Wherein pants are dropped and there is much awkwardness.
No travelogue of a cross-country trip hitchhiking across America would be complete with the very depiction that puts the current travelogue into perspective: other hitchhikers.
I met a few on my trip across our great nation, but they all seemed to fall within two main categories: those hitchhiking by choice and those doing it by accident, out of unfortunate necessity. I had started my journey in the former category, but after my crash landing in Oklahoma, I was firmly planted in the secondary category. I wanted to get home in the shortest, least risky, least permanently damaging way possible.
The hitchhikers in the latter category were what you’d expect: twitichy, tired, depressed souls just trying to get somewhere. Well, the best ones of them had somewhere to go. Those that didn’t have anywhere to go were the most despairing type, but they’re drifters looking for a home at that point. No, I mean the ones who have a place they could hang up their shoes and know a few friendly faces; it might be thousands of miles away, but it exists somewhere, and all their dreams rest upon getting there. They’re lonely souls, but they have hope and direction. I respect that.
The other types of hitchhikers are trickier beasts. They are not ones cruising specifically on a hope and a single destination. These are those who have actively decided to leave somewhere and depend on the kindness of strangers to get them to their proposed destination. We could sit here for hours proposing why they decided to do this. Maybe they read Kerouac’s On The Road just a few too many times, and visions of fifties hitchhiking mixed with dancing benny tubes developed within them an idealized wanderlust. Maybe they were short on cash but high on pluck, wanting to see America and willing to exist on their wits alone. Hitchhiking is much more dangerous than it used to be. Or it seems that way. In Kerouac’s time, there were no serial killers – or none reported in newspapers. I don’t recall the part in On The Road where Neal Cassidy determined whether a given person was an axe murderer or not. Maybe that was in one of the alternate scrolls of the novel.
While on the road, the relationship between hitchhikers can be a strange one. It all depends on levels of trust and openness. Some might think hitchhikers would all be peace, love, and granola to each other, but there are strong reasons why this isn’t the case. First off, all hitchhikers are at their essence transients. No matter where they are now, the places and people will be out of their lives in a short while. If their impetus for being a good person is derived from social pressure and consequences, those restraints fall away on the road. What I’m saying is basically: some hitchhikers will lie, cheat, and steal if they have to or want to. And when you’re just another hitchhiker, there’s even less reason for them not too, compared to the good behavior they must don in someone’s car.
The other reason for hitchhiker distrust is simple rules of economy. There are only so many cars, so every other hitchhiker going your way is a threat to you getting that one ride you really need. In general, teaming up isn’t worth it. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that a car driving by might take a risk on one sketchy person, but two is suddenly a bigger threat and perhaps something to avoid. Three looks like a gang. Some of the “professional” hitchhikers will talk about any established protocol about hitching from the same location. The hitchhiker who got their first will stand in the prime spot, thumb out. The second will thumb from a farther along and less prime location. When the first is picked up, the second moves into the prime spot. I think this is bullshit, personally. If I were in my car and saw two hitchhikers thumbing from the same location, even if properly spaced, I would wonder how I got in such a bad area that everyone’s hitchhiking out of it, and instead of stopping I’d lean on the gas a little harder to get past it sooner.
That said, when things are bad, sometimes the distrust is forgotten. When there’s no hope of any cars and you’re huddling in the rain together, you open up. The other is not a threat of ride theft and you’re watching them the whole time, so they’re not going to mess with your stuff. So the milk of human kindness does come out. But for hitchhikers, generally only when things are most miserable.
I did meet a couple of hitchhikers on my trip that violated that theory. They were kind to me even without needing to. I wonder if they had never gotten ripped off. Maybe they had and they didn’t care. All I know is they were nice to me.
I had been just dropped off where the interstate met a country road. The driver needed to continue on the interstate, but I needed the detour on the country road. He dropped me off with a good luck, and I breathed a deep breath while he sped off. His car had smelled strongly of pungent cheese.
The sun was going down. I looked around and found there was barely anything around. I shrugged and just started walking. After a half an hour, I noticed two other hitchhikers going through their backpacks. I knew they were hitchhikers. On the side of the road in the middle of nowhere going through their backpacks? Either hitchhikers or very, very lost mountaineers.
The guy was tall, his long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. He had a full beard and mustache. He was dressed in a dark grey coat. The girl was shorter. She had wavy red hair that somehow reminded me of a flapper haircut. She wore a black motorcycle jacket, probably one of the lighter knockoffs not intended for actual motorcycle riding. They both were maybe in their twenties.
“Hey man,” the guy said as I walked near. I was fully prepared to walk right on by, respecting what they were doing. But he greeted me as he squatted with his pack.
“Uh, hi,” I responded.
“You a hitchhiker too?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“You almost home?” she asked. “Or got nowhere to go but catch a ride?”
It was weird to ask, but I responded anyway. “No, just need to catch a ride.”
“I was told cars barely drive this road at night,” she continued. “It’s nearly dark. We got permission from the guy who owns this land to camp overnight. Do you want to join us?”
I looked down the road and up at the darkening sky. “Sure, why not?”
We walked across the barren, parched grass so that we weren’t too close to the road. The sound of cars whipping down the road, as unlikely as we thought that was, might be jarring while we slept. We found a nice level spot next to a bunch of large rocks piled. We dropped our stuff and started a fire. We shared a few cans of ravioli that they had. This was relatively fine, with all the usual small talk. After dinner is when it got weird.
The guy, Isaac, climbed up onto the rocks and settled down in a cross legged position, looking away from the camping spot, staring into the dark distance. I expected him to say something, but he just sat there.
“Isaac is an alchemist,” the girl, Mel, said.
“Eh?” was my only response.
“He’s meditating. That’s how he restores his power,” she said. I turned and looked at her. She was serious, but she wasn’t saying it as gravely as you would think. She was saying it like: “John always enjoys a nice coffee and a cigar after dinner.” Clearly not joking, but not really investing any weight into it. Not the weight you’d expect for talking about restoring power.
I simply shrugged. After all the Megistus stuff, I just was fine dropping the subject. I had no interest to talk about power and assorted tomfoolery.
“Let’s take a walk,” she said.
I shrugged and followed her as we tromped across the barren grass away from the road. There was an almost full moon and the sky was clear, so we had some light. Not enough that I didn’t trip on a random root, but enough to keep walking.
She asked about me and how long I was on the road. Though she heard it hadn’t been too long and at this point wasn’t by choice, she began giving me tips. Some I could apply now, but others would only be relevant if I for some reason decided to hitchhike again. She told me to always carry a jar of peanut butter. Even if things get really bad, I can have one spoonful of peanut butter a day, and that would be enough to survive without other food. I shrugged. I’ve heard since then that the same can be done with Guinness Extra Stout.
She talked about Isaac here and there, just odd comments here and there. A few times she called him her boyfriend, which is about what I expected. Which is why I was equally confused when she dropped her pants in front of me.
She had been talking about how cold a night it was getting, and that she would need to be warmer. She put down her backpack and got out another pair of pants. She said that she was going to change. I expected her to go behind a bush or something. Nothing of the sort. She simply unbuttoned her pants and dropped trou right in front of me.
I was completely shocked. She was standing there in her jacket and pink panties. I remember seeing the sheen of the moon on the curves of her legs. She stood for a second looking at me, not stepping out of her pants.
I awkwardly turned away, averting my eyes. I heard her chuckle behind me, as she must have stepped out of her pants and put on the others. I was confused. We hadn’t really been talking in any way that signified attraction, though she seemed very interested in talking to me. Sure I had accepted a pretty girl’s offer to walk away from camp in the middle of the night, but her boyfriend was like fifty yards away, so I didn’t think she meant it as a come on. My face was kind of red. I had been with girls before, but for some reason the awkwardness of this really got to me.
When she was done she put her hand on my shoulder and sort of “suggested” with it I turn around. She had a strange sort of smile, kind of sheepish, kind of not.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Well, I, umm. I guess. Y’know. Yeah.”
She laughed again. “Do you want to continue walking?” It was strange she almost acted like nothing happened.
“I think I want to head back,” I said. “My ankle hurts a bit from where that root tripped me.”
“I think I’ll keep walking then,” she said. She didn’t seem offended or put off. I still had no clue what had happened.
She turned and trudged one way, I turned and wandered off the other direction, back towards our stuff and Isaac. When I got back, I picked at my stuff vaguely. Isaac was still sitting on the rocks. Somehow I felt guilty, but I didn’t do anything. I wondered what he was looking at. I wandered over near the rocks, squinting my eyes to see whatever might be in the darkness.
“How was it?” Isaac asked like he was asking about the weather.
I looked up and saw his eyes still staring into the unknown – his meditation, I guess.
“How was what?” I responded.
“Your walk.”
“It was okay,” I said, kind of wincing as I said it. Did he know something? I felt like the only one not invited to the party.
“Sure, it could be that.” He said flatly.
“Is there something….” I trailed off.
“What happens, happens,” he said.
This was a strange statement, both now and in that strange night. “But what if –“
“What happens, happens,” he repeated, cutting off my words.
I opened my mouth again, but closed it. These people are out to lunch, I decided. I sat down by my stuff and contemplated sleep. I lay down but sleep did not come for a while.
I heard Mel come back and looked up. She smiled at me strangely. Then she climbed up the rocks and put her arms around Isaac. He turned and kissed her, more than a quick peck, but less than something with passion. She gave him a final hug, then climbed down and went to bed. Within a minute he did the same.
When I awoke in the morning, they had already gathered their stuff. I was groggy, but they waved a quick and perfunctory goodbye before they left. I checked and had all my stuff. They didn’t ask me to come with them, they just up and left.
I still have no clue what happened or should have happened that night. When a strange woman drops her pants in front of you with her boyfriend fifty yards away, is it a signal? Or is she just crazy.
Personally, I lean towards crazy.
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