"Road Trip Pt—IV"

The early to mid-1970s were probably the end of hitchhiking as it had been done since the invention of the automobile (and maybe other modes of transportation, too).  Today it is rare to see someone with a thumb out.  The world just seemed to become too dangerous.  My trip back from Georgia was the longest distance I ever traveled that way, but we frequently hitched from Kansas City to Omaha and beyond when I was in college at Tarkio.  Most of my extended journey that January was fun, educational, and safe.  Most….

One of the rides I had before my cathartic night in the rain in Tennessee was short.  At my insistence.  A harmless enough looking older fellow stopped for me somewhere in the north Georgia foothills after my pleasant ride in the back of the truck with the kids both human and bovine.  He was as untidy as the inside of his sedan, however, and—I realized after I got in and shut my door—that he and the care were quite odiferous, as well.

As usual, the introductory conversation included his giving me the once-over just as I was trying to gauge his company.  I knew I was going to make an excuse to hop out at the earliest intersection just to get some air, but he soon made my decision more immediate.

“You’re kinda good lookin’ young feller, ain’t ya.”

“Um.  Thanks.”

“You know, my place ain’t too far from here.  My wife’s a pretty young thing married me to get away from her pa.  She cooks good, but I don’t keep her happy; know what I mean?”

“Huh?”

“Why don’t we go let her fix us some grub and then maybe you can put a smile on her face for a while.”

“I, uh, don’t think I’m interested.  But, thanks?”

“Well, me givin’ you a ride and all, I think I’ll just drive on home so’s you can see for yourself, anyway.”

I was beginning to have a new appreciation for what “uncomfortable” means.  About the time I understood how this conversation had turned, I developed an itch on the outside of my right leg.  It seemed to become more aggravating the more he talked, and I was scratching the whole time we debating our destination.

“No, I really need to be moving down the road.  I appreciate the ride, and I’m sure your wife is a nice lady and all, but if you’ll just pull over here, I think I’ll get out now.”

“Buddy, you ain’t going nowhere until I say so, and I say we’re going to my place now.”

Boy, did my leg itch.  It got so bad about then that I had to pull up my pant leg to get at it…and the .45 caliber Colt in the ankle holster.  What?  You thought this hillbilly was walking around that far from home with just a thumb?

He almost choked on his chew when he saw what I had pressed against his leg.  Luckily, he didn’t slam on the brakes.

“No, sir.  I don’t think you understand.  You’re going to pull this piece of shit to the side of the road real easy-like.  I’m going to get my pack and send you on your way, or you’re going to need a doctor to put your leg back together after I blow it off at the knee.”

Braking.

And that, children, is why you should not hitchhike.  Or pick up a hitchhiker.  Even a clean-cut, innocent young fellow can be full of surprises.  The rest of the trip wasn’t uneventful, but nothing held a candle to those fifteen minutes.