play out. In its locus of massive power, culture, glamour, and wealth, not everyone enjoys all the benefits, a fact one cannot avoid noticing in the subway. In the tunnels appear the price tags of the social machine – the city itself – extracts from many whose labors make it function.

Perhaps it’s simply that ancient lure of adventure – the call of the open road and countryside beyond – that gave hitchhiking and its distant cousin, bumming the tracks, their timeless Gypsy appeal. Nothing symbolized freedom more than riding the rails as a hobo or flying down the highway in the company of colorful kindred spirits. Combining subway rails and hitchhiking, moreover, re-creates a time of collision, an era that encompasses the late Sixties through early 1990s.

The conflict – between old and new, past and present, limitations and desires, the given and the dreamed – is that of a generation attempting to live simultaneously in the countryside (the back-to-the-earth movement) and in the metropolis (Bright Lights, Big City). It’s the struggle of a generation that wanted to have its cake and eat it, too – only to discover there’s no such thing as a free ride forever.

Subway Hitchhikers is ultimately a metaphor of the search for meaning in this era, station by station leading into the vast universe before arriving in an unexpected and yet nearly familiar place of communion.


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When one editor dismissed an earlier version of Subway Hitchhikers as “a coming of age” novel, I abandoned chronological development and turned instead to the eventual alternation of past and present tenses. When a New York agent’s brief notes placed Daffodil in Iowa, rather than Indiana, I had to wonder how closely he and his staff read a text, period. And a small press editor responded that this work was too outstanding and deserved better production and distribution than his operation could provide, while others urged self-publication.

At one point, I feared that the subject was becoming too dated – that the period, style, and places were fading from public interest. Since then, however, news developments convinced me otherwise. Who, for instance, would have envisioned a year when Yuppie hoboes would ride the rails for their summer vacation? Or that Subway Surfing would take hold! No matter how much I’ve tried to abstract the events that underpin the presentation in Subway Hitchhikers, there were time I felt overrun by developing news events. Reports, for instance, of finding a Tibetan lama reincarnated as a Spanish boy – a decade and a half after my first draft of the novel. Or a plan considered by Paris officials to build thirty-one miles of subterranean double-decked highway 100 to 165 feet underground.

Subway systems are receiving fresh interest. As public policy makers recognize their importance in the functioning of a major metropolis, the older systems are the focus of major upgrading. (New York’s MTA, for instance, was subsequently cited “as the most improved system on the continent and the man in charge received the manager of the year award. And despite the way the subway is pictured on TV, filmmakers are having a hard time finding the once-familiar graffiti sprayed on subway cars.”) Elsewhere, newer systems flourish, modeled on San Francisco’s BART and Washington, D.C.’s clean, quiet, efficient operations. As new systems, such as Los Angeles, open and expand, we can ask each city: “Where are your Subway Hitchhikers?”


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We wanted to change the world, but it nearly cost us our soul.

Once vaunted powers, the nation’s metropolitan dailies shaped public opinion and daily conversation everywhere. You had to read at least one. Maybe two.

We could accept the low pay, long hours, evenings, weekends, and holidays. Even the career steps through Podunk outposts on the way up.

But then the whole field started crumbling. The corporate chains bought out the family owners. The bean counters kept cutting to the bone. And then further.

None of them wanted to rock the boat, much less run against the tide or easy pickings. Change the world? Not with the fat profit margins they were making.

With few exceptions, the press today is a shadow of what it once was.

So who’s holding watch? We can worry. For all the reasons I detail in my novel, however surreal in the telling.


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Who will cover them now? All the politicians taking office? All of their dealings with lobbyists and special interests? Who will speak for the public? Or the common good?

I’ve covered some of the work of the daily press in my Newspaper Traditions category, and remind you it’s still a rich resource to visit. It’s a major part of the route that landed me here, after all.

The bigger, scarier perspective is one I take to surreal dimensions in my novel, Hometown News, which also reflects the situation many workers endure in the unchecked spread of multinational conglomerates. Think of Dilbert on steroids. Or the vulnerability of localities in the face of global giants.

The real news continues regardless of the headlines. Take it from me. Or my novel.


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When Bill, fresh out of college, accepts the assignment to yrubBury, he views the daily coded messages as a matter of corporate espionage and competitive edge. Heck, he’s ever so green and naive. What else is a generalist supposed to do in an age of specialists?

The assignment’s an education in itself, a revelation of global tensions and intrigue – and, to his surprise, he’s caught in the crosshairs.

Here he thought he was sidetracked to the boondocks. Instead, it’s ground zero.

Enter Big Inca, from the south.

Inca 1


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