Born in Brooklyn, raised in Hollywood, Joseph Sutton has been a University of Oregon football player, high school teacher and costume jewelry salesman.  He is the author of Write Now! On the Road to Getting Published or How I Learned to Sell My Book; Morning Pages: The Almost True Story of My Life; The Immortal Mouth and Other Stories; A Class of Leaders and Words of Wellness: A Treasury of Quotations for Well-Being.  His short stories and essays have appeared in numerous magazines and journals such as Tin House, Glimmer Train, The Sun, the San Francisco Chronicle, Writer's Digest and Writers' Journal.  Sutton lives in San Francisco with his wife Joan.

    When the woman Jake Massry lives with leaves him for another man because he can’t get his first novel published, and his old-world father on his deathbed orders him to get a “real” job, Jake, to get his head straight, hits the highways of America in his worn-out VW bus, Old Bones.
    As he travels from place to place in Old Bones (or rather pushes him), Jake encounters the variety of America: sexy women, gays, born-again Christians, philosophers, bartenders, cops, bullies and Gary Morse, a 19-year-old hitchhiker who possesses a large “red ruby” given to him by a young heiress.
    In the road book tradition of Kerouac and Steinbeck, Highway Sailor: A Rollicking American Journey takes you on an odyssey as Jake Massry tries to find himself and America at the same time.

                                The Hitchhiker

    I turned right on Fairfax and drove down Hollywood Boulevard.  I drove past La Brea and the Chinese Theater, past Highland and the Egyptian Theater, past Vine Street and the Pantages Theater.
    At the on-ramp of the Hollywood Freeway an innocent-looking young man was sitting on an army duffel bag holding his thumb out.  I stopped for him.
    He opened the door, and before he even knew where I was going, he threw his duffel bag onto the front seat.  I was the one who had to ask, "Where you headed?"
    "East," he said, jumping in.
    "Where east?"
    "Anywheres back east.  New York to be exact.  Where you goin'?"
    "I'm going back east, too."
    "Really?  Great!  I just knew today was my lucky day.  And you even got a bed in this car.  Listen," he said, "I can pay my way by doin' most of the drivin'.  Whaddaya say, man, is it a deal?"
    A pretty aggressive fellow, I thought.  "I'm sorry to disappoint you," I said, merging my VW bus, Old Bones, into the right lane of the freeway, "but I'm taking my time on this trip.  I was thinking of staying with a friend in Tucson for a while."
    "Can you drop me off in Tucson then?"
    It wasn't my intention to drive such a long distance with a stranger in my car, but the words, "Yeah, I guess so," rolled off my tongue and into his ears.
    "The name's Gary Morse," he said, holding his right hand out.
    "I'm Jake Massry."  I followed his lead by hooking thumbs with him and clasping his hand.
    He threw his duffel bag over the front seat and we were on our way.
    Gary was nineteen and from Brooklyn, my birthplace.  He had curly blond hair and was of medium height.  He wore a red-plaid flannel shirt and faded bell-bottom Levi's.  He said he'd gotten into Hollywood the night before and was leaving already.  He'd been hitchhiking around the country for six months.
    "What's your favorite state?" I asked this old pro of the highway.
    "Well, man, if you're thinkin' of beauty—it's Vermont.  The trees, the air, the streams—it's heaven.  But if you're thinkin' of beauties—you know, girls—then Florida’s the state.  Like when I was down there in January, you shoulda seen all them chicks on the beach.  There was so many of 'em I didn't know what to do with 'em all."
    "You're putting me on."
    "I ain't puttin' you on.  Believe me, they was swarmin' on the beach like bees.  Anyways, you can't believe how they loosen up when they're away from home.  Like this one girl actually wanted to marry me.  I told her straight out that marriage wasn't for me.  So you know what she goes and does?  She gives me a red ruby so I won't forget her.  And, man, I'm talkin' a really big red ruby.  She said it was a family hairloom or whatever you call them things."
    "Why'd she give you such a valuable stone?"
    "She loved me, man—why else?"
    "Is the ruby worth anything?"
    "It's gotta be.  Her dad just happens to be the Mister Reynolds of Reynolds Aluminum."
    I was curious.  "Can I see your ruby?"
    He hesitated a moment before saying, "I uh...I ain't got it no more."
    "Don't tell me you lost it."
    "Naa, naa.  I uh...I sent it back to my mom and pop in Brooklyn.  Say," he said, changing the subject, "all we been doin' is talkin' about me.  What about you?  How old are you?"
    "I’m thirty-three."
    "What kinda work you into?"
    "I'm a writer."
    "What's your name again?"
    "Jake Massry."
    He thought a moment.  "Never heard of you.  How many books you written?"
    "I’ve written a novel and a bunch of short stories, but nothing’s been published yet."
    Gary hadn't gotten much sleep the night before (he said he slept in one of those enclosed U-Haul trailers in back of a gas station), so he hunched over in his seat and dozed off as I pointed Old Bones east on Interstate 10, passing signs that said Pomona, Ontario, San Bernadino, Redlands, and Yucaipa..........