Hitchiking

It's properly one word. With one 'H'. A beautiful, lyrical, scary, adventurous word. The transcendence of time, where the minutes and hours that pass one by whilst one's thumb is extended matter not; the endless possible stories of the vehicles that zip past you... was that Greyhound full of divorcees and soldiers, destined to forge new lives together in Boise? Was that Cherokee brimming with Latinos ferrying one proud new papa to the orange groves of Florida? The freedom, the anonymity, the whole cast-of-the-die thing made hitchiking the perfect mode of travel for my blissfully misspent youth.
The wait for a ride was never boring, with the possible exception of Needles, California. I spent two days getting bit by supersonic midges the size of houseflies and drinking tepid canteen water for breakfast, lunch and dinner while thumbing with fading hope and increasing hunger in the desert.
The guy that finally picked me up was the scariest ever. Army Ranger, fresh from Gulf War 1 and vibrating at an identifiably dangerous frequency. 280 miles later, he woke me just to say "Get out." in a sibilant whisper. Yeah, I was so beat-dog-tired from two days in Needles I took a damn nap in creepy guy's passenger seat. He did not actually damage me for all that distance, so I stuck the thumb out again figuring I was charmed and free from harm.
While deep in what the canucks call "First Nations".
As I said, I was young.
The puce green Ford pick-up that swung around the on-ramp and squealed to a halt in front of me had a crew cab. I would be out of the wind and sun. It wasn't 'til I climbed into the back that I had a chance to peruse my benefactors.
Whoops.
"Waisichu! This is Running Bear, she thinks you're cute!"
The driver declared this, a thirty something in an oxford shirt and a stetson, clearly he was the leader here. The only one sober enough to even attempt driving. A gap-toothed 60 year old woman built like Yoda and ridin' bitch swiveled her head around and said,
"You want a beer, cute white boy?"
Well, what now?
Hell yes, beerwise.
Everything else, ohhhhhh.....shit.
To Yoda's right sat the meanest lookin' Indian I ever saw. He was wearing those gradient sunglasses that hide your corneas, but show your cheekbones. Those cheekbones were covered in knife scars. His cold, direct, appraising stare did not waver. The driver, Running Bear and I chatted. Did I like Indians?
(I like people)
Did I see Dances with Wolves?
(No)
Why not!?
(um... UHOH)
('Cause I hate Kevin Costner??)
LAUGHTER
(whew)
"Maybe we call you Kevin Costner, OK, waisichu?"
This from Mr. Scary Indian.
Damn if that ride didn't just keep getting jumpier. Clearly I was in danger, real trouble, but (yes, Ms. Running Bear I believe I'll have another.)
Sunset found me bumping over a dirt road on the rez, Running Bear wanted to show me her house.
Driver and Scary wanted to monitor my behavior to see if I merited killin'. Of this I have no doubt.
We drank more and I marveled at the 10x6 American flag that covered the wall over her bed. She said, "Thank you, that's the cloth that wrapped my boy when he came back from VietNam."
Grasping for safe territory, I admired the construction of her hogan, expressing envy at the solidity of her house and her remaining family and her community. I think my desperate show of respect and faux naivete saved my life.
We then drove to a bar on the edge of the rez and Running Bear cackled, "No white boys in here, cutie".
Scary lifted my pack from the bed of the truck and said, "This is all you have in the world?"
I answered with much truth, "Yup."
"Take it and GO. Now."
No further convincing needed, you psychopath.
Thanx for the afternoon's adventure.
With that, he marched into the bar and I hiked to a blank spot in the desert where I bedded down by the highway amidst the scorpions, ants and snakes. Best sleep I ever had, cloudless sky full of stars all night... the vermin let me be. (There wasn't a single bug in my boots the next morning. The trick is camping 10 feet up from the edge of an arroyo. No food and no water, off the beaten path for the creatures of the night.)
My first ride the next morning told me it was eight beers to Albuquerque and handed me a six-pack, saying I'd have to drink breakfast slowly. Sometimes karma pays off.
Bonus, he was on his way to work and had a cooler full of ice with four more six packs.
I love this country.