Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [85]
I stood at the side of Port Clinton’s main road and held out my thumb.
A few cars passed, splashing stagnant rainwater up onto the sidewalk. It’s easy to tell when people are not going to give you a ride, because they don’t even look at you. It’s like they justify not picking up hitchhikers by pretending that they aren’t there. I’d rather someone smile and nod their head or even look at me in disgust as they drive by than act as if I didn’t exist.
In a few minutes, a large eighteen-wheeler roared down the road. As it passed me, it started to slow down, and I heard its brakes screech on the wet asphalt. The truck pulled off the road and finally came to a stop about a hundred yards down the highway.
I wasn’t sure whether or not he had stopped for me, but I cautiously jogged down the side of the road and approached the driver’s side of the cab.
Staring up inquisitively, I saw an older, bearded man stick his head out the window and ask, “Well, honey, you need a ride or not?”
I had always wanted to hitchhike on the back of a motorcycle, but this was so much cooler!
As I climbed into the shiny blue cab, it seemed like I was staring out of the top window of a two-story house. I could not believe how high above the ground I was.
When the driver cranked the engine and the truck lurched forward, I was overcome with a feeling of power. My stomach dropped, my adrenaline rose, and the entire acceleration process felt more like a roller coaster than a ride down the highway.
The truck driver was extremely nice and eager to help me find new socks. During our ten minutes together, he told me a little about being a trucker—which sounded like it was even harder than being a thru-hiker. I always knew that truckers worked tough shifts, but the driver told me that the hours were so demanding that most truckers used drugs to stay awake and alert.
I didn’t understand how drugs helped drivers stay awake—or focus on the road—but the guy insisted that for many it was part of the job description.
“You almost have to do hard drugs if you want to keep your job,” he said. “There’s so much pressure not to stop and to make good time that most truckers don’t even take bathroom breaks. They just pee in a bottle, or they cut a hole in their floorboards.”
I casually began to look around for holes, or bottles, or white powder.
“It’s also hard to have a wife and family,” he continued. “You’re on the road most of the year, and when you’re at home, your kids hardly know who you are. Sometimes at the truck stops there will be prostitutes hanging around. I never saw why men would want a hooker . . . until I became a trucker.”
At that, he suddenly became quiet. I wanted to change the subject, so I quickly asked, “Do you pick up many hitchhikers?”
His tone lightened. “Oh yeah, I used to always pick ’em up. I like the company, and hitchhikers always have good stories. But I don’t pick up as many as I used to. A few years ago I picked up a guy who seemed okay at first. But after riding together for a little bit, he told me I looked like this man his girlfriend had cheated with, and he started attacking me while I was at the wheel.”
“Were you hurt?”
“I wasn’t hurt too bad, but I could have wrecked. I left that maniac on the side of the interstate, ten miles from the nearest exit, and since then I’ve been carrying this in the backseat.”
The driver reached behind my seat, pulled out a metal baseball bat, and placed it between us.
If I hadn’t already been on my best behavior, now I was.
The truck driver said he knew right where the outdoor store was and mentioned that it was a Cabela’s.
“I’ve never heard of Cabela’s,” I said.
The driver laughed. “Well, sweetie, I’m sure you’ll be able to find some socks there.”
When we exited the highway and drove toward a building so large that it could have housed the entire town of Port Clinton,