The Feet of God

2 - MY LONG, STRANGE TRIP

It’s illegal in California to hitchhike directly on the interstate.  You gotta stand near entrance ramps and entice passing motorists in about 1.3 seconds with your charms.  I prefer a flashy flick of the thumb and, as with the true professionals, a witty handheld sign that I’ve personally printed on a piece of cardboard.

I tellya, guys over the age of 30 with two days’ worth of stubble, bloodshot eyes and a hangdog look don’t tend to fare so well.  So, just between Kimberlina Road and Famoso Highway, I settled in for the duration until I could find my next ride.

To kill time I read the hitchhiker message board on the backside of the freeway entrance sign:

Bob from Ohio was here 7/15/23

Bob from Ohio still here 7/17/23

What the hell’s wrong with you people?  Bob from Ohio 7/19/23

Bob from Ohio running out of water 7/21/23

Food and water gone!  Hit on head by empty bottle thrown from car.  Tell Mother I love her - Bob from Ohio

Fuuuuucccckkkkkkkk - Bob

I admit I was deeply engrossed in this poor soul’s moving saga when an air-horn blast from up there on Rt. 99 caught my attention.

I scrambled up the embankment between the entrance ramp and my waiting ride, slipping a couple’a times and scraping my hands in the gravel, but opportunity was pounding on my front door with both fists.  Hanging onto the side of the cab while pulling open the passenger door, I heaved my butt into that big ol’ semi.

The truck driver was a dude with red frizzy hair, a face full of connect-the-dot freckles, and an eagle’s beak for a nose.  What’s more, he was totally wired.

“Get in, man, get in.  C’mon, get in.  Where ya headed man?  Huh, huh?  Where ya headed?”

I slammed the cab door behind me and greeted the stranger, “Headed your way, I guess.”

The trucker’s eyes widened.  “That’s cool, man, cool.”  He spit in the palm of his stuck out hand.  “The name’s Red.”  The dude continued talking as we shook hands.  “I could use some company.  I’m hauling a load up north.  Been on the road twelve hours.  Got twelve more to go.  Saw you there.  Need someone to talk to?  Gets sorta lonely being alone for twelve hours.  Could use some company headed north.  There’s coffee in that thermos down there.  Go ahead.  Reach down there and get it.”

The redheaded trucker’s knuckles glowed blue-white as he gripped the stick and pulled back onto the freeway.  Gear after gear he pushed that big-rig faster an’ faster up to cruising speed.  Once he was passing everything in sight, he released the knobby stick shift with all the shiny buttons and grabbed the giant wheel with both hands.  He began rocking forward and backward real fast.  Every now and then I caught him stealing a sidelong glance over in my general direction.

“Been out long?” he asked.

“Seems like years,” I replied.  “Wha’chu haulin’?”

“Cream cheese.  A shitload of cream cheese.”

“Cool.”

The sun descended on our left as we headed straight up north, and I prayed it was the start of a cool adventure.

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