Gratuitous Dread Presence

Albequerque eastbound

I was on the way back from vacation and had spent the last of my money the night before on a motel room and breakfast. After leaving my change as a tip I went onto the highway headed east.

A truck pulled over. I have hitchhiked many miles through all parts of the country but had only had a semi tractor trailer pick me up once before. I knew of their vast distances traveled and I also knew that having access to a trucker's CB radio could also mean more rides.

But with this trucker it was not the case. He didn't use his CB. He was an older man, in his late forties or fifties. A bit scrawny looking with white hair. He was friendly and casual as we started off. I quickly found out he was going to Oklahoma City, which was a full day's ride across some of the most desolate highway in the country. I sat back to enjoy my luck.

My ride, however, had other plans. After an hour or so of polite conversation, he turned the topic to sex. At first it was pretty simple—he asked me about girlfriends and sexual experiences. Then he asked about any experience with boys. With each passing mile he got more and more perverted.

He had a point. He finally explained what he wanted me to do. It didn't sound that bad, actually—and the fact that he was offering money made it seem a bit more interesting—it was as if he knew that I had none. Part of me began to wonder if I would be willing to do such a thing for what the money would give me.

I contemplated his offer for a bit while I thought over the logistics. I knew I was going to be put into an environment that would be difficult to control and that he would press me for more when the moment came. I decided that I didn't want to do something like that, so I politely declined.

Unfortunately my ride was very persistent. In normal circumstances I would finally tell him to let me off but there were two factors to consider: He was going to Oklahoma City, a long drive, and on the prevoious week I spent a miserable day on the very same stretch of highway unable to get a ride. I had no desire to spend time in some small high plains exit again.

So I fenced with him all morning and most of the afternoon. I heard stories of what he did to other hitchhikers. He offered me a job as a tarp handler and promised me a lot of good loving on the top of some cold mountain passes. Finally, shortly after crossing into Oklahoma, he said he had to take a piss and pulled over. I wondered if he was going to ditch me, but I had to go too so I jumped out and peed. He then took that moment to relieve his condition. I politely watched as it was the least I could do for a thousand mile ride.

When he climbed back into the cab he didn't talk sex anymore, but then seemed to lapse into some CW McCall character, telling me of trucking stories about being overweight and driving through snow. He let me off near a trucking terminal on the wrong side of Oklahoma City, where I paid for my principles by sleeping in a treeline between two fields. It was too windy to cook and a cold front moved in an hour or so later to add to my misery.

Joplin, Missouri

I arrived in Joplin at night, after leaving Des Moines, Iowa that morning. I had kept an eye on the weather, and realized that it was going to rain that night, so I squandered some of my hard earned cash on a cheap motel room. My money was well spent; I watched the rain from the balcony.

The next morning, it was clear. I hiked out to the highway, and found that there were two other hitchhikers working the exit. Both of them were vagabonds—adult men who appeared to travel as part of their lifestyle. They were about fifty meters apart, and I hiked to a place beyond them, where a car would see me only after seeing them.

About an hour later, beat up white American car slowed down to take a look at the first vagabond, but then passed him by. The then eyed the next one, and passed him by. They saw me and pulled over. The car was kind of old, pretty dirty, with some trash and stuff in the back seat. One of the things that struck me as odd was the presence of a cheap turntable.

It was a couple that picked me up—A man who appeared to be in his mid or late thirties, and his wife of somewhat similar age. The wife was pretty large, and, as I discovered later, missing one of her legs below the knee. At first, she explained that she had lost it in Vietnam, where she was a nurse, but then later said it was lost due to diabetes.

They were from Arkansas, some small town near the Missouri line. Their language was very heavily accented, and I struggled to grasp the meanings and nuances of their dialect. Through careful listening, I learned that they had come up from their town yesterday, and had spent last night in Joplin, drinking at various bars. They were on their way to Oklahoma City, to visit a relative.

We entered the Oklahoma turnpike system, and made our way west. They asked me if I had any pot, and I lied and told them no. After a while, they pulled over into a rest area on the tollway. At that time, the rest areas of the Oklahoma tollways had full service restaurants. My ride promptly got a table and ordered a hearty breakfast. Once it came, they stirred everything into one big pile on their plates, and dug in.

The restaurant was a classic example of a truck stop, so I casually watched a tractor trailer park outside. The truck driver jumped out and made his way to a bank of pay phones in the back. A woman, accompanied by a four year old girl got out and came into the restaurant. And came to our table.

She then proceeded to shout at my ride. They responded in kind, and I sat there calmly eating my breakfast while the other patrons watched. Their dialect was still heavy, but I was able to ascertain that the woman had come up with them last night to Joplin, and they had gotten separated while out cruising the bars.

After fighting, the calmed down, and the woman and kid joined our table. I wondered if this was going to be a problem with my ride, but they quickly rearranged things to fit the three of us into the back seat. We continued onto Oklahoma City. The girl sat between me and the woman, and I talked to both of them for a while. The woman was vaguely attractive, and she seemed interested in the college life that I was leading, though not questioning why I was out hitchhiking.

I began to play with the girl, and she responded. We began to have fun, and then the woman put a stop to it. I didn't realize then that the woman was upset with the attention I was giving to her daughter instead of her.

I was dropped off in the middle of town, and it took me several hours to get to the right side. I finally did, but not before rejecting a ride from some aggressive looking kids. I finally got a ride from an oil field worker who dropped me off in a small town in western Oklahoma. I spent the night there in a roach invested motel room. I never remembered the name of that town, but I should have, as I ended up spending the most of the next day along the highway trying to get a ride—by far the longest time I had ever waited for a ride.

Route 113, Vermont

I was returning to Vershire at the end of spring break, a trip in which I hitchhiked from Chicago to Vermont. A ride had dropped me off at White River Junction, Vermont after dark, with about thirty miles to go until I was home. I disliked hitchhiking at night because it was really hard to get rides but my other alternatives—walking and finding a place to crash—were things I wished to avoid.

I quickly got a ride the short distance I had left on the interstate, and started waling westward on Vermont Route 113, a local highway. Traffic was very light. Soon I left the lights of the highway and found myself walking in a very dark, cloudy Vermont night.

Finally a vehicle approached—a pickup truck. I ran up to the cab and opened the door, and immediately noticed that there were two people in the cab, along with a case of Genesee beer. “Where ya goin'?” The driver asked.

“Vershire.” I said.

“Sure, I can take you to Vershire, no problem. Hop in back.” So I quickly threw my backpack myself in the bed of pickup. I wasn't the only thing in the bed of the pickup—there were two or three of what appeared to be stripped engine blocks in there.

The driver took off aggressively. I had to dodge the engine blocks as they slid to the back of the bed along with me. I began to get annoyed with the driver--couldn't he see that I wasn't sitting down? But just as I got settled, the driver slammed on the brakes. My backpack, myself and the engine blocks all slid forward.

I worked to avoid the objects sliding around as the driver started and stopped several more times. Finally, I got a good grip on the cab, and was able to keep from sliding around. I watched as the truck sped along the highway. At one point, it swerved and took out a mailbox.

After a few minutes of this, the driver pulled off to do some hill climbing. He immediately tackled a hill but didn't have enough momentum to make it over so he had to back down. I grabbed my backpack and jumped out when the truck stopped for a moment between reverse and forward.

My exit was noticed by the driver. Quickly turning the truck around, he proceeded to start chasing me down. I found myself in a small dirt field welding a 50 pound backpack struggling to avoid a charging pickup truck like some kind of matador. I was able to easily avoid the truck because it was constantly turning and I could easily cut the angle. Finally, when I had enough time I ducked into a nearby grove of trees.

The truck left a few minutes later. I waited for about fifteen minutes myself and then resumed walking down the highway. I hiked for about an hour before I saw the truck again. It was stuck on the side of a hill. The driver noticed me walking and invited me up so he could 'Take me to Vershire.'

An hour after that, I was picked up by a van that was returning from the White River Junction bus station with several students. I did not tell them about my last ride. I was dropped off at the trail head to my cabin a few minutes later, and made my way down the dark trail to my bed.

The Greatest Ride Ever Told

Not quite a hitchhiking story, but related because it all started with me hitchhiking. A long time ago, I was a teenaged runaway—and I ended up spending several months away from home. I can't say why I did it—maybe I was just sensing that I needed adventure. I don't remember all of the names of the people and places, but I still remember who they were in relation to me.

Hitchhiking is often the mode of transport for the desperate. Fellow hitchhikers I met were a sullen, broody crew that had little prospect in life. I saw some desperate people on the road—bums, mostly, con men, or just general drifters. The people that picked me up often weren't too far off themselves—it was almost always the crappy cars filled with crap that stopped. Women alone almost never picked me up, but I had many families and couples give me rides.

My story begins a few days after I left home. I was seventeen.

Buffalo, New York

It was early fall, and I was on my way back to school. I had spent the night in a storage shed in suburban Buffalo, and secured a ride to the right side of town. It was still pretty early—sunrise had come only 10 minutes ago, and everything was covered in a layer of frost. I went to the sweet spot on the highway, and in a few minutes I got one of the best rides I ever had.

He was a young man, about thirty or so, driving a Chrysler that was a couple years old, and he was heading to White River Junction, Vermont. He wasn't very talkative, and I never learned why he was making the long drive, or what he did for a living. We talked idly about various political and social issues.

Somewhere near Albany, he left the interstate and took to the back roads. We stopped for gas, and he purchased a Rand McNally atlas. We smoked a couple of times, but I can't remember if we used my stash or his. I love maps, so I spent some time pouring over Rand McNally's latest edition, which was as new and fresh to me as a newspaper.

New England is a truly beautiful place, and I think the best way to enter it is through upstate New York. The rolling plains gradually stiffen into mountains, and the fields gently give way to thickets, then groves, then forest. The network of roads are wonderfuly rural, more so because their age sofened the harshness of rural ares in the west.

At one point, I realized that he had taken a wrong road, and that the highway we were on was taking us north and east of Lake Champlain. I pointed this out immediately, and we were able to find an alternate route. It was several hours after sunset when we arrived in White River Junction, and the bright morning was distant memory. In fact, it had become overcast, and the night that loomed before me was unusually dark. I was dropped off on the right side of town.

Hindsight shows me that the dark night was an omen. I was close to home—only about an hour's drive, so I decided to try to sleep in my own bed that night. That turned out to be a bad decision.

Ohio #1

It was at the end of spring break, and I was on my way back to school in Vermont. I had left Chicago that morning, and had a couple of rides, and was in Ohio. The highway had some kind of funky curb guarding the entrance ramps, and it was hard for cars to pull over to pick me up.

It’s very important to establish and maintain eye contact with any potential ride. In this case, it meant that I could see that the driver wanted to pick me up, but didn’t know where to go. I pointed to a clear section of the shoulder, and he pulled over.

He was a young guy, perhaps 25 or so. I immediately noticed that he was playing Bruce Springsteen on his tape player. At the time, I hated Bruce—I just didn’t like his style of music. We drove for a few minutes, and then he moved funny for a minute. I looked down in the bench seat between us, and there was a large baggie of brown marijuana.

He was delighted to find out that I had a pipe. He would then grab enormous buds and stuff them into the bowl, seeds and all. He kept doing this every five minutes. Two hours later, he let me and my headache off on the wrong side of Cleveland