Carsick: John Waters Hitchhikes Across America

Home > Other > Carsick: John Waters Hitchhikes Across America > Page 19
Carsick: John Waters Hitchhikes Across America Page 19

by John Waters


  I see one of the cute gearheads from yesterday in his pickup pull into the gas station. He’s still racing around, hopping in his truck, peeling out to drive the short distance to the other gas station. What on earth is he doing? He must have seen me by now, too! I’ve been hitching out front of where he works for two days, but he still resists any greeting. I’m so bored and frustrated I pretend I have a crush on him in an inappropriate Jane Bowles kind of way.

  It’s getting to be lunchtime, I gotta do something. This is definitely not working. Then I see somebody walk up toward me on the shoulder of the road. Oh, no! Not another hitchhiker, I fear. Hey, buddy, I was here first, I imagine arguing, remembering those 1960s hippie turf hitchhiking wars that always erupted in either New Haven, Connecticut, or Santa Barbara, California—two hot spots for interstate-ride begging. As he gets closer, I realize he is a real homeless person. He passes me by and says hello. The first local who has actually spoken to me since I was dropped off in this godforsaken town! I say hi back.

  Giving up here, I finally tread up the hill, and when I get to the top, I see the problem. Yes, the entrance ramp to I-70W is here (and it has an okay place to stand), but the real reason no one was stopping is almost none of the traffic is turning onto the interstate. I’ve been standing on a big local route leading to a large shopping center and a lot of the town’s business and retail locations, so nobody’s been going my way. They were just going to the mall. Fuckers!

  I stand in my new spot, figuring now I’ll get a ride. Not sure why I think that. Same tiny percentage of cars swerve off onto I-70 West. The same cop comes cruising back and I see him eyeing me, but he keeps going. It’s getting really hot. I don’t have much water left. I see a woman who looks straight out of one of my movies walking up the hill toward me. Again I pray it’s not another hitchhiker. She looks mean, too. Maybe a hooker? But this hardly looks like a sex hot spot to me. She passes me by. Maybe she’s just going to work. Why do you have to turn everybody into a tawdry character? I chastise myself.

  The ball of hell known as the sun is rising fast and is now almost directly overhead. I could pass out. I notice one tiny area of shade across the street on somebody’s property. Whoever lives in that house above couldn’t see me if I sat there for a moment just to rest my weary bones, could they? I plod over to the shady spot of grass and sit down. I don’t look at my BlackBerry messages—it’s a world too far away. Instead I call my office and whine to my assistants. They are patient, even though I know they’d like to yell, “We told you not to do it, fool,” but instead offer the encouragement that “someone will come along.” “Yeah, but suppose they don’t?” I argue, and then realizing they couldn’t possibly have an answer to that question, we hang up. I just sit there. The first gnat I feel on my skin gets me back on my feet.

  I go back to my across-the-street spot, but still nobody stops. St. Clairsville, Ohio, I hate you. I guzzle my last drops of water and decide I’ve got to walk back down the hill and get some supplies. I can live on trail mix alone, but I do need liquids. Maybe I can talk someone in the first gas-station convenience store into either giving me a ride or letting me pay to be taken to a better area with more cross-country drivers. I pass the second gas station with the gearhead. He doesn’t look up but he’s still there, so our possible affair is not totally out of the question, I guess.

  I go into the convenience store in the first gas station and buy water. Now that Coke distributes Evian, I am always pleasantly surprised to find it available in places like this. The guy behind the counter sees my hitchhiking sign—he must have noticed me out front, too—and doesn’t look away. I ask him if there’s a better rest area down the road and he says, “Yeah. There’s a truck stop about a half hour away,” and I inquire, pitifully, “Know anyone I could pay to drive me there?” Silence for a second. “Yeah, me,” he answers, “when I get off work at two o’clock.” “How much?” I demand, all perked up and instantly relieved. After giving it a moment’s thought he says, “Twenty dollars.” “Deal,” I answer, thinking to myself I would have said okay if he’d asked for a hundred! “I’ll go back out and hitchhike, and if I’m still there when your shift ends, let’s do it,” I negotiate. “Okay,” he agrees, and I feel optimistic. Otherwise I might have to ask him for a job. I feel like I live here already.

  Back in my first hitchhiking spot between the two gas stations, I feel as if I am in Groundhog Day. I hope the gearhead doesn’t think I’m stalking him. Same old story. Lots of cars. No rides. Then I see the same cop coming back down the hill, only this time he pulls right over to me. I can’t tell if he’s a mean cop or not. He asks me for ID. I show him my license and explain I’m writing a book on hitchhiking. He doesn’t show his hand but goes back to his vehicle and calls in my info. Satisfied there’s no warrant against me, he comes back and gives me my license. I explain that “an officer told me yesterday in this exact same spot” that I “could hitchhike here” if I didn’t “stand in the road.” “Oh, yeah,” he answers, “what did he look like?” “A blond,” I answer, conjuring up idealized Tom of Finland visions. I figure now may be the time for my “fame kit,” so I take it out, tell him I’m a film director, drop the H-word (Hairspray), and offer him a look. He silently reads my whole bio—“film director, writer, actor,” etc., and then he looks up at me and says with a straight face, “It doesn’t say anything here about you being a professional hitchhiker.” I laugh. He does, too. “You could give me a ride,” I suggest brazenly. “Okay,” he says, “I will.”

  I can’t believe it. I get in the “cage” in the back and it’s the exact opposite experience of what I imagined in the “worst” chapter. This time I wish he would put on the siren, but I keep my mouth shut as we peel out. I quickly forget the guy in the convenience store I had hired to give me a ride. Oh well. I told him if I didn’t get a ride. Besides, I just saved myself $20.

  “I can only take you to the end of my county,” the officer explains. “This is a sheriff’s police car, not a state trooper’s, and in Ohio each county has sheriff cop cars that do all the work even though state troopers have all the power.” Just as I’m thinking how relieved I am not to be with those lazy state troopers, he offers to “call ahead and see if I can find another officer to take you further into Ohio. The exit I’m thinking of is okay,” he advises, “it’s got a filling station and restaurant, but the second one, outside of my county, is a truck stop with a hotel and it’s bigger and probably better for getting a ride.” Either all the other cops think he’s crazy or they are busy because my protector and real-life peace officer can’t find any fellow sheriffs to help me out.

  “Sorry, I’ll have to drop you off at the first one,” he says as he exits I-70W and pulls into a giant travel plaza that also is a diesel-truck stop located next door to a McDonald’s. We’re only seven miles from where he picked me up, but I am so grateful. Maybe I could stay and be his deputy and we could hang out in cop bars after work and get drunk together, I fantasize. “You should have luck here,” he says cheerfully; “lots of cars enter and exit on these ramps.” He waves to the lone gas-station attendant and highway workmen entering the fast-food restaurant, obviously familiar with the locals. “I’ll come back and check on you,” he says as I get out, “and if I find another officer who can take you to the next truck stop, I’ll have him come get you.” Wow. Public service at its finest. I suddenly like Ohio again.

  REAL RIDE NUMBER SEVEN

  MALE NURSE

  I go into McDonald’s. People look up at me, I hope in recognition, but I can’t be sure. Maybe it’s just because I look like an unidentified flying oddball. What to order? I decide on the plainest thing I see on the overhead menu. A Quarter Pounder. It’s not bad. At least I’ve finally eaten something. I try making eye contact with the diners seated around me, but nobody seems to want to chat even though my hitchhiking sign is in full view and you’d think that might be a conversation piece. Not here.

  I go outside and stroll through the trucke
r gas station, hoping someone will see my sign. If they do, it doesn’t help. I walk up the lonely highway toward the entrance ramp. I pass a lot displaying sample chicken coops with a sign directing interested buyers where to call. Will I have to sleep in one tonight?

  The entrance ramp is a good one with plenty of space for a driver to pull over before the high-speed merge onto Route 70 West. I stick out my thumb once again. It’s very hot. Lots of bikers are on the road because it’s maybe the first summery-type weather of the year. They always give me the thumbs-up sign when they see me hitching, and I return the gesture. Once again I’m stuck. Nobody stops. I stand here for four more hours. What the fuck am I gonna do? Maybe no one will ever pick me up! Susan texts me, “Are you okay? Looks like you’re still in the same place.” No, I’m not okay, I think. I can tell I’m getting dehydrated. I see a nonchain, local-diner-type joint back where I was, across the street from McDonald’s. Maybe I’d better take a break, stroll over there to get some shade, and see if any friendly drivers are inside.

  I walk back past those now-even-more-threatening chicken coops. I can’t help myself—I pick one out just in case that has to be my lodging for the night. I go into the diner and am disappointed to see it’s almost empty. Lunch hour is long over so I blatantly ask the table of guys sitting together if they’re “going my way?” They politely say no. Then I order a large Coke, something I would never do! I haven’t had a Coca-Cola in twenty years but I’m about to faint, and when I was a kid, my mom always used to give us a Coke if we were feeling queasy. The waitress eyes me a little suspiciously, but maybe I’m just being paranoid. I use the bathroom like any other paying customer and think of that rude TMZ segment I saw where they tailed Larry David and Jeff Garlin into a gas station, and when Jeff Garlin exited the men’s room, the reporter had the nerve to ask him if it was number one or number two. Just number one for me. Especially here.

  When I return, the waitress delivers my order and I ask her if she knows “anyone I could pay to take me down the road to that bigger truck stop” that the cop had told me about. She doesn’t know anyone. Sigh. I drink the giant Coca-Cola and it hits the spot. Any calories I get here have to be canceled by the anxiety of this godforsaken day. I leave a 50¢ tip on a $1 check and feel like a fool.

  I go back out in the heat and once again plod my way back up to the entrance ramp. Again no one stops. Then I see a cop car pull over, but instead of feeling paranoid I am praying (once again!) that it will be my mythical “cop from the next county” who was originally contacted by the first cop and is now free to give me a ride. But no, it’s the first cop! “You still didn’t get a ride?!” he marvels. I am mortified. “It’s mostly local traffic,” I offer as a flimsy excuse. “Well, shake your sign or something,” he advises with exasperation. I feel like such a loser; a lazy hitchhiker who can’t even hustle a ride properly. He waves goodbye and heads back in the opposite direction from where I’m going. I’m amazed I never imagined waiting this long in any of my “worst” ride chapters. I have been hitchhiking today for about nine hours and have been inside a car for less than ten minutes. And it’s only Day Two! I will never get to San Francisco.

  Then it happens—as always, when you least expect it. A ride. I bet a cheer goes up in my office when they see by the SPOT tracking device that I finally get a lift. Any driver who picks up a hitchhiker wants to talk, and today I’m especially willing to listen. He’s a lovely guy in his thirties, working-class, with a girlfriend at home. He immediately tells me his “life-changing” tale of how his grandmother, after a long illness, had to have her legs amputated, and how he was so greatly impressed by the care she got in the hospital that he wanted to take up nursing for a living. Good. He can nurse me.

  He had been divorced and said he got a lot of tattoos to punish himself but was “now better.” He has a kid of his own and more children with his new girlfriend, of whom he speaks kindly. He isn’t going far, he explains, he has just gotten carryout, at the same McDonald’s where I had lunch, to take home for dinner to his family. I ask him about that truck stop down the road I had heard about, and he explains that it has recently gone out of business. All that is open there now is a trucker gas station. My heart sinks; I guess the cop didn’t know that. I tell the kindly and not-unbutch nurse what I do for a living, but in a nice way he doesn’t seem much interested. I explain my fear of being dropped off so late in the day at an exit without a motel. He says, “After I eat dinner I’ll drive back down to this freeway exit and check on you to see if you got a ride.” Wow! What a great offer! But what exactly is the offer? If I’m still standing there, do I get to go to his house, meet the little woman, and sleep on the couch? Do I get to nibble on his family’s leftover McDonald’s dinner? I guess I’m a little less worried when my male nurse pulls off the interstate to let me off. Of course I give him my thank-you card. Maybe he will come back if I’m stuck. Grasping at straws is beginning to feel normal.

  REAL RIDE NUMBER EIGHT

  COAL MINER

  Just as I feared, there is no lodging at this exit. Up the street from where I’m standing, partially hidden by tree branches, is a gas station, and from the sign I can see, I gather some sort of convenience store is inside. But how late this place stays open I have no idea. To the right (past a bridge I could sleep under if I had to) I glimpse in the distance giant trucks pulling away after refueling. Visible farther up on the other side of the freeway is the sign for the now-defunct “trucker plaza,” the one place I could have spent the night if it had been open. But it isn’t, John, it isn’t.

  The only cars that seem to be on the road here are rush-hour types, and they pass with the usual indifference. I sadly realize I’m at an even worse place to thumb a ride than I was when I was last picked up, but at least it’s a different worse place. I stand there with my thumb out forever. I’m dying here. I call my office and vent my fears. Susan and Trish don’t know what to do or how to help because I can’t even give them my location. I don’t know where the hell I am myself! My BlackBerry and SPOT tracker can tell them a fairly close geographical position, but not exact. I beg them to find a local car-company phone number just in case I’m stuck here in the dark. Susan and Trish can hear the panic in my voice when I realize the workday is ending and they’ll soon be leaving the office. They promise me they’ll try.

  We hang up, and I can see the sun is quickly going down. Terror. I realize I need a new sign that is way more direct—one that could work for local riders and at least get me to an exit with a motel. But I am afraid to leave my hitchhiking spot to search for cardboard, because suppose the male nurse comes back? What time was he eating dinner, anyway? He must be finished by now! Was he lying about returning? Did he look up my name on his home computer and suddenly get cold feet? No, megalomaniac, he probably threw away your card, you self-important shithead. I want him to come back right now!

  But he doesn’t. I realize I must act or it will be total nightfall. I walk over to the gas-station convenience store and ask the woman behind the counter if I could have some cardboard to make a sign. “You know it’s illegal to hitchhike on the freeway,” she sniffs. Bitch. “Yes, I know, but I’m on the entrance ramp and the Ohio police have already told me that was okay,” I answer with suppressed haughtiness. “In that shed outside to the left of the store is where all the empty boxes are kept,” she offers with a hint of class condescension. “You’ll have to break them down.” I begrudgingly thank her and wonder if she’ll call the cops when I leave.

  Inside the hot shed I grab a few boxes—all too large—and rip them apart with my hands in my usual clumsy-at-physical-labor kind of way. Ow! I scrape my hand on a staple and now I’m bleeding. Once again, I wonder why I can’t do the simple physical things most other men can do easily. Am I that gay? So queer I can’t flatten a cardboard box properly without ripping it in the middle and making it impossible to be used as a potential sign?

  Finally I find a smaller box, and miracle of miracles, the seams flatte
n properly and I tear off two sides that are the perfect size. I take out my trusty marker and start to scrawl my new plea, NEXT MOTEL, but hesitate, wondering if that message will somehow sound sexual. Instead I write NEXT HOTEL, which is ridiculous—certainly there are no real hotels anywhere near these freeway exits, but what the hell? I’d rather sound highfalutin than cheap.

  Guess what? The sign works. A coal miner picks me up. A real one. Midthirties. Covered in coal dust like in a comic strip. Coming home from work. And yes, he’ll take me to an exit in Cambridge, Ohio, where there are motels. It’s only ten minutes away from where he picked me up (Old Wilmington, Ohio, he tells me), but at least I don’t have to sleep outside. Yay!

  I don’t even bother telling him what I do for a living and he doesn’t ask. Not the nosy type, I guess. Just a good guy helping out a fellow man down on his luck. I ask him about that Chilean coal-mining disaster and how it was for him to watch that harrowing-rescue news footage and he says he “purposely never looked at it because I have three little girls and have to go to work in the coal mines here anyway, so why upset myself?” He’s had a past, just like most of the men who’ve picked me up hitchhiking so far. He had gone north from this part of Ohio “because it was dull,” but became a meth addict before turning his life around and coming back home. Just like the male nurse and the biker before him, the coal miner speaks lovingly about his wife. Usually at home I meet straight guys who bitch about their spouses and complain about the lack of blow jobs they get, but here is another heterosexual man who does love women and gives his wife great credit for steering him in the right direction. He seems happy. Heterosexuals can feel good about themselves, too.

 

‹ Prev