My mother always said, “David, you must never hitch-hike. Hitch-hiking is like running a red light with your eyes closed; it may be uneventful, but sooner a later it will be a little more exciting than you bargained for and, like running red lights, it's not the greatest way to meet people.” I didn’t listen.
I made my first attempt at hitchhiking back in '68, a four hundred mile trip west from Montreal. I left the city on a late winter afternoon. A friend gave me a ride out to the trans-Canada highway. He drove away leaving me feeling like an abandoned puppy. I tried to hitch my first ride. I didn't have any luck. No one stopped. Drivers simply glared at me. A couple of them tried to run me off the road. I soon realized what the problem was. It lay in my digital communication system — I was using the wrong digit!
After I switched to my thumb, I was much more successful. In no time I reached St. Zotique, close to the Quebec-Ontario border. I became stalled there; it was late and there was little traffic. Drivers were paying as much attention to the back of billboards as they were to me. I was beginning to think my separation from Quebec would not take place overnight.
Then along came my saviour. Out of the darkness roared the biggest, loudest tractor-trailer I'd ever seen. Lights blazing, horn blaring, those air brakes were music to my ears. It rumbled to a stop about a hundred yards up the road. I grabbed my pack and ran like crazy, afraid he'd leave without me, but he waited (sometimes they don't). "Climb in," called a voice from somewhere above. I climbed; it was like climbing the side of a house, a house that began to shake as the driver revved the rumbling engine as I tumbled into the cab.
The driver and I introduced ourselves. His name was George, told me he was an ex-pro football player from Alberta; he was built like a house, used to play in the early days before they used helmets. He joked that all those years in the game had left him a couple of feet short of a first down, but he could sure drive a truck. He was a gregarious fellow. He shared his coffee and Montreal smoked meat sandwiches with me and we were soon chatting away like old buddies.
As we talked it turned out that George, like me, was a Beatles fan. It was 1968. When he heard this, he leaned over and flicked a switch and the dashboard lit up like a pinball machine. He had the latest, high tech, state of the art stereo equipment — 8 track — and all the latest Beatles tapes. George popped in Magical Mystery tour, which seemed appropriate, and as we rolled down that long black barrel of the Canadian night, we sang along to all the tunes, eighteen wheels humming in harmony (at least there were supposed to be eighteen), the big Cummings diesel beneath us keeping time — it never lost the back beat.
Eventually, we grew tired of singing and George began telling jokes. If he told one, he told a hundred. I laughed. I laughed and laughed all the way to Kingston. I'd arranged to spend the night there at the apartment of a friend and asked George to let me out at the exit ramp. He wouldn't hear of it. He insisted on taking that huge transport truck off the highway, right downtown, and through the back streets of Kingston to the front door of the place I was to stay.
Before I climbed from the cab, George wished me good luck and pressed a two-dollar bill into my hand. And as I stood on the sidewalk to wave goodbye, I had a lump in my throat because as I watched his taillights squeeze around the corner at the end of the street, I knew George was a friend for life I'd never see again, particularly since he'd taken out the streetlight as he left.
I was up early the next morning, and it was raining. There wasn't much traffic, and I had to walk out to the highway where I stood, waiting for another ride, endeavouring to look as pitiful as possible; it worked. A Volkswagen beetle skidded to a stop, right where I had been standing a moment before I’d jumped clear. The driver leaned over and wound down the window — but only an inch. I looked in. It was as though we were peering at each other through a mailbox. All I could see was his eyes. They stared out at me with a fervent gleam. His very first words were, “Do you believe in God, brother?”
“Er, yes,” I replied.
“Then come on in out of the rain, brother.”
He unlocked the door and I got into the car.
“Fasten your seat-belt,” he said.
I did so and he immediately jammed his foot to the floor. The car surged forward as only a VW beetle can surge, and the nightmare began. We were hurtling down the highway, weaving in and out of traffic, passing trucks on the shoulder of the road. I was terrified.
“Aren’t you travelling a little too fast for the conditions?” I asked, nervously.
“Fast?” he said. “You can’t drive fast enough when you’re outrunning the devil, brother.”
“What’s he driving?” I asked. “A Corvette?”
He ignored me. Instead, he smiled sweetly and said, “Would you like to pray with me, brother.” It seemed like a reasonable idea. In fact, I’d already started. I bowed my head in prayer. I could hear the driver beside me praying, too, out loud. I opened one eye and glanced over. In terror, I saw that he had his head bowed too. I prayed harder. A miracle. The car ran out of gas and coasted to a standstill. Before it had barely stopped, I jumped out and ran. I ran like the devil we were outrunning. I must have run half a mile. I slowed to a walk, exhausted.
At this point I was feeling tired and homesick. There wasn’t much traffic, and I was wishing I’d never embarked on this journey, but I was snapped out of my angst by the fragrant arrival of an old, rusty, dusty, farm pick-up, delicately camouflaged in barnyard colours. It didn’t actually stop, but crept along slowly beside me as the driver called out, "Climb in. I daren’t stop cos the starter motor is busted.” I tossed my pack in the back and tugged on the door handle. "No, no, climb in, the door's busted too."
I climbed in, through the window. The door was busted all right — tied shut with binder twine. I cautiously eased my way onto the seat beside a huge dog of questionable hygiene and an uncertain disposition. As we pulled away, my eyes went immediately to a pair of shotgun shells on the dashboard. They began to roll back and forth as the swaying truck accelerated to top speed to merge with the traffic — a delicate manoeuvre when top speed was apparently only forty-three miles per hour. Out of the frying pan, I was thinking.
I glanced over at the driver, a crust of a man. His face weathered like old barn board with tired eyes that looked as though they’d seen too many bad harvests and late mortgage payments. His hands, poking out of frayed sleeves, were worn like old tools. One gripped the steering wheel whilst the other lay on the back of the dog, restraining it.
I said, “Hi,” nervously. The driver didn’t answer. Then he growled. "I been driving for eighteen hours straight. I only picked you up 'cos I need someone to keep me awake, so start talking." I talked. I talked and talked and talked, but after five minutes I ran out of things to say. I could see that the driver was about to drift off any moment and I was ready to panic when I remembered George. George and his jokes, God bless him. Those jokes kept that old truck fuelled and running all the way to Toronto. The driver never cracked a smile, although the dog did. At least I preferred to think it was a smile.
Right around Yonge street the driver suddenly stepped on the brakes. I use the term loosely (the brakes were obviously included in the same maintenance package as the rest of the vehicle). However, the truck eventually slowed to a crawl. "Guess I'd better let you out," said the driver. "I'm headed downtown. I've got some business to take care of. Somebody’s gonna buy the farm." My eyes went straight to the shotgun shells that I'd been trying to ignore.
I went out of that window like a cork out of a champagne bottle. There was nothing to celebrate though. It was rush hour and he took off immediately, leaving me pinned to the guardrail like an exotic species of butterfly, hoping a benevolent lepidopterist would happen by, but there's never one around when you need one. Cars and trucks were zipping by right before me, as was my life I might add. I must have looked a wanted poster, because within seconds one of Toronto’s finest arrived. Siren wailing, embarrassing lights flashing, he stopped right before me.
“Get in, idiot,” He yelled, endearingly. I got in, with mixed emotions. Happy to be out of my predicament, but unsure about my future. He was a friendly old cop though, but I did notice that he tensed up a little and his eye began to twitch when I casually mentioned that I'd spent a little time in Kingston. But he simply gave me a lecture on the perils of hitchhiking then drove me to a hostel for the night and suggested a safer location where he assured me I'd be able to get a ride — out of town.
Back on the highway next morning, waiting for a ride, I began to dwell on the words of the old cop. “In the old days,” he’d said, “every village had a village idiot — and a village psycho. It was okay because everyone knew who they were and kept a close eye on them. But not these days; these days the idiots are hitchhiking whilst the psychos have cars. And they're out there on the highway — cruising, looking for you.”
And with those happy thoughts in my head, I began scrutinizing each car as it approached. Is this the one? Nah, he probably came by last week, or perhaps just this morning, or maybe he’s not due until next week. Or is this him (or her) coming over the hill and running the red light. I shivered and it wasn't just because of the rain that had begun to fall. I had little choice but to accept the next ride that came along. It seemed safe enough, a dark blue Mercedes-Benz.
"Climb in," said the driver. I sank comfortably into the deep leather seat beside a huge, freshly shampooed and brushed, yet familiar dog. I then peered over at the driver. I froze, I'd recognize that barnboard face anywhere. I grabbed for the door handle but it was too late, the car had already reached 100k. I looked again at the driver, wondering if it might be safer to jump, but this time the eyes where twinkling and he was smiling. "Come on kid, I'll take you to Waterloo and buy you supper. I reckon I owe you one. They bought the farm, the whole four hundred acres.
© 1994 David M. Hobson
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