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September 15th, 2015

Awake Goy

If somehow it could be tallied, I probably have hitchhiked over a million miles. It began when I was 17. With all the thrills, spills, chills, adventures, misadventures, absurdities, and near-death experiences tossed in, more on that at another date. But for now, a few anecdotes. . . .

Some time ago I noticed two hitchhikers waiting along the interstate on-ramp. Those two blokes are probably still standing there. Long ago I learned that two guys hitchhiking together might as well walk, creep, crawl, or pogo-stick to their destination for they will reach it long before they find someone stupid enough to pick them up.

That scene also reminded me of a young hitchhiking cowboy I saw one time in a small western town. He was sitting casually on the curb with his roll beside him, chatting with a child who was with some friends. The hiker was headed my way but he didn’t even bother to stick his thumb out, which was just as well. No one in their right mind would pick up a man who appeared to be toting several kids.

And that sight in turn reminded me of a little incident which occurred when I was thumbing through Germany one summer. It was early on a foggy morning and I had just walked across an electrified railroad bridge over the Weser River at Bodenwerder. “Achtung!” warned the sign with skull and crossbones. “Verboten!”

I was not electrocuted and trudged on to the nearby highway that led into the uplands. It was a small road and I knew traffic would be light. But my belly was full and I was in no rush. Unfortunately, I dropped my bag and parked myself close to a home. In a few minutes a big, friendly dog walked up swishing his tail slowly. I petted the grateful animal on the head and spoke to him. That was a mistake. The dog promptly laid down at my feet like a rug and refused to budge, even though I now ignored him entirely. One car goes by, no luck. Two cars go by, no luck. Ten cars go by, then twenty, and I was still standing in the chilly fog an hour later. Rather than kick my unlucky companion or scold him back to the house, I decided that heading in that direction was not so important after all and thereupon gave the good-natured hound one last pet and trooped back across the deadly, forbidden bridge.

If one really wants to hitchhike, join the army. Or better yet, steal an army uniform. Many a time I reached a destination long before I could have actually driven there myself simply because I was wearing my ticket. And, of course, it was all free. Out of uniform, hitchhiking is tough. Out of uniform, everyone eyes you as if you are a serial killer or an escaped mental patient. If a friend tries thumbing with you, everyone now looks at you as if you are two serial killers or two escaped mental patients. Kids and dogs would merely add to the millstone and only drunks, drug addicts and derelicts would stop for such a crew.

Almost every mile I spent thumbing was from necessity, and not some airy impulse to see the world for free. Consequently, most of my experiences were seen through the filter of trial and travail, not adventure. Back when I was twenty-something, myself and a friend took the Amtrak to Las Vegas. We had visions of instant wealth. My buddy, fresh out of state prison, had a sure-fire method for breaking the roulette bank at any casino entered and I was just naive and desperate enough to give it a whirl.

Forty-eight hours after we reached Las Vegas, we left Las Vegas—with our thumbs out. Because it was much quicker to thumb back in shame solo, we separated at Hoover Dam.

“Kansas? Dat’s a mother-fuckin’ flat state, ain’t it? Ha, ha. Shit, I go fuckin’ nuts out there, with all them tornadoes and shit. . . . What you mother-fuckers do out there beside fuck and drink? Holy shit, I haf to mainline if I lived out there, ha.”

My new ride was a Puerto Rican chap from New Jersey. I’ll call him Carlos. He was a likeable enough fellow, upbeat in every respect. But he never stopped talking. And he seemingly could not string four words together without two of them being extremely vulgar profanities. Although I cussed and all the people I knew cussed, myself and all the people did not cuss all the time. If uttered at all, curse words should be used like hand and arm movements when speaking; for emphasis only. Perhaps Carlos was emphasizing everything. Carlos’ continual talking and cussing were already bad enough, but he insisted on looking at me while he talked and cussed.

“Sheeeeit! You see that good-lookin’ bitch? God damn! Mother-fucker!! MOTHER FUCKER!!! Shit, that momma good-lookin.’ Man, she fuck your mother-fuckin’ head off then screw it back on and fuck you some more. I’m getting a fuckin’ knot just thinkin’ bout that sweet whore. Shit! Fuck!! That was one good-lookin’ bitch, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that a good-lookin’ fuckin’ bitch?”

After fifty or so miles of this, I asked Carlos if he’d like for me to drive. I didn’t mind driving, I told him, and I was a very good driver. I was greatly relieved when my host agreed, since I had visions of Kansas carnies and Denver drunks (former bad rides, car crashes and near-death experiences) dancing in my head. And thus, from Kingman, Arizona, to Oklahoma City—where I planned to bail—I was resolved to hold my position at the helm and never relinquish it to this chattering, profane madman, no matter the trial to come.

Cactus Junction . . . Skunk Town . . . Lizard City . . . Dirtville-–-mile after mile we drove on through the desert with Carlos babbling away most blasphemously.

Although I was driving as fast as I possibly could, there must have been at least fifty “mother-f–kers,” “c–k-s–kers” and “son-of-a-b—hes” per mile, with hundreds of “s–ts,” “f–ks” and “d–ns” tossed in for good measure. I swore to myself several times that day that I would never ever cuss again.

Late that night we stopped in Gallup, New Mexico, for something to eat. It happened to be a Mexican café and we both ordered chili verde. “Mucho calor,” said the waiter. That was an understatement. The food was very hot going in and, as events would prove the following day, it was very hot going out.

Somewhere in central New Mexico, Carlos mercifully dozed off. I suppose he was even cussing in his dreams since he was laughing a lot in his sleep. Although Carlos had been revolting in the highest degree to my ear drums, he had nevertheless kept me awake. Now I was on my own. I began the fight to stay alive. After nearly twenty hours of almost nonstop driving and three million vile cuss words, I was fairly exhausted.

Traveler’s Rest Lodge . . . Cozy Time Hotel . . . Sweet Dreams Motel . . . Slumber Inn-–-every sign our headlights lit up seemed to mock my condition. Perhaps with the exception of the night I conked off on guard duty in the military, this keelhaul may have been my hardest night ever to stay awake.

When we reached Amarillo at dawn, we pulled over to a rest stop. Carlos was having a tough time with the “mucho calor” of the night before. Hardly had he closed the door and raced to the restroom, than I laid my head against the window and promptly fell asleep. I’ve always been a restless sleeper and during college this quickly developed into insomnia. But on this bright Texas dawn, I was out like someone hit a light switch. When I was startled awake again by Carlo’s return, my deep slumber might have lasted five seconds or five years; so addled was I that I could not rightly tell. I suppose it was actually five minutes. At that moment, I would have gladly traded a year or two of my life for five minutes more.

“Hey man, wake the f–k up! It’s a new day, a new f–kin’ day,” my bright and rested companion laughed. “You want me to drive?”

Tired though I was, my survival instinct was still in tact and I continued to drive the next two or three hundred miles to Oklahoma City, with Carlos cussing every f–kin’ klick of the way.