by John Waters
Even though Cambridge, Ohio, is past his exit, he takes me there anyway and even checks out the entrance ramp for my tomorrow morning’s hitching. It looks good. He asks me which of the several motels we could see I’d like to stay in. I am already a Days Inn man, so I choose what I know. I give him my THANKS FOR THE LIFT card and he takes it politely. He bids me farewell with a smile and pulls off toward home after an honest day’s work.
REAL RIDE NUMBER NINE
HERE WE GO MAGIC
I check in, and lo and behold, the clerk recognizes me. I tell him I’m hitching cross-country and writing a book and how hard it is to get a ride. I see him Googling me at the same time he’s taking my credit card info. A fat man waiting to check in behind me overhears and says, “I used to be a trucker and there’s a lot of truckers who stay at this exit, so you ought to have luck.” I tell him truckers can never pick up hitchhikers these days because of all the restrictive new rules, but he says without missing a beat, “Well, believe me, they’d pick you up if you had a vagina.”
I go to my room, and as soon as I enter, the phone is ringing. It’s the clerk. “Can you come down and do an autograph?” he asks. “Sure,” I respond, “as long as you try and hustle me a ride west tomorrow morning.” As I sign at the desk, he assures me he’ll ask around and leave me a note in the morning if he’s had any luck before his shift ends. I have hope.
I go back upstairs and text Susan and Trish at their homes that “a nice coal miner—in the outfit” gave me an eight-mile ride to a Days Inn. I explain about the clerk in the lobby, how he might find me a ride, etc. Susan e-mails me back, “Tomorrow will be better.”
I see by checking the day’s e-mails that my office tried earlier, without any luck, to find me a taxi or car service when I was whining and panicking. I read the e-mail incorrectly in my usual impatient way and assume when they write that they even “called a local VFW bar” and tried to “talk to a sober enough person to act as a hack” that they were setting up a “fake” ride to pick me up. I write them a blowhard e-mail back saying, “This makes me insane. Please do not do this!” But then I realize they weren’t trying to manipulate my story, just doing what I had asked—find me a paid ride to a hotel if I got stuck. I write back with my tail between my legs, “I see this was preventative planning. Thanks.”
I continue scrolling down on my phone and read that The Corvette Kid e-mailed me at Atomic Books the very night he left me off. The owner, Benn Ray, doesn’t know about my hitchhiking trip so is baffled. He forwards The Kid’s day-old initial e-mail to my office, which explains how he picked me up in Frederick County, Maryland, and drove me to Ohio, what a great time we had, and then asks Atomic Books for my e-mail address so he could offer to give me a lift again on his upcoming trip to Missouri.
Not having any idea what The Kid was referring to, Benn sent back the standard line to fans who e-mail there, “I’m sorry, we only accept mail for John Waters,” and gave him the address. But The Kid wasn’t having any of that and answered, “Okay, he did say to reach him by e-mailing him there … If this isn’t true and he lied to me, so be it. But I spent 4 hours driving him to Ohio today. All I’m asking is for you to forward the e-mail to him so I can touch base.” Susan had seen this forwarded e-mail at work and answered, politely explaining to The Kid the situation with Atomic Books and adding, “Thank you for driving John yesterday. He told us it was a great ride and he really appreciated it. He’s checking in with us very infrequently, but we’ll be sure he sees your e-mail and thank you for extending such a nice offer. I think he’ll be beyond Missouri in a few days but it sure is generous to offer a backup plan.” The Kid answered quickly, thanking her, and joking about my having told him one of my assistants was also a Republican, “Glad to hear of a fellow ‘R’ … hopefully John doesn’t give you too much grief for that.” He doesn’t seem put off by Susan’s pooh-poohing the possibility of his coming back to get me. “What a great adventure,” The Kid writes her back. I immediately e-mail him my cell phone number. You never know.
I feel a little more upbeat. And for the first time on the trip, I am starved. I walk outside into the hub of motels, fast-food restaurants, even a giant tractor-supply warehouse. Truckers are everywhere, and yes, a few of them are incredibly cute, but in real, unporn life most of them are, well, ugly. Just like film directors, I guess. Here is a world I have never been in, in my life. I feel excited! I go in a Starfire convenience store and buy more water, then I head over to Ruby Tuesday for dinner. Another first for me. I sit at the counter and try to appear friendly to the other trucker types who are also eating, but nobody takes the bait. I order tilapia and it’s actually delicious. I like Ruby Tuesday, I decide, feeling that I’m almost passing for a normal person. Maybe regular people don’t talk to strangers. Maybe that’s why I’ve made no friends here.
I walk back to the motel and make sure the clerk sees me again. He waves. I’m disappointed he doesn’t mention anything about a ride tomorrow, but I decide I can’t be a nag. Maybe he’s still working on it.
Up in my room I look at my AAA TripTik and get depressed. I hitchhiked about ten hours today but only was in cars for a total of about fifty minutes. Day Two has been awful. I have a long, long way to go. Escape to sleep.
I wake up at 6:00 a.m., as usual. Thank God, Days Inn has bathtubs. Showers are too violent for me unless it’s really hot outside. I debate throwing away my second pair of underpants. Nope. This trip’s definitely going to take longer than five days. I wear my second day’s boxers again. I realize I have forgotten one of the main tools of my mustache maintenance—the cuticle scissors I use to trim unruly long or gray hairs. Oh well, for now it’s not that scraggly; it will pass for the day.
I go to “work.” It’s not a far walk to the entrance ramp and it looks like an okay spot. Lots of traffic. But Susan was wrong, it isn’t “better tomorrow.” I stand there with my thumb out. The cop from yesterday would be proud—I shake my sign and make eye contact with drivers but still no luck. Cop cars pass me several times and I know they see me, but none of them gives me any grief. Four hours pass. I try different signs—END OF 70 WEST; the one Susan suggested: WRITING HITCHHIKING BOOK; even just SAN FRANCISCO—but still strike out. Ohio will be the death of me yet. Death by tedium.
Again when a ride stops there is a split second of unreality. Fear they’ll take off without me. It’s a van pulling a small trailer. The door slides open and I see a whole gang of hipsters. “It’s the Manson Family!” I humorously greet them. Each is staring at me in amazement. “Where are you coming from?” a handsome guy asks from the second row of seats. “Baltimore,” I answer. “Get in, sir,” he says, and I see the friendliest group of smiles I have ever seen break out on all their faces. They are an indie band called Here We Go Magic, which I stupidly and unhiply have not heard of. So much for thinking I’m up-to-date on new music. Driving is the sound guy, Matt Littlejohn. Next to him is drummer Peter Hale. Next row, Mike Bloch, the guitar player who first greeted me, and Avtar Khalsa, the on-the-road tour manager. Next to me in the second row of seats is the sexy and cool Jen Turner, bass player, and behind, in the last row, lead singer and guitar player Luke Temple. All their musical equipment is in the trailer being pulled behind us. They are headed to a gig in Bloomington, Indiana, and offer to drive me to Indianapolis. Yay! A long ride!
I am thrilled, no, exhilarated to be in a van with such a hip group. “It only takes one ride” was becoming truer and truer each day. They explain that they passed me once as they entered the freeway but didn’t stop. Arguing back and forth if it “really was John Waters,” some were sure, others were not, so they decided to come back and see. “He’d never wear that hat!” Peter had argued. I guess he never saw the Scum of the Earth movie.
I struggle to fasten my seat belt and quickly bond with Jen, who has full-tilt bad-girl beauty and style to burn. Mike and Avtar, seated in front of us, quickly join in on comparing sexual slang words: blouse (a gay man who is a feminine top), tr
endsexual (gay for political reasons), and heteroflexible (mostly straight but known to occasionally fall off that wagon). Luke just listens silently from the last row, softly strumming his guitar, as Peter and Matt shout out other rude-vocabulary lessons from the front of the van. We talk about endless touring (they have been on the road for almost two years straight), drugs, Patty Hearst, Divine, and their own hitchhiking adventures from their pasts. This is complete heaven for me—great new showbiz comrades who drive safely and we are covering a lot of miles!
We stop for lunch at Giacomo’s in Zanesville, Ohio, and I treat. It is the least I could do—a sugar-daddy road warrior! Ha! It is fun to be part of a youth gang again. Not wanting to lose time—they have a show to make that night, after all—we head back onto Route 70 and eat as we travel. I think I surprise them by pulling out my hitchhiking-music compilation CD I had prepared when writing the “best” and “worst” chapters of my book. I mean, what other hitchhiker brings his personal soundtrack with him? They laugh and seem to love all my vintage novelty and country songs about being lonely on the road, and in turn they give me their new CD, A Different Ship, which totally coincidentally just came out this week. I can’t wait to listen to it in private. Mike asks if he can tweet that they have picked me up, and I say, “Sure.” My rule had always been I would never start the publicity or confirm I was hitchhiking until after I was done, but whoever picked me up could do as they liked. Mike tweets on the Here We Go Magic official site, “Just picked up John Waters hitchhiking in the middle of Ohio. No joke. Waters in the car.” Jen follows up with her own announcement, “We really picked up John Waters hitchhiking.” Both include a snapshot of me with Jen happily riding along in the van and Luke relaxing in the backseat. Proof.
The story goes viral almost immediately. Twitter. Facebook. “Pinkie swear?” was one of the first reactions to Mike. “It is 100% pinkie swear true,” he answers happily. Spin magazine immediately calls the band’s manager and the rest of the music press quickly follows. I can see by Mike’s shocked face as he checks his e-mails on his computer that the shit is hitting the publicity fan in a completely unplanned, lovely, and insane way.
I have been with Here We Go Magic for about six hours now, and as we enter the suburbs of Indianapolis, where the band has to go south, they try to find a good drop-off spot for me—one with hotels and restaurants. I can tell that as much as they want to help me find the perfect hitchhiking spot, they will be late for their show if they dawdle. We leave I-70W and I say, “This exit will be fine,” even though I can see it isn’t. A high-speed, heavily traveled main highway with an entrance ramp to I-70 West would be impossible to pull over on. But the band members have been so wonderful to me that I don’t want to hold them up. It’s time to say goodbye. We stop at a convenience store parking lot and get out. I ask a stranger to take a photo of all of us together, with me in the middle holding my END OF I-70 WEST cardboard sign. Here We Go Magic drives off into their show-business life and I go back to being a bum.
REAL RIDE NUMBER TEN
SHAUTA
La Quinta Inn has a room. Already stewing about the impossible morning hitchhiking spot I am facing, I confide in the lady who is checking me in. She doesn’t raise an eyebrow when I tell her I’m thumbing my way across the country and points out back behind the hotel, where Route 70 West itself runs quite near the property. “You could climb over the fence,” she suggests.
The room’s okay—not as nice as Days Inn, though, and the lighting is piss-poor for reading. Suddenly I realize I’ve lost my reading glasses. Oh God, I bet I left them in the Here We Go Magic van. I e-mail Jen immediately. Luckily, I have my backup pair for exactly this occasion; otherwise I’d be unable to read a thing, a torture worse than death. I check my e-mails and see the Here We Go Magic story has crossed over even more. First a site called DCist, then Gawker, quickly followed by Jill Rosen of the Baltimore Sun. Gulp. My office’s official response to all inquiries has been “We neither confirm nor deny the story,” which I realize sounds a little grand. Jen has been especially sweet in her more recent tweets, not revealing where they had dropped me off, “maybe the wild blue yonder.” She even has sent me a farewell message: “JW, be safe out there.” The band e-mails me back, yes, they have my glasses, and a friend who is at their show, who is based in Indianapolis, from Joyful Noise Recordings, will bring them back to my hotel tonight after their gig and drop them off at the desk. Talk about a ride that keeps on giving!
I look out the window of my room, and indeed I have a perfect, hellish view of Route 70W rush-hour traffic. The whizzing sounds of cars and trucks are starting to feel like the soundtrack of my new life. Climbing over the fence would be a ridiculously extreme act, plus I’d be right on I-70, where no one would stop. I go outside and walk through this suburban shopping-type area and know I’m too near the city. I try walking up to where the nearest ramp is but see this would be a terrible place—nowhere to stand, endless traffic, mostly all local. I panic. What the hell am I going to do?
Yesterday Susan had suggested I call Shauta Marsh, who once booked my This Filthy World spoken-word show for the Indianapolis Museum of Contemporary Art. Maybe she could give me a lift to a better hitch spot. At first I dismissed this idea with bluster. “No! That would be cheating,” I raved, still the fake-ride reactionary. But once I got back in my room, I was suddenly a little more open to “cheating.” After all, wasn’t I going to offer a stranger money to get me to a better spot in Ohio? Is it that different to call a friend? Actually, yes. It would be sort of cheating, but what the hell, hadn’t I mentioned in the prologue that I would “call a limousine” if I had to? It’s not that bad.
Shauta is surprised to hear from me out of the blue, and I imagine even more startled to hear that I am in her town, hitchhiking, and needing a ride in the morning. She doesn’t balk when I mention, “I like to start early.” Not having the nerve to give her my usual starting time of 6:30 a.m., I sheepishly mention 7:00 a.m. She seems fine with that but adds she has to take her two kids to school, so they’ll be in the car. “Great!” I say. “Children need to know about hitchhiking.” I tell Shauta I’ll be out in front of the motel waiting eagerly for her arrival. What an absolute sweetheart!
I e-mail my office that Shauta is good to go, and they are relieved. Trish stays late after work hours, though, and comes up with some good possible locations to be dropped off in the morning. She e-mails directions and descriptions of the areas to both me and Shauta. One has a McDonald’s and a “truck center” and is about fifteen miles west, and the other is a rest area ten miles farther that has no restaurants but vending machines and bathrooms and separate parking lots for cars and trucks. I feel better. I e-mail both my sisters that the hitch story has gone public and they should be ready to explain to our mom and calm her down if she should hear. I tell them I am in Indianapolis and am fine.
I guess I’m hungry. By now I have eliminated successfully and feel relieved to be able to do so on the road. Let’s see—where shall I fine-dine tonight? I see the usual chain outlets to ignore. Hmmmm … the Outback Steakhouse? Looks less corporate than the others, plus I’ve never heard of it. I’m doing new stuff every day! I enter and sit at the bar and a nice waiter takes my order. I choose a steak. The filet is kind of gristly, certainly nothing to write home about. Nobody looks at me or talks to me despite the fact that two men are on either side of me, also eating alone. They stare at the overhead TVs as if they have never not eaten a meal in their lives in front of the tube. I tip more than 20 percent, remembering Nora Ephron’s great line that “overtipping only costs a few dollars more.” Here, less than a dollar.
Back at the hotel room, online, I see the Here We Go Magic story is continuing to get an unbelievably high number of hits. I’m secretly pleased, even though I can’t for the life of me think how this could possibly make it any easier for me to get rides. I forward the Spin website on Here We Go Magic picking me up to The Corvette Kid and tell him where I am. He e-mails me ba
ck, “Okay. Sounds good. I plan to head west in a few days. I hope you don’t go too far now.” Does this mean there’s really a possibility he’ll be back? As I curl up to go to sleep, I realize Day Three started off terribly but ended on the upswing. Could my newfound hitchhiking luck last into the next day? How could I possibly get a cooler ride than with Here We Go Magic?
I wake up and am still shocked I am doing this trip. When I hear a message on my voice mail from an old friend who has read online about me hitchhiking, I’m touched but have to chuckle that he’s seriously concerned that I have dementia and am wandering around the highways lost and out of my skull. He offers to come pick me up no matter where I may be even though he lives in Los Angeles. I text him back I’m okay. I check my e-mail and see even Baltimore local TV and radio stations are now reporting my hitchhiking. I e-mail my sisters and tell them they’d better tell our mom now—she will definitely hear today. I’m still too frightened over the possible length of this trip to throw away underwear, but at least I put on a fresh pair. Plus a clean Gap T-shirt. Pink. What was I thinking when I packed? I’m getting a little sick of wearing the same Issey Miyake sports coat every day. Usually I’d be more like the Donna Dasher character in Female Trouble sniffing, “I really should be changing my outfit anyway, I’ve had it on nearly five hours,” but refrain from acting like her when I, by habit, go down to the free-breakfast room.
The food selection is just as awful as always: white bread, frozen bagels a starving-to-death New Yorker would still turn down, and sugarcoated high-calorie cereal. Same trucker types. Same uncuteness. Same gloomy lack of social interaction. God, I miss newspapers! Luckily I swiped a Wall Street Journal from that lunch place yesterday in Ohio, so I have something to read while I fight the awful fear that Shauta won’t show up. Actually, I know she will be here, but I’m a worrywart and always need a backup plan. Like crying.