You're standing on the road, thumb out. A trucker passes causing your hair to blow. The gears grind while he downshifts and you grab your pack and climb up. This one has that trucker look. You miss the last one, the sensible driver, the man who showed you his ad he ran in newspapers advertising himself as a gigolo. You had never met a gigolo before and figured he could pass as one, though he admitted no one responded. He wanted fifty thousand dollars. That seemed awfully high, especially when you figure that prostitutes only get fifty bucks for a trick. Then you wonder why it's called a trick. What's the trick? You imagine it's not that tricky.
That driver was fun to talk with because he had plenty to say. He wanted to pull over and sleep but you didn't want to sleep in the back of his truck or sit in his front seat while he slept and it was dark and your chances of getting another ride were slim and dangerous, plus it was storming outside. He told you to drive, and you thought he was kidding, but he wasn't. You moved over and started driving, slowly putting your foot on the gas pedal while he inched toward the back of the truck. He didn't even sit in the front seat. If he wasn't so tired, he said he would be driving, but since you insisted on driving, he figured he'd make money by letting you drive. Said his daughter drove his rig when she was sixteen. Then he asked if you were sixteen and laughed. You said you were eighteen but not really sure about driving his truck. He said you don't worry about hitchhiking, you shouldn't worry about driving a truck.
You started enjoying driving the truck and talking on the CB, until you noticed the freeway exit ramps had signs flashing saying the roads were closed to trucks and trailers due to high winds. You had to stop and he was sleeping, refusing to wake up. You discovered there were seventeen gears but you didn't know how to slow down. Little by little you dropped a gear, until you saw the cops up ahead making sure everyone got off the freeway. You hit the breaks and the truck driver rolled over onto your shoulders while you pulled off the road. Enough is enough. When he saw the cops, he cursed. Then he realized there was a tornado and that it wasn't your fault. You went to the coffee shop and drank coffee and ate eggs. He was an okay guy. You were hoping a woman would give him fifty grand so he could quit driving. His back hurt so much from all that sitting, he did seem to deserve a break.
But this driver looks like a bonafide truck driver, the kind people make fun of when truck drivers aren't around. You just want to look out the window, not explain why you're hitchhiking alone. But you know the rules. You get picked up, you tell the driver stories. So you tell him stories. He doesn't believe you about the gigolo driver. You tell him about the German guy falling in a geyser in Wyoming. This makes him laugh. You don't tell him the real story, how you met him on a bus, and about sharing a crowded tent. Just enough to make him laugh. Only people who look like real truck drivers think it's funny when a German tourist gets second and third degree burns trying to warm up in the morning.
You pass a man hitchhiking and the driver slows down. You feel hopeful, until he pulls out a gun, aims it at him, and shouts, "You goddamn hippy!" You pull the gun away. He laughs. Says he wasn't really going to kill him. "Ain't hippy season yet."
You drive on for miles saying nothing. He picks his teeth. Spits out the window. Then he takes his gun out and does the same thing to a couple on a motorcycle. "Damn hippies are ruining Idaho. You're a damn hippy, ain't you?" You say nothing, remembering how you always wished you could be a flower child in Berkeley when you were a teenager in Michigan, miles away from the real hippies.
Finally he calms down. Asks if you're hungry. You say yes knowing you'll be free of him when the truck stops. But he doesn't pull off at a truck stop. He pulls off on a ramp in the middle of nowhere. Looks like an old mining area. He pulls the gun out and says you owe him for the ride. Says to climb in the back. He's not laughing, just pointing the damn gun in your face. You say to him, how would you like it if someone did this to your sister? Your mother? How would you like it? Your voice reaches a high pitch but you don't cry. You stare at him and reach into your pocket and pull out a crystal tied to a string that a friend had given you for good luck. Most mornings you kept it in your pack, but that morning you stuck it in your pocket. You hold it just like he holds the gun, dangling it in front of his face looking like a bonafide hippy.
You see you're in big trouble and open the door, grab you pack, and jump out of the truck. He throws twenty buck at you and says, "I wouldn't like it if someone said that to my mother or sisters. Buy yourself something to eat."
