Peter Thorkelson squinted against the bright June sunshine glaring off the asphalt roadway. Slinging his banjo case more securely over his shoulder, he stuck out his thumb as he saw a tiny speck approaching in the distance.

The speck grew into a huge truck, diesel smoke belching from its stack, the cab so dusty Peter couldn't even make out the writing on the doors. The warm gusts of air kicked up by the massive vehicle buffeted Peter as it sped past. Sighing, he picked up his duffel, preparing to walk until another opportunity came along.

The squeal of air-brakes in the peaceful Connecticut morning made Peter's head snap up, and he saw the behemoth rumble to a stop on the gravel shoulder about fifty yards further down the road.

Picking up his pace, he hustled to the truck. With one foot on the running board, he levered himself up to peer through the open window into the cab,and felt his jaw drop as he looked at the driver.

The man was a fitting master for this huge steel monster. Barrel-chested, he looked to stand well over six feet tall, his impressive bulk clothed in denim jeans and a sloppy plaid shirt. The lower half of his face was covered by a bushy brown beard, over which sharp blue eyes twinkled with amusement.

"Where ya headed, son?" the deep voice boomed out when Peter stood there, speechless. "Well, come on--I ain't got all day, boy. Where ya headed?"

Gulping, Peter managed to squeak out, "New York."

"Hop on in here then," the man ordered, reaching across the cab to unlatch the door.

Jumping down, Peter collected his things. The duffel he simply tossed on the floor of the cab. The banjo he cradled protectively on his lap as he settled into the passenger seat.

"It's a good thing I decided to take the back roads today," the trucker remarked as he pulled back onto the road. "Normally I stick to the highway, but since I was runnin' ahead of schedule I decided to see some of the countryside."

"Thank you for the lift, sir," Peter said shyly, watching in open fascination as the driver deftly downshifted to take a curve.

The man's deep, booming laugh rang out. "Just call me Mack--you know, like in a Mack truck!" Smiling at his own joke, he revealed perfectly white, straight teeth, at odds with his rumpled, casual appearance.

"I'm Peter."

Mack reached onto a cooler at his feet, taking out a soft drink which he offered to Peter. When Peter refused, he opened it for himself, taking a long pull. "Gotta give this stuff up some day," he said conversationally. "But I can't abide coffee and I need somethin' to keep me awake out here." Seeming to be absorbed in his driving, he surprised the younger man with his next words.

"So, Peter--what are you runnin' away from?"

Peter stilled, immediately defensive. "I'm not running away from anything," he denied swiftly. "I just decided to move to the city."

"With a duffel bag full of clothes and a banjo?" Mack countered steadily. "I've picked up too many hitchhikers over the years not to be able to read 'em." Taking another drink, he continued. "But if you don't wanna talk about it, that's fine by me. Man's got a right to his own thoughts, I always say."

Looking over, he cast a practiced eye over the young man he'd picked up. Not much more than a boy, he thought to himself. Straight, sandy-blonde hair topped clean-cut features, remarkable for their innocence and expressiveness. Unless this one was a lot tougher than he looked, he wouldn't last long in a city like New York.

"You sure you don't want me to turn this rig around before they find out you're gone?"

"Before who finds out I'm gone?" Peter asked, unaware that the expressions that showed so vividly on his face gave away his every emotion.

"Your folks. I reckon you slipped off before they woke up. Did you leave 'em a note at least?"

"Of course I..." Peter stopped abruptly. "How do you know all this?" he asked in astonishment.

Mack laughed, the infectious sound filling the cab. "I did the same thing when I was your age. Had a huge fight with my old man, and just took off one night with not much more than the clothes on my back and the shoes on my feet." He shook his head at the memory. "Talk about green..."

Turning to stare sightlessly at the passing landscape, Peter thought back to the conversation he'd had with his own father two days ago...

~*~

"Is this why I'm paying for you to go to college?" John Thorkelson waved the small white sheet containing a semester's grades in his son's face. "For you to fail every course? What's going on in that head of yours, Peter?"

"I tried, Father, I really did..."

"I know what it is," the older man continued. "It's those so-called friends of yours. You spend every waking minute with them, time you should have spent studying. They're a bad influence on you!"

As always, Peter bristled at the mention of his friends, a continuous bone of contention between he and his father All musicians, they jammed whenever they could steal away from classes, occasionally even managing to find a paying gig at one of the campus hangouts.

Sure, there hair was long, but they were the best friends Peter had ever made, and he didn't want to give them up. His natural shyness had always made making friends difficult, a situation made worse by his family's constant travelling. DC, Detroit, Madison, Germany, then finally settling in Connecticut seven years ago, each move had meant a painful upheaval for Peter, one that only his music had made tolerable. Now he had friends who shared his love of music and he couldn't--wouldn't--give them up.

"They're my friends, Dad!" Peter protested.

"They're bums! Not a one of them has a job or any sort of ambition, and they're turning you into one of them." The pleading note in his voice was lost on Peter. "Look at you--you're failing your classes, you're out till all hours of the night, and I can't remember the last time you had a haircut! There are kids out there that would kill for the chance to go to college, to make something of themselves..."

Peter turned away, trying to keep hold of his emotions. He'd never been any good at confrontation. He either gave in or broke down in tears, neither of which endeared him to his father.

"Is this what you want to do with your life?" The older Thorkelson continued without pause. "Playing in dingy clubs for peanuts or on some street corner for somebody's spare change?"

"Yes!" Peter yelled, spinning swiftly to face his parent. "I want to play my music! College isn't important to me--it never has been. That's your dream, Father, not mine." He brushed the hair out of his tawny eyes, eyes that were a copy of those that looked at him with such bitterness. "Well, let Nick or Chris or Annie live out your dreams." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I can't."

An awful silence was the only thing that existed for several minutes before John Thorkelson finally spoke.

"Maybe you're right," he'd said, voice reflecting nothing--not anger, not sadness--just unspoken contempt. "God knows they've never caused me this kind of heartache." He turned to walk out of the room. "Do whatever pleases you, Peter. I just don't care any more."

Peter stood there in shock as the study door slammed. He'd only wanted to be able to play his music, to do what made him happiest--he'd never wanted this!

The next two days had been tense ones. Peter had tried several times to talk with his father, only to be rebuffed with icy silence at every turn. His mother, and even his brothers and sister, had all tried to intervene on his behalf, all to a spectacular lack of success. Seeing the turmoil that his presence was causing the family, Peter had made his decision.

On the third day, He'd awakened before sunrise. Stuffing some clothes into the army duffel that had belonged to his father, he sat the bundle aside.

Sitting down at his desk, he penned a short note.

"When I get to where I'm going, I'll be in touch. Please don't worry. I love you all, Peter."

Laying the note on his pillow, he picked up the duffel. Slinging his banjo over his shoulder, he cast a regretful glance at the guitars and bass he was leaving behind. He wished he could take them all, but it was impossible. The banjo had been a gift from his grandfather, and held a special place in his heart.

Silently, he tiptoed down the hallway, stopping at every closed door to say a quiet farewell before slipping down the stairs and out the front door, shutting it noiselessly behind him. With one last look at his home, he hefted the duffel onto his back and started down the long curving drive to the main road. It was a beautiful house--spacious and imposing in the morning light--but it no longer felt like home to him. As his feet crunched on the gravel drive, he set his mind at the task at hand. Somehow, he had to make it with his music, if not to prove something to his father, than to prove it to himself...

~*~

Shaking his head, Peter brought himself out of his reverie to answer Mack's question. "Keep going," he said, voice carrying an edge of determination. "I can't go back there. Not now."

Frowning to himself in disappointment, Mack kept driving. If it were up to him, he take this nice young man back to his well-bred, upper-middle class family and tell him to wait until he grew up before tackling the big city. But Peter had to make his own mistakes, just as he'd done, and with any luck at all, it would make him stronger than before. If not...

Refusing to follow that train of thought, Mack turned his attention back to the road, setting his sights on New York City.

~*~

Peter shivered as the raw February wind whipped through the streets of Greenwich Village. Huddling deeper into his worn woolen coat, he hurried to the phone booth on the corner, sighing in relief as he shut the glass door, shutting out the bitterly cold gusts. Digging through his pockets, he came up with the last of his change, carefully dropping the coins into the slot with fingers stiff from the cold. Hearing the perfunctory mechanical noises as the phone accepted his money, he dialed. Early as it was on this Saturday morning. somebody should be up at home...

"Hello?"

Peter smiled as he heard the adolescent voice crack mid-word, a sure signal that it was his youngest brother Chris who'd answered.

"How ya doin', Kid?"

"Peter!" The voice squeaked into high-pitched oblivion. "Peter," Chris began again after clearing his throat. "I'm okay...what about you?"

"Great!" Peter replied brightly, as his fingers idly traced random patterns on the grimy glass of the booth. "I'm playing my music with my friends and I have a really groovy place to live."

"I wish I could be there too," Chris said longingly. "I hate being stuck here in this hick town while you're in the city, really living..."

"You stay right where you are, Christopher Thorkelson!" The sternness in Peter's voice was clear. "If you're smart, you'll finish school, and you'll go to college."

"But you..."

"But nothing! You don't know what it's like out here." Sighing, Peter leaned against the side of the booth. "Listen Chris--is Mom there? Or Nick?"

"Mom's out with the ladies from the Garden Club, but Nick's up in his room. Want me to get him for you?"

"Yeah."

There was a muffled thump as the receiver was laid down, and he could hear Chris' voice in the distance. "Nick! Telephone!" Then the sound of footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Nicky." Peter wasn't even aware of falling back on his childhood nickname for his brother. Of all his siblings, he was closest to Nick, who at eighteen was less than two years his junior. Only with Nick could Peter be completely open about things...

"Pete...I didn't expect to hear from you."

"After last time, you mean?" Peter asked wryly. "Just because Father won't speak to me doesn't mean I'm gonna stop calling."

"I can't believe he's held out this long without talking to you," Nick said. "You two were always so close. Now he doesn't even read those letters you send. He just hands them to Mom without a word and stalks out of the room."

"At this point I'm surprised he doesn't just pitch them into the fireplace and be done with them." Although the words were joking, it was plain that his father's attitude hurt Peter deeply. What Nick said was true--as the eldest son, Peter had enjoyed a close relationship with his father--that is, until his obsession with music had threatened to sever that bond for good.

"So, how's New York?"

"Cold," Peter answered as the wind stole through the cracks around the booth's door, sending a new round of shivers coursing through him. "Loud, noisy busy..."

"Still scraping along in that palace you described in your letters, 'Tork'?" Nick asked cheekily, using the stage name Peter had adopted when it appeared that 'Thorkelson' was too much of a mouthful for most people to handle.

"You mean the one with the mice and the cold-and-cold running water? Yeah, still there--at least until we get kicked out for not paying the rent."

Like most of his peers, money was a constant problem. He'd refused to take any money from his family, and with so many hopefuls trying to make a name for themselves, paying gigs were hard to come by. Most nights he wound up playing for whatever a pass of the hat would bring, and while he didn't starve, extra money was a luxury he just didn't have now.

"So why don't you come home?"

"To what, Nick? Father obviously hasn't changed his mind about me, and for once in my life I'm not backing down. If I go back there, it'll be just like before--and I don't want to fight constantly. I can't live like that, and you guys shouldn't have to, either."

"You know why you and Dad fight so much, don't you?" his brother asked suddenly. "You're too much alike."

The very thought left Peter speechless. Finally, he managed to splutter, "What? You're crazy!"

"Oh, not on the surface," Nick continued blithely. "You have completely different styles, but underneath you're exactly alike--you both have too much stubborn pride for your own good. Both of you miserable, but neither one of you wants to be the first to give in."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Peter replied, bitterness tinging his voice. "I've written letters, I've phoned...I've tried to make up with him. He's the one who won't budge."

"He doesn't know how to. You know Dad's never been able to handle the emotional stuff--that's always been Mom's department. Maybe if you came back and tried to talk this out..."

"No!" The word came out more harshly than Peter intended. "No, Nicky," he said more quietly. "I didn't call to talk about Father anyway. I have something to tell you."

"What?"

"I'm leaving the Village. I'm heading out to California."

"Calif...Peter, that's three thousand miles away!"

Peter laughed at his brother's frantic tone. "It's not the ends of the earth! They have phones and cars and everything."

"Very funny! But why?"

"California's where the action is. If I stay here I'll still be playing the same clubs and coffee-houses in a year that I am now. L.A.'s the real thing--if I'm gonna make it in music anyplace, it'll be there."

"Are you sure you wanna do this, Pete? It's a big step..."

"Of course I'm not sure--I'm scared to death. But I've got to find out, one way or another, if I've got what it takes, and that'll never happen here."

"But you won't know anybody..."

"Yes I will," Peter countered. "Some of my friends are already out there. I can look them up when I get there, maybe stay with them for a little bit."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "You're set on this, aren't you? I'm not gonna be able to talk you out of it."

"No. I've made up my mind."

"Can't you some home just for a few day before you go?"

Peter looked heavenward, noting that the snow that had been predicted yesterday was beginning to fall. The idea of a few days at home was terribly tempting--he missed seeing his family with an intensity that still surprised him at times--but he knew that if he went back, leaving would be even harder than it had been last year.

"I'm leaving this morning, Nick. I won't have time. I just wanted to let you guys know."

"All right," Nick sighed heavily. "I'll tell Mom when she gets home. You'll let us know when you get there?"

"As soon as I can," Peter promised. "Give everyone my love."

"Will do. And Peter?"

"Yeah?"

Silence.

"What?" Peter prompted.

"I miss you. I wish you'd come home." The words were rushed, as if he'd had to force them out, but the ring of truth was unmistakable.

"I wish I could," Peter answered sadly. Drawing in a deep breath, he bid his brother good-bye, hanging up the phone with a soft click. Brushing the long bangs out of his eyes, he opened the door to the booth and plunged back out into the cold, heading back to his apartment to collect the duffel he'd left packed and waiting by the door.

On the way, he let his step slow to a gradual stop as he passed by the clubs and street corners where he'd spent so many evenings, playing music and enjoying the easy camaraderie of his fellow artists Turning in a slow circle, he let the familiar sights soak into his memory, determined to remember this place that had played such an important role in his life.

Finally, prompted by the cold and snow, he resumed his journey. Within 20 minutes, duffel in hand he was headed west, thumb stuck in the wind as he waited for a ride to a new state, and hopefully, a new life.

March, 1966
Los Angeles, California
"I want him out of here, Darryl!"

Peter huddled into his makeshift bed on the tattered couch as the strident female voice echoed through the tiny apartment. "It's been two weeks--I want my home back!"

He sighed as he stared into the darkness. He knew he'd overstayed his welcome, but he didn't have anyplace left to go--in the six weeks he'd been in LA, he'd bunked with several of his old acquaintances from the Village, always managing to leave before he'd made a nuisance of himself. Darryl's place had been his last resort.

Now it looked like it was the end of the line for this arrangement as well. Tomorrow he'd have to start looking for someplace to live--and the money to pay for it. The music scene here was tougher than he'd bargained for--it seemed like everyone and his cousin had come to California with dreams of making it big in music--and he was just scraping by. He certainly didn't have the money to afford an apartment of his own right now--his meager income from washing dishes at a local club was barely enough to keep him in guitar strings and food--and he didn't know anyone who was willing to share digs with him.

"What do you want me to do Sally--kick him out in the streets? He's my friend." Darryl's familiar voice was low as he attempted to sooth his girlfriend's anger. Darryl was a great guy--one of his best friends from New York--but Sally, his "old lady," was a different story. From the day they'd been introduced, Peter had sensed an unexplained anger toward him. He'd been his usual friendly self, but nothing seemed to get to the petite redhead.

"Some friend, sponging off of us when we barely have enough for ourselves!"

"He offered to pay us," Darryl reminded her. "I was the one who wouldn't take his money."

"And who gave you that right?" Sally fumed back, not caring that her tones carried through the thin walls with ease. "You should have let him pay."

"I'm through arguing about this. Just get some sleep--it's late, and I have to be to work early tomorrow."

Peter could hear Sally's muffled sound of disgust and the rustle of bedclothes, but the yelling mercifully stopped, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed once again he was the source of arguments and bickering--how ironic it was that he'd come three thousand miles only to find what he'd been trying to escape when he'd left home all those months ago.

Still, Sally had a point--Darryl had been good to him, but it was time to be on his way. Biting his lip, Peter studied the dim outlines of the musical instruments he'd placed neatly in the corner of the living room. As soon as he'd made it to California and found a place to stay. he'd called home and had his mother ship out his guitars and bass. He smiled as he recalled his astonishment on the day he'd picked them up from the depot--she'd even shipped the old French horn he hadn't played in years!

Maybe if I pawn some of them I could get enough cash for a small place, he thought gloomily. He hated the idea of having to part with any of them, but it was obvious he couldn't keep on as he was, living off the kindness of old friends. If he could get another job, maybe he wouldn't have to resort to that...yes, that was what he would do. Tomorrow, he was looking for work.

With that resolved, and the tirade from the bedroom temporarily silenced, Peter pulled the thin blankets up to his chin, turning to face the back of the couch. He'd need a good night's sleep to tackle what promised to be a busy day.

~*~

As was his habit, Peter was up early the next morning. Dressed and out of the apartment before his hosts had even awakened, he headed down the street. Darryl's apartment was located just on the edge the business district--close enough to walk to any of several clubs and businesses, but far enough away from downtown so that the rent was still reasonable.

Pausing on the street corner, Peter looked over his possibilities. Barring asking for more hours at his dishwashing job, the results didn't look promising. The hardware store was out--he'd nearly lost his thumb the last time he'd used a hammer. The florist--well, he was terribly allergic to flowers, his eyes starting to itch at the mere thought of the dreaded pollen. The drug store...

Peter's eyes widened as the sound of raised voices drifted out of Striker's Drugs. As he watched, an dark, lanky young man emerged from the store, green wool hat perched on his wavy hair. Shoulder's slumped in defeat, he started walking, eyes glued to the pavement. Before Peter could shout a warning, he watched as a second man--all but hidden by the stack of boxes he was carrying--collided with the first, both of them losing their balance and falling to the pavement in a shower of cardboard.

Unable to help himself, Peter burst out laughing as he watched the two young men pick themselves up and exchange words. The newcomer seemed to take it all in stride, his friendly face animated and brown curls fairly vibrating with energy as he spoke. After a brief hesitation, the taller man replied, accented voice low and calm.

Suddenly his expression changed as he heard the laughter, features clouding as he turned to pin Peter with intense dark eyes.

Standing there on the corner, the oddest feeling overcame Peter as those eyes met his. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but it was almost as if he was meant to be here. Whatever it was, he knew for certain that these two were going to play an important part in his life.