Is Sam Morse, the on-the-road narrator of this on-the-road hipness, ""an Everyman for the 1970s"" as promised? More like Everyjerk. Having had naught but bummers and downers in his stabs at college life, workingman life, and pseudointellectual life (at Now magazine, as contributing editor in parapsychology), Sam's hitching his way to Miami. And so is strange stranger Patsy, so ""We ended up in a motel room in Fayetteville instead, where we hardly got out of bed for a week."" The picaresque trio is complete when horny, fat-cat businessman Charley gives Sam and Patsy a ride, succumbs to Patsy's crotch-exposing flirtations, and finds himself blackmailed into providing Florida cottage room-and-board to the pair, who pose as brother and sister for virtuous effect. While Sam muses on his flaky past, the present rambles through the shooting of an escaped convict, the running of a carload of dope to Gainesville, and a jail sentence. With lines like, ""You giving out blow jobs for free these days?"" one hopes that Flam is flimflamming for laughs. And lines like ""no matter where your Consciousness is, you always have to eat"" do indeed come through with a nice, light-satiric touch. But the sad conclusion is that we're supposed to take Sam serious--as he ultimately heads off to Kansas City (""Just where I've been headed all my life"") on a road that's been traveled too many times by funnier, wiser, and far smarter drop-outs than Sam or Flam.