This story though, takes place a little further down the road. I had been picked up in Idaho by a freshly retired Sergeant Major. When I say freshly, I mean he had just signed his paperwork that honorably ended his service. After doing so he made his way to an automobile dealer and promptly bought the car that he pulled to the side of the road not far from where I stood. It was really an amazing moment, but I will spare you the details of the beginning of our brief friendship, so as to share with you what I observed soon after we parted ways, one thousand eight hundred and seventy five miles later.
By the time we rolled into the truck stop on the beltway that wraps around Indianapolis Indiana, I was driving his car. I had been for quite some time, as he had grown tired in Montana. I was afraid he would stop driving and put me back onto the side of the road prematurely. In order to avoid this outcome, I set about persuading him that I was an excellent and accomplished driver, which in fact I was. He did not require much persuading, and so I soon occupied the pilot’s seat, as he dozed on the passenger side. The funniest memory I have of that drive is his waking out of a deep sleep each time I would stop his Metallica in order to hear a little of the NPR programming I could find on the radio. A few times I was able to hear a story or two, but before long he would stir and unceremoniously reach over and press the button that returned me to the land of death metal.
When we pulled into the parking lot, he woke from the nap he was taking. He had already let me know that this would be the end of the line for me, and so I was ready to move on. He stopped though, looked directly into my eyes and told me that he thought we could really have been friends had fate introduced us at another time in our lives. For some reason this really struck me, and I was quite satisfied to have had that interaction with him. I am usually a pretty happy fellow, so I smiled broadly and threw a small backpack onto my shoulder and walked toward the door of the diner I had parked in front of. Curiously there was a sign posted right at the front door that read ‘Hitchhikers Not Welcome!’ I saw this as odd in a way, but figured for the moment I was safe, since the car I pulled up in was still parked outside. In a few moments he drove away, leaving me there to find my way, a hitchhiker again.
After I consumed a modest standard of black coffee, eggs and toast, I tipped the server generously and began to prepare to leave. It had become plain to me that she saw my predicament, and was sympathetic. I am a bit boyish looking, less so today than I was then, and I think she saw someone else when she looked at me. I gathered my things and went to the counter where I bought a newspaper to bide my time reading while waiting for my next ride.
Once I was out in the air, I made my way to a grassy area at the entrance to the parking lot. I dropped my pack and leaned my sign, ‘EAST’ up against it. I opened the paper and began to read. It was not very long at all before a pair of very high bright beams had identified me on that grass. Soon they were being hurtled toward me by the eight cylinders of the Chevrolet Bronco they cast their light in front of. For just a moment I thought maybe they would drive directly over the curb and into me, but they did not. Instead they veered hard to the left, exposing the passenger side of the vehicle to me. In the passenger seat sat a boy of five or eight years old. His eyes as wide as mine. Across the seat a man consumed with rage spat epithets at me. I bowed my head since I was clearly in no position to protest, and collected my belongings.
I had not lost my buoyant attitude yet. I learned from a gas station attendant down the street that there was in fact a tremendously large truck stop not far away under the over pass. I happily made my way in that direction, and was really shocked by what I found on the other side. It was a sprawling complex, and parked in neat rows were thousands of tractor trailers. An impressive site indeed. The air was thick with diesel fumes and the sound of idling engines. It was late and most of these folks were there for the night. I leaned up against a cement barrier, and began to flaunt my sign.
A few moments later, a man named Mark approached me. He was a gentle soul. He warned me right away that I did not want to be seen by the police, that they would arrest me, and that two prostitutes had been killed in that parking lot last night. I was now keenly aware of the fact that police cruisers were prowling around the parking lots, scanning the alleys between the rigs with their spotlights. Mark told me that he had to make a phone call, and get a pack of smokes, but would be passing by this way again, and if he saw me there still, he would let me come use his radio to hail a ride.
It was twenty or so long slow minutes later that I spotted Mark trying to skirt my location. I was going to allow him this, when he must have been bitten by his conscience. He turned and began to walk back toward me. I was very much relieved. I joined him for the walk back to his humming rig, which he directed me to climb up into the passenger seat of.
This man was a Christian, I could tell by the paraphernalia on the dash board of his cab. He had been calling his wife, who is quite concerned when he is out on the road, and worries about his safety. He lifted the handset from its cradle and spoke into the radio. He used some casual jargon to inquire as to whether anyone was able to take a rider east in the morning. One of the first responders had some kind of reverb device on his radio, making his voice sound as though it were coming from the devil himself. He offered me a ride in return for sex, and my friend Mark quickly responded that in fact this was not a commercial ride.
The night wore on a bit, and the things I heard on the radio were deeply disturbing to me. At times I felt like I were deep in the womb of Babylon. Before Mark had gone back to his bunk, generously leaving me to sleep in his passenger seat, he had in fact secured a very early ride for me heading east out of Indianapolis in the morning. I thanked him, he turned in, and I fell into a gloriously deep sleep. I awoke to realize I had slept beyond the time appointed for me to catch my ride, but I was refreshed and encouraged by the daylight. In an effort to convey to Mark my sincere gratitude, I produced from my bag a quartz crystal I had been carrying with me. It was quite big, weighing several pounds, and had been with me for years. I left it there on his dashboard with his other relics, and showed myself to the door before he woke.
Whatever malaise had been wrapped around this place last night was swept away with the daylight. There were no police cruisers, and a stream of big rigs were lined up, one after the other making their way out of the lot. Before the fateful moment that any hitchhiker will tell you is a sensation not to be missed, several of the drivers gave hopeful shrugs or gestures, letting me know that they were not going my way, or that they too were going to have a great day. Finally, I incredulously stared through a windshield as a long haired fellow waived encouragingly to me letting me know he could take me east out of Indianapolis.
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