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le_battement
Age. 21
Gender. Male
Ethnicity. White stuff
Location New Brunswick, NJ
School. Rutgers Univ
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Hitchhiker's Guide to Hitchhiking

Sunday, Night

I fancy those late night walks where cars are nothing but a pair of luminous eyes creeping over a hill, where the sandy edges of roads tell more profound and personal tales than a highway could dare, and where the dark satin silhouette in lead blends with the warm and moist obscure pitch of the night air. In such a circumstance, we found ourselves beating a wayward path toward a certain destination.

Isolated on the road were we, and the notion of being watched from the brush crept up like a nun. Heavy footfalls we heard from the dark screen of shadow, nearing as we passed. We booked it; booked a rendézvous with a soft yellow glow under a streetlamp on down the road. We recognized and understood two conditions of our location: If the entity was following us, it would certainly not step forth into the light and reveal itself; and if the entity held its step, it would surely have no problem sniping off our illuminated persons with a gas-powered rifle.

Before our assassin could get his round off, the barking began. The lone faint sound of a small breed soon became coupled with his bulkier companion, and not long after, it turned into a page out of a circus program. The bastards wouldn't quit yapping, and more from both sides of our route joined the choir canine. Now that the neighborhood had been alerted to our post-curfew existence, my traveling-partner concluded that it was about time to take a piss on a nearby fence, under the brilliant moon and in plain view of many a lampened window. With bladder sapped, we went on, unaware that a beast was lurking uncaged. A faint barking turned loud, and louder again, doubling in volume and doubling our nerves. Yet it was only a golden lab, and a hardy fellow from the primary doorway to his quarters sent out this call for its return. Through his hollow gardens and the brush-lined edge of the yard, he inquired about our destination. It was Wawa. My companion felt compelled to apologize about stirring the dog, and shouted "Hey fella! Fella!" before doing so.

Many pairs of headlights passed us that night, and so we decided to put them to some use. Holding up our hitchhiker's thumbs with both zealous anticipation and indignant defeat time and time again, we decided to depend on the road as wanderers of the great path. To live and walk on the veins that circulate the blood of our land from place to place, knowing that all is connected, from shore to lake, plain to city, valley to mountain, fills one with a pride that can only be summed up in that understood oath. Never stop walking; stay to the right of the white line; always smile; keep thumbs erect, or in case of dearth of vehicles, prepared.

Times have changed, and it's obvious people are more concerned about their well-being and saftey of road-faring family. And with good reason. There are some fucking psychos out there, especially late on a Saturday night in a backwards boondock town. There's a killer on the road. His brain is squirming like a toad. Take a long holiday, let your children play. If you give this man a ride, sweet family will die; killer on the road.

We learned the hard way that nothing ticks a hitchhiker off more than when a car slows down to take a gander, but then picks up speed after assessing the situation. You don't walk up to a bum with a shiny quarter, slip on your latex gloves, proceed with the oral examination, and then decide to bugger off. It's easy to hide behind a pair of blinding beams and shatter-proof glass with a pedal under your toe. And again, there is no more awkward situation for a prospective hitchhiker than a stop sign. They have to stop next to you, and they probably don't like it. I heard the subtle click of the electric door locks; I know what you fellows are thinking. With our thumbs down like tail between our legs, we scurried past the intersection and avoided all eye contact. One such car passed us by, stopped at the light, and a condescending voice from within shouted "Need a ride?! Walking sucks!" and peeled out. It looked like a white Volkswagen, but perhaps I am still distraught from a certain prior incident.

On down the road we walked, beginning on the second, longer leg of the journey past the blinking light. The moon was cool and jaded, and a high mist straddled and softened the ambient rays that tumbled to our burdened shoulders. A barrage of headlights flew past us with that same caustic stare. Finally, one pair slowed and pulled over. The guy kept rolling for about twenty feet, and I started to think that he was just fooling us as we chased like obedient greyhounds. We went up to his window to confirm our destination, but it didn't matter. He said to go around the other side and get in.

He was nearly our age (well, my age), but I'd mark him up as about twenty or twenty-four. I called shotgun, and Mikey got in the back seat of the pickup. We told him where we were headed, but had a little trouble explaining why. "Going to Wawa with no ride back? You guys had better be careful hitchiking with the type of weirdos driving around this kind of town." Presuming the hitchhikers are beings with intrinsic good will, the man had a point; the only two types of people that will pick someone up are, first, the wacko/rapist/killer type with buggy eyes, a prospector beard, and a deer carcass in the trunk, and second, the good-willed kind of person who will pick you up just so that the first type won't have the chance. I had trouble reading this fellow. He gunned it down the road, then politely dropped us off. We exchanged goodbyes, and that's when it hit us. We were no longer hitchhiking virgins. Our "Men of the Road" status had instantly become much higher than most people alive in the world today. And that felt good. Buying an orange Gatorade and a pack of honey-roasted cashews never felt so thrilling or enthralling. In fact, we got a sort of high from it. We sauntered on again, hoping to hitch another ride down the road eternal.

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