Hitchhiker

A short story

I was driving through Utah when I saw him standing on the side of the road. There were trees left and right, and the sun was about to go down. He was in his twenties, had long brown hair, and was holding a cardboard sign that read “Nevada.” I pulled over.

He put the sign down, picked up his backpack, and walked towards me. I rolled down the window.

“Nevada?”

He nodded. I looked him up and down, both hands on the steering wheel.

“Alright, get in,” I said and unlocked the doors.

“Thanks, man.” He got in on the other side and sat down. There was a sound of cans clunking together as he put the backpack between his legs. I started to drive. He smelled bad, but I couldn’t blame him.

“Where are you heading, then?” I asked.

“Nevada.”

“Nevada is big.”

“Las Vegas.”

“What do you want there?”

He fidgeted with his hands.

“Ah, you know. Want to see it, I guess.”

I nodded.

“Flight too expensive, huh?”

He nodded.

“Where are you from, then?” I asked.

He looked at me.

“Minneapolis.”

“Minnesota?” I asked.

It was quiet, and he looked out the window.

“Wouldn’t have taken you from up there,” I said after a while.

“Why not?”

“You don’t sound like you’re from Minnesota.”

He didn’t respond. The road became winding now, with curves clinging to the side of the mountain. The last bit of sunlight was being blocked by the tall trees.

“Nice ride you got,” he said. My car was old. It worked, and that was about it.

“Yeah, she still runs.”

“I wish I had a cah like that.” He said.

“You sound like you’re from Boston,” I said. He was silent for a moment, then answered.

“My mom is. Picked up the accent from her, I guess.”

The sun had gone down now. You could still see the dark blue in the sky, but not for much longer.

“How long you been living in Minneapolis, then?”

“My whole life.”

“How long is that?”

“Twenty-two years.”

“Must be weird having a different accent from everyone else.”

He shrugged.

“Sometimes it is.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. We had reached the peak of the mountain and were driving down the winding road. There was a silence, and to do something, I turned the radio on. A Bob Dylan song played.

“Great song,” the hitchhiker said.

“I never got around to liking him,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, it’s just not my kind of music.”

“How could it not be?”

I looked at him from the side. He had turned towards me.

“I don’t know. I don’t like when songs are too political.”

A silence—then he spoke.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I smiled.

“You’re twenty-two and I’m forty-six. You’ll learn.”

He shrugged and looked out the window. After Bob Dylan, the news came on. Something about a new executive order the president had signed.

“President is overhauling the country, huh?” I said after the radio moved on to a new song.

“Piece of shit.”

“Don’t like him?”

“Hard to like him, with everything he’s doing.”

“Yeah, will be hard for him to get elected again, I think,” I said.

“There are enough idiots out there.” He held his backpack tight between his legs.

“He’s putting on a hell of a campaign, though. Going all around the country right now.” I said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“My sister saw him in Bakersfield three days ago. L.A.’s next, I think, and then he’s going east,”

“Your sister supports him, then?” He asked.

“Nah, she listens to both sides and then decides.”

The hitchhiker scoffed.

“Nothing against your sister, man, but that’s bullshit.”

“Hey!” I raised my voice.

“Mind your mouth.”

He held up his hand.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just—this piece of shit cares more about how he looks than the people.”

“Which president ever cared about the people?” I asked. He was quiet for a while.

“Yeah, you’re right, I guess,” he finally said.

We drove along and got out of the forest and onto the I-15. It was night now, and the lights from other cars made me feel more comfortable.

For the next hour, none of us said a word. I was pretty sure he fell asleep. His breathing was rhythmic and calm. I was listening to the radio and then we were in Nevada. He shook his head when he woke up.

“Everything alright?” I asked.

“Yeah.” His voice was strained.

“So, what are you going to do after Las Vegas?” I tried to start a conversation again.

“Nothing, I think.”

“Nothing?”

“I’ll just see how things go.”

I nodded.

“I was like you, you know?” I said. He looked at me.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I’d travel all around the country, hitchhiking. It’s interesting, ’cause you meet all kinds of people. Good and bad.”

He smiled.

“Which kind am I?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess.” He said and smiled. Both his hands were on his backpack.

“You miss home sometimes? Your family?” I asked.

“My mom is dead, and my dad is an asshole.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said.

“When did she die, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“When I was three.”

A moment of silence.

“And your accent?” I asked.

“What?”

“You could already talk when you were three?”

He didn’t say anything. His nails were scratching at his pants.

“I get it, don’t worry,” I said. I didn’t care about him lying. Sometimes that’s what you do when you’re all alone with a stranger.

We drove past a billboard advertising one of the president’s rally speeches. This one was in Las Vegas.

“If you have time, you could go see him,” I said, pointing to it.

“See how he is in person.”

He was looking out the window. I couldn’t see his face when he responded.

“Yeah, maybe.” He grabbed his bag tighter.

We arrived in Las Vegas around 2 a.m—flashing lights and unnatural colors all over. I always got overwhelmed by this city and was looking forward to the hotel.

I stopped the car at the side of the road. We were close to the Strip. People everywhere, even at this time.

“Well, here we are. Was nice talking to you…” I realised I didn’t even know his name.

“Garret,” he said, while getting out of the car.

“Frank,” I said and shook his hand. It was cold.

“Doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” I laughed. He smiled.

“Oh, and don’t forget your backpack,” I said. I tried to reach for it, but he was quick to grab it.

“Thanks, yeah.”

I heard the cans clanking again when he threw it over his shoulder.

“Thanks for getting me here, Frank. You did something really important.”

He walked into the crowd. I looked after him. After a minute or so, he was gone.

I parked, checked into the hotel, walked past the casino and up to my room.

I lay down and looked at the ceiling. I must have lain there for about twenty minutes. I told myself it was nothing and turned the lights off.