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 Weathered
Hitchhiking at Night

Chris Butler

    The couple speeds along the abandoned highway. She sits alert in the driver’s seat of the white Suburban, guiding the wheel. He rests in the passenger’s seat, reaching into his pocket, searching for a pack of cigarettes. Pulling out the soft pack, he lifts the single protruding cylinder to his lips and lights it with a disposable blue lighter. He presses down on the automatic window, allowing the lingering cloud of smoke to slide out of the car. He relaxes his head against the leather headrest. The car accelerates through a puddle, splashing a wave across the windshield. She switches on the wipers, swiping the water off to the sides.
    “I told you that they would like you,” she says.
    He remains unmoved, staring directly out the passenger-side window.
    “Hey, ground control to space cadet, did you hear me?”
    “Yeah, yeah, it was fun.”
    “And I told you there was nothing to worry about. My parents are just happy that I fell head over heels for a good man.”
    He leans and softly stamps a kiss on her cheek. She smiles. They pass a road sign covered with dirt and a signature in spray paint. He squints to read it to see that it is marked Route 695.
    “Route-six-nine-ty-five,” he says.
    “What did you say?”
    “I’ve been on this road before.”
    “Really? I thought you’ve never been out this way.”
    “So did I. But I definitely remember that sign back there.”
    He sits looking deep in thought. She glances at him with curiosity.
    “Well, when were you out here?”
    “It’s a long story.” He pauses, but remains in silence.
    “What? Come on, you can tell me,” she says, her smile returning.
    “I just don’t really feel like it.” He reaches over and flips on the radio to change the subject. He scans several stations on the FM dial, all of them static. He switches the volume on the radio off until it clicks into silence. Slipping back into his seat, he listens to the humming engine and the wind blowing into the car.
    She huffs with annoyance. “We can’t just spend the rest of the ride in silence. Come on,” she says, each of her words seductively slowing with emphasis on each syllable. “I’m a big girl. You can tell me anything. You don’t even have to keep it PG.” She places her hand on his knee. “I happen to like rated-R movies. Please.”
    He flicks his cigarette butt out the window with his right hand. He watches in the passenger’s side mirror as the cherry explodes against the darkness of the road.
    “Pretty please, with sugar on top.”
    “Alright, I guess if there’s sugar on top. It was a few years ago. I remember it was pouring rain. I was riding shotgun with my old buddy Spoon.”
    “Spoon?”
    “Yeah, his name was Spoon. Now do you want me to tell you the story or what?”
    “Go right ahead.”
    “Me and Spoon went back. I met him in the first grade. He was the type of kid who farted during nap time, or started food fights on Sloppy Joe day or initiated games of frog baseball during recess. During and after high school, we tended to hang around with the same people, so we’ve always been in each other’s company. I remember one time at a party he tossed an empty propane tank in a bonfire just for his own amusement. Me and a few other guys scrambled to kick it out before it became a Fourth of July spectacular. And all he could do was laugh until he puked and then he drank the rest of the beer. I wouldn’t say we were friends, per se. We were more associates by circumstance. But we had a long history together.
    “Anyway, on that particular occasion I was riding in Spoon’s piece of shit pick-up. I mean, the passenger’s side window wouldn’t roll up, the windshield looked like a spider’s web and the bed was always full of some kind of trash or garbage or refuse or whatever you’d prefer to call it. But the heat and the radio always worked, and he always had a full tank of gas, so I used to catch rides with him a lot. Spoon steadied a gallon bottle of tequila between his legs as he drove. I remember I had a slight buzz, but I knew I didn’t want to drive. I think it was half empty by that point. He steered with his knees, and brought the bottle up to his mouth. I asked him if he wanted me to grab the wheel. He said, while simultaneously belching, that he was a professional and this was his closed course.
    “He had the heat blaring, even though it was an early summer night, so I stuck my head out of the window, like a dog going to the park. Actually, now that I think about it, it wasn’t raining at all. We were actually in the middle of a drought that year. There was a cloud of dust following us down the road, like a shadow or something. I could only see what was directly in front of the one working headlight on Spoon’s truck. And then we passed that same sign back there.
    “Next thing I know, I almost whacked my head against some silhouette. I jumped back into my seat. Spoon asked what the hell had happened. I didn’t know. I thought I almost hit a grazing deer with my forehead. It was that close. I heard him mumble something that sounded like dinner, and he slammed the brakes. The tires screeched like a banshee having an orgasm. The smell of the burning rubber made me dry heave, but I swallowed it down. It could have been a mix of tequila and motion sickness though. Spoon drove across the grass median and headed back in the southbound lane. He crept slowly, scanning both sides of the road. And then we saw him.
    “Who?”
    “Now, are you going to interrupt me every five seconds,” he says, jokingly aggravated.
    “Sorry, sorry, please continue,” she says, sprinkled with sarcasm.
    “Now, where was I?”
    “You were saying something about ‘him’.”
    “Oh, I had seen this guy all over town, walking down the road, day or night, rain or shine. At first, we all just thought he was crazy because it seemed like he was shouting at every passing car. But he was actually reading every license plate that passed. I swear he could tell you the make, model and plate number of every single car that drove by him. I heard he just had some mental problems. But he was also a genius, like Rain Man or something like that. He memorized every name, number and address in the phonebook, and could associate anyone’s license plate with their first name and home address. He was like one of those characters you have back home who everybody claims to know but never spoke a single word to.
    “Then Spoon said something I never thought I would hear him say. He said we should pick him up. I said that we should just keep going and leave him be. But Spoon was adamant, saying the more the merrier and that it was his truck and he was driving. I could only sit in silence. He made another u-turn and we headed north again. The Hitchhiker was wearing a filthy red flannel shirt and some cowboy jeans with massive gashes and mustard stains. His hair was long and nappy, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved since puberty. I could smell him as we approached. It was like burnt cabbage and expired milk mixed with a hint of lemon. The truck crept alongside him. Spoon asked him if he needed a ride out of my window, still open.
    “He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look over at us. Spoon yelled at the Hitchhiker calling him deaf and dumb. The Hitchhiker muttered ‘634-UGK’ Spoon asked him ‘what’, this time in a more assertive tone. I said that the Hitchhiker only read his license plate. Spoon ignored me and continued his monologue with the Hitchhiker. In a pleasant manner rare for Spoon, he told the Hitchhiker to hop in. He looked at me and ordered me to slide over.
    “I reminded Spoon that his truck was only a two-seater. I don’t know if he didn’t hear what I said or he just ignored me again, but the next thing I know, I’m sitting in the front of a two-seater truck between Spoon and the Hitchhiker. I squirmed to get comfortable against their shoulders, but I couldn’t. We sped along, not seeing a single car for miles. We were listening to some AM station with some guy ranting about kids running naked through the streets making babies or something like that. I looked over at Spoon, driving with his knees while chugging. Then I looked over at the Hitchhiker, staring out the window. Suddenly, there was this thud.
    “Spoon dropped the bottle in his lap, spilling booze all over the cab. It splashed into my eyes and up my nose. The tires screeched as he tried to get control of the steering wheel. We spun around and around, I don’t even know how many times. Smoke and dust billowed in through the windows. I could only see blurs of black and brown streak past my line of vision. And then, we stopped.
    “We were facing the opposite direction on the road. It was so quiet I could hear the blood pump through my temples. I asked Spoon what happened. He sat there, counting his fingers to make sure there was still ten. He looked over at me, frowning, saying that this skunk made him spill his drink. Then he asked what happened to the Hitchhiker. I looked to my right, and the passenger’s door was swung wide open and the Hitchhiker was gone. My first thought was that he was ejected from the vehicle. I looked back over at Spoon tipping back the rest of his jug down his throat. Spoon exhaled, and with his next breath, said that we had to go get him. Then I remember him saying, ‘I’ve got two D.U.I.s. And three strikes and I’m out.’
    “He shifted the truck into reverse and sped in a perfect circle. He raced down the road, the speedometer spiking so quickly I thought it was going to snap off. I pleaded with him to slow down, but his focus was locked on the passing pavement in front of us. We went about a mile down the road before he slammed on the breaks. Spoon asked if the Hitchhiker was a ghost, but I wasn’t sure he was looking at me for an answer. I said he was probably long gone, trying more to be reassuring than sensible. Then, Spoon said something that still sticks with me to this day. He said, ‘No. The Hitchhiker never strays far from his road’.
    “He made another sudden u-turn, almost tipping the truck. We sped back down 695 for the fifth time. I can’t even remember which direction we were heading. Spoon’s eyes squinted, as he scanned both sides of the road for anything that moved. And then we saw him. It was like we never even picked him up. There he was, keeping the lonely road company, like he was its significant other. Spoon accelerated quickly, getting right in front of the Hitchhiker with the high beam blinding him. Before I knew it, I was staring the Hitchhiker right into his beady, bloodshot eyes. Spoon leapt out of the truck. I saw their shadows move against the pavement like two drunken sailors dancing. I heard Spoon screaming, so I jumped out.
    “Spoon pushed the Hitchhiker to the ground, and yelled in his face something about prison and showers. I ran over and grabbed Spoon’s shoulders. Trying to calm him down, I told him that no one was going to jail tonight, if we left ASAP. He shouted back at me, spitting in my face, that the Hitchhiker knew his face and license plate. I said that he knew everyone’s license plate. But my pleas for peace were disregarded. Then Spoon said that he had to make sure the Hitchhiker wouldn’t say another word again. Before I could react, Spoon pulled a switchblade out from his boot and tried slicing at the Hitchhiker. I had never seen him that aggressive before. He had this weird look on his face, like all of his muscles were clenched at once. I grabbed the hand with the knife, trying to bend back the wrist, but all I could do was stall him. It was like he was possessed, and his eyes burned with blind rage. I couldn’t overpower Spoon, so I wrapped my bicep around his neck and squeezed like a starving boa constrictor. We fell back. I felt Spoon’s lungs filling and draining faster and faster. I looked down and saw the Hitchhiker motionless underneath the mass of bodies. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.
    “Spoon gasped for air. I swear it was the most ghastly sound I’ve ever heard. Then he went limp. I released my grip, and Spoon fell on top of the crooked heap of the Hitchhiker. I kicked the switchblade from Spoon’s hand into a patch of grass on the edge of the tree line surrounding the road. I tried to catch my breath, but everything in my vision was spinning. So I got up and ran back to the truck. I switched on the hazard lights, although they only worked on the back. I threw the empty bottle of booze and heard it smash in the distant darkness. Then I started running. I don’t know why or where I was going, but I ran. I kept running for what seemed like miles, but I could still see Spoon’s headlight hanging in the distance behind me. My feet went right over the fresh rubber of Spoon’s final u-turn, which still stunk like a tire fire. I kept moving, until I could no longer see the one headlight of that truck. Then I took out my cell phone, which had only one bar, and called 9-1-1 to report a car accident. Then, I hitchhiked all the way back home. A trucker picked me up about forty-five minutes later. And luckily, he wasn’t drinking.”
    He reaches into his pocket, and lights another cigarette. The window is still open, so he blows the smoke straight out. He looks over at her, but she doesn’t return his glance. He waits for her to respond. She sits silently. He is unsure if she will react. They drive further down the road. He realizes they are light-years away from the abandoned highway. She makes a left turn, and then a right. Her eyes purposefully remain focused on the road.
    “So you just left them out there, on the road?” She asks, her voice laced with concern and confusion.
    “No, I didn’t. I called for an ambulance. And I checked the paper for the next few days to make sure they both survived, but I didn’t find anything about it. I didn’t even see Spoon in the police report. So I’m sure he didn’t get busted. And a few months back I heard the Hitchhiker was run over by a semi a few towns over. I mean, there was nothing else I could have done,” he says, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself more than her. He notices they are driving on their street.
    She turns the wheel into the driveway of a small, single-story home, and brings the Suburban to a rest in front of the closed garage door. She stares out the windshield as she turns off the ignition. He notices that she still hasn’t looked at him. He wraps his hand around her hand, slowly rubbing his thumb across her row of knuckles. She offers him a faint smile, but averts her eyes away from his. She pulls her hand away to open the driver’s door.
    “I told my mom I would call her as soon as we got back. I’ll see you inside.”
    She steps slowly out of the car, and makes her way towards the front door. She fumbles her keys at the door before unlocking it. She makes eye contact with him as she closes the door. Light bursts from the interior of the house. He realizes that everything is different between them. He doesn’t know how or why, be he knows. He remains still, and takes one last drag of his cigarette. He flicks it out the window, and watches the orange cherry explode against the pavement.



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