The Feet of God

99 - SHADY PALMS

I took my place by the side of the road, extending my thumb in the classic pose.  And glory be if I didn’t snatch me a heavenly host right off the bat.  A dark blue Chrysler glided to a stop.  I went over to the door and hopped in.  While I strapped on my seatbelt I noticed an older gentleman sitting behind the wheel, wrinkly and wiry, bald and speckled in liver-spots, and all hunched over.  His pants was hiked up to his chest, but short on the inseam, exposing two pale ankles to the upper calf.

“Ain’t goin’ far.  But I always stop for hitchers.  I used to hitch when I was in the Merchant Marines on shore leave.  I always stop for hitchers.”

“I appreciate that,” I smiled.

“Where you headed, son?” he asked.

Before I could say anything the old guy butted in, “I’m just goin’ up the road to Stuffey’s for some coffee and pie.  Senior discount most days, you see.”

I gazed out the window for distraction.

“But I always stop for hitchers.  That’s how I roll.”

The driver merged into the onrushing traffic without looking where he was going.

I screamed as we got nearly flattened by a speeding big-rig.

“Aw, fuck ‘em in the ass,” the old codger blasted his horn.

We moved forward at a snoozing 34 miles-per-hour in the fast lane while the rest of the world zipped by.

“Where’d you say you were headed?” the driver cocked an ear my way.

“I’m pointin’ south, I guess.  I come from Bakersfield.  Looking for my lost sister.”

“Bakersfield?  You mean that place out there in California?”

“It’s the only Bakersfield I know of.”

“Never been.  How long you been a travelin’ man?”

I thought for a moment.  And I thought some more.  “Well, it seems like I hit the road early in life, and been on the move ever since.”

The geezer held the wheel steady and drove on at his deliberate pace.  “Me, too.  I got on the road after the Merchant Marines.  I hitched back then.  I ain’t goin’ far, but I always give hitchers a ride.”

“I understand that.”  I leaned back in the cracked black leather seat.

My clothes was still damp from the evening’s downpour, and my shoes was still covered in mud and soggy, although I did have the opportunity to dry my wet socks under the hand dryer back at the gas station.  But I’ve been far worse than this before, so I counted myself lucky.

But not so lucky that there’d be much stimulating conversation transpiring here.  Oh hell, I consoled myself, at least I was moving forward, and I guess that counts as progress.

The ol’ coot flipped on his turn signal.  “Stuffey’s is up the road.  Good pie there.”

The blinker continued flashing for another half-mile.  Then I saw a big sign up ahead for Stuffey’s Pie Parlour, and it was clear my first ride in Florida was coming to an end.  We entered the parking lot and sorta drifted into a disabled space right in front of the establishment’s front door.

“Made it.”

The old guy opened his door and proceeded to grunt and moan in a labored effort to haul his ancient ass outta the driver’s seat.  He turned and placed both slippers on the ground, and, with one hand on each side of the opening, strained to pull himself upright.

I started to head out on my way, “Thanks for the ride.”

“Gimme me a hand, willya?  Ya son of a bitch.”

Oh, that’s it.  He wasn’t being generous to an itinerant stranded by the side of the road.  No, he needed me to help him get out of his car and stand upright.  Okay.  For some reason I willingly obliged.  I came around to where the ol’ fossil sat, and he looked up at me while offering out a leathery hand.  I got a firm grip on it and hauled him up.

“Thanks, son.  I told you I used to hitch, didn’t I?  After the Merchant Marines?”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Well, good luck, and don’t take any wooden nickels.”

“Right.”

As I started again to go my own way the old fart yelled, “Son, could you get my walker out of the backseat for me?”

Damn, he was needy.  But I obliged him one more time, and I got out the metal contraption.  I unfolded it and set it in front of him.

“There ya go.  You all set now?”

“What do you care?  You don’t give a shit if I live or die.  Why don’t you ever come visit anymore?  Too good for your old man?  Lazy bastard, no good rotten….”

Then a police car slid up behind us.  A cop got out and headed straight our way.  He tipped his cap back and looked real exasperated.

“Mom’s worried sick about you.  She said you’d made off with the keys again.”

“God damn it, all I want is a piece of fucking pie.”

“We’ll get you some pie and take you home, Pops.  But if you keep this up, I’m afraid it’s Shady Palms.”

While the police officer tended to his elderly charge, I beat a hasty retreat.