too old to hitch hike

I stood with my thumb out, while several cars and a Perdue chicken truck cruised by at the speed limit, trying to save fuel. No one stopped and I started walking. A freezing wind blew against me and snow and ice stung my face like sniper fire. More cars and trucks passed me. I trudged on, recalling all the times I’d felt rejected and diminished. Times when “friends” had bragged about their high speed internet when they knew I still had dial-up. Times when “friends” had bragged about their straight A students when my child couldn’t pay attention long enough for someone to say ADHD. Times when my artwork was rejected for something painted by chickens.

I wanted to attend a booksigning by a group of writers I knew, but my daughter needed my Honda to get to work. The signing was at the Snow Hill Library, ten miles from my home. Why not hitchhike? I hadn’t done that since I was 18, about forty years ago.

Cars and trucks rolled by, ignoring me. Ice accumulated in my hair and my fingers grew numb. A low-slung black car with tinted windows screeched to a stop. I leaped in and the Cottonmouth Kings’ Riding High blasted my ears. I hardly had time to fasten the seat belt when the car sped off at ninety miles an hour. This driver wasn’t trying to save gas.

The driver had blond cornrows, a little tuff of blond beard, wore dark shades, an eye brow piercing and six ear rings. He wore a dark T-shirt with a Goth-metal band on it, black pants and black boots with two inch soles and four inch heels. He had tattoos and gold rings; smoked a cigarette and didn’t speak. He wasn’t using a seat belt. I started to warn him there was a fine for that, but decided not to.

We were approaching Snow Hill when a state trooper pulled behind us and turned on his siren. My driver said something about his mother and stomped on the accelerator. He didn’t fasten his seat belt and the cop stayed on his tail.

My driver passed several cars and chicken trucks. Then we saw two police cars blocking the road ahead. My driver said something else about his mother and hit the brakes.

The police officers made us get out and open the trunk, which was packed with parcels. My driver said, “That’s sugar. My grandmother’s making fudge for a church social and I got to take her this sugar.”
One of the cops pointed to me and asked, “Is that your grandmother?”
Now I know why people hate cops.
My driver said I was a hitchhiker and they didn’t believe him. They didn’t believe him about the sugar, either.

I got to Snow Hill, but I didn’t make it to the book signing.




Inmate #879873

(This piece is fiction.)