A Hitch in Time Read online

Before I started hitching rides again, I counted my wad of money. I had started out with $360 dollars in cash. I now had—this was gonna take a minute—$512. All the ‘new’ money was in $1 bills. I found out why later when I watched the video of me doing a drag queen act, including stripping, on the bar. I guess people really liked it.

  I’ll never see any of these people again, thank God! I leaned against a pole and stuck out my thumb. Hmm, maybe I should stick out my hip?

  What was this? An anonymous white van. It looked like it should either say ‘free candy’ on the side, or have antennae sticking out every which way and a fake ‘plumber’ sign stuck on the side. But it pulled over, slid open the door, and sucked me right in. An adventure is an adventure, right? Besides, what could surpass last night (whatever that was)?

  I scrambled over seats, people, a dog or two, and some tall bowl/vase like things that I later found out were known as hookahs. Not to be confused with hookers. And yes I do know the smell of marijuana and got in the van anyhow. It was supposed to be good for pain, right? Though to be truthful, the one time I’d had it, in a brownie, I got the worst headache of my life. Maybe I’d get another one and it would kill the one I already had, amirite?

  It didn’t even surprise me that there were peace and love signs all over and that everyone who had clothes on was wearing tie-dye, beads, and sandals. A wailing banshee of music came out from speakers, voices, air vents, or the gates of Hell, I couldn’t tell. I could make out various words from time to time, but that was all—no cohesion to it. It certainly wasn’t anything I’d ever heard in church, or even at a sixth grade band concert.

  As best as I could tell, this was the song; ‘There was something something maybe a stoned white bird on a bicycle with a rabbit and there was too much haze, and they hit a walrus who went itchy coo while blowing a psychotic sky pilot with flowers in his hair.’ And it was sung by someone called The Dead Zappa Stone Birds. Although to be honest, I had, by this time, been inhaling. A lot.

  It was going to be an interesting ride.

  The first person who said anything more than a long, drawn out ‘dude’, said, “Hey, you’re that girl who was on that video that went viral last night! You know,” he said to the girl on his lap, “The one who was stripping? That was cool, man.” He nodded. They all nodded. Everything was very noddy.

  Including me. I nodded too. I couldn’t see individual people. It was just vague and cloudy in the back of the van. The clouds varied with the tone of the music.

  Someone said, “Beauty is an ugly concept.”

  Voices; “What about real beauty, the kind that’s based on healthiness?”

  “The artificial standard of beauty, that sucks.”

  “Whose standard; they’re all different.”

  “What about this?” and someone peeled off a shirt.

  “That’s beauty, them boobies right there.”

  “Nah, they’re okay but I’m a leg-man.”

  Something barked, as if to say, ‘Look, I have eight of them, and four legs!’

  Someone said, “Dicks. I like dicks.” Shit, was that me? Yes, that was me.

  Oh well. It’s not like…ooh, what was this? A hand or two had appeared as if by smoke and mirrors under my waistband. My button seemed to pop all by itself and the zipper decided it was tired and opened itself to sweet possibility. Things got very nice after that. And I know I’m an adult and I can talk about whatever I want but this was, to be honest, and I know you won’t believe me, but it was my Very First Time Ever and it was special. Private. I’ll say this; never has anyone ever had such beautiful, wondrous, glorious sex as I did that day in the van. I was immediately and passionately in love with—whoever—had done this for me.

  I have a foggy recollection of deep brown eyes, curly blond hair, and an impish smile that could probably run the car, light up the night, throw fireworks into the air, and, um, stuff like that. He was the cutest, most beautiful, awesome man I had ever seen. I felt like I had seen God; but that couldn’t be, could it? I mean…oh hell. A very wet nose decided to hurry me into getting my clothes back on again. That nose was cold, man! I knew sort of that there was at least one dog in the car but I—oh yeah, I remembered I had beef jerky in my pockets! Whew! I sat there smiling and feeding jerky to the dog. Across the haze I could just make out curly blond hair, an impish grin, and dark brown eyes.

  After that, and I’m sure it was just the dope, er, the side effects of being around it I mean, the conversation dwindled down to the ‘pass me that blunt’, incoherent giggling, and the odd ‘like’, ‘groovy’, ‘cool, man’, and oddly enough two phrases; ‘counter-culture’ and ‘Sexual Freedom League.’ I would have asked what those last two meant but for some reason I just didn’t care at all. It was an educational ride, except, you know, like, groovy. Like, time travel, or a time-warp. It was a gas, man. I was bummed out when it ended. I stood (sort of) on the sidewalk watching the van drive off, with hands waving at me, voices yelling, “It was groovy, man!” and “Fly low, man!” and last but not least, “Radical!” All I felt was happy, calm, and hungry; very, very, hungry.

  But wait, what had that guy said? About me being the ‘girl’ on the video that went—oooh no. No no no. Well, crap. He had thought I was a girl? Not for long he hadn’t, and with that hearty chuckle, I stuck out my thumb, hoping the next ride would have more doughnuts. Or blonds, either one.

  Chapter 5

  Now so far, dumb as I am, I hadn’t really paid any attention to the age of the vehicles that had stopped for me. I was more interested in the people inside, and what they had to ‘offer’ me, ha-ha. I had only the faintest idea about cars anyhow, and not much interest, sad to say. However, when the next one pulled up in front of me, I had a flash go through my head like lava through concrete (is that possible)—fast, but sludgy. These cars are old. It’s like travelling through time, ha-ha, backwards. Still, I got in. My imagination often suffered at the hands of my laziness. And that whole cloud of dope from the sixties thing.

  The driver looked at me through cat’s eye glasses. She must have been eighty years old. I don’t think she let that stop her, and apparently, it didn’t slow her down much either. We took off in a roar of exhaust. The car itself was red, sleek, small, and a convertible, but the entire thing except for where we sat must have been engine. Huh, maybe she’d at least act like an adult.

  Nope.

  “My name is Ruth Barge. That’s Miss Barge to you and none of that teenage Largy Bargy crap they used to call me. I was a high school history teacher. Who are you and why aren’t you in school today?” Miss Barge glared at me and I blinked innocently, reeking of reefer, still hung over, and with a bad case of the munchies. And I wasn’t a virgin anymore either!

  “I’m uh. Shane. My name is Shane.”

  One eyebrow went up to her hairline—was that a wig? Oh God, no. Yep.

  “My full name, Miss Barge, is,” and I gave her the whole thing, watching her eyebrow lift even higher.

  Her head began to shake slowly from side to side. “You poor thing,” she finally got out. “I am so sorry.”

  We drove, the highway flying past, wind blowing our faces back like dogs’ hanging out the window. “For your edifimafication,” she stated, “this car you are in is my son’s. It was his midlife crisis.” She shook her head regretfully, then lit up a cigar. Yep, a cigar. “Don’t smoke,” she advised me, “it’s a filthy habit. Now this car is a one owner, almost show room condition, formerly blue 25th Anniversary Camaro (that’s 1992). We have never smoked, eaten, drank, or allowed children or animals in this vehicle. Oh yeah, no impure thoughts either, so get that leer off your face, I don’t put out.” She followed this outrageous remark with a hysterical cackle, a hearty pull on her cigar, and a regretful shake of her head. I winced and hoped her wig would both stay on and not catch fire. I also hoped she didn’t watch viral videos on the internet. (Speaking of impure thoughts.) Whatever it was, I was just grateful I could remember the immediate past!

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nbsp; “Seven coats of old candy apple red, a bigger engine…” and I had to tune out again. My head lolled back against the headrest and stayed there.

  I woke up when the car stopped. Hours had passed. She was just finishing up. “And that’s why it gets sixteen mpg!”

  “Is that good?” I asked stupidly.

  “Of course. She used to get twelve,” Miss Barge said haughtily.

  “We’re going in here. An old lady has her needs. This place has a nice restroom. And I’m buying you lunch. This is the most intelligent conversation I’ve had in a long time, except with myself.” She sat there staring at me. It finally clicked in and I leapt out of the car, fell on my face, got up muttering, “I meant to do that,” and went around and opened her door. One side of her mouth was twitching. I blushed.

  So after the necessitaries, as she put it, we were seated at what was probably the best booth in the place. It was dark, the restaurant more of a bar, narrow, with the actual bar on one side, a dance floor at the far end by the bathrooms, and along this whole wall, the booths. There were a few wooden tables scattered along the middle. And best of all, a huge picture of a naked woman in front of red velvet draperies on the wall over the bar. A waitress came up. “Welcome to Mabel’s Whore House and Inn, may I get you something?”

  “Ah Mabel, I knew her when she still called herself Maureen…” Miss Barge said, stopping abruptly. “Well, we were friends, I won’t deny that. In fact, I took that picture. I mean, the one the painting is based on.” Miss Barge blushed prettily. Mabel, of course, was, like I said, stark naked.

  Dense as a log, I blurted, “But you have a son.”

  Miss Barge rolled her eyes. She sighed. “Tell me, oh naïve one,” she stated, leaning forward. Another deep breath. I was afraid she was going to ask me if I’d ever heard of bisexuals, but instead she said, “Tell me about yourself. You now know a few things about me, very personal things, things my students never knew. What about you? Do you have secrets? Passions? What moves you?”

  I couldn’t tell if she was being nice or getting even, but something inside me leapt free. I wanted to tell her things about me, things nobody else knew, or cared about. I cared anyhow, and maybe, just maybe, she would too.

  But I am shy. I started fearfully, “Well, apparently, I can dance!” But I was so embarrassed, I couldn’t go on with that part. Miss B. was looking at me like she was trying to see beneath my skin. I dug deeper because of it. “When I was little (like, last week), I wanted to be a photographer, but my mom said I could take photos with my phone like everybody else and if I tried to do more than that I’d starve, but that’s not…I mean…I want a real camera. I know I’m past the Ansel Adams stage and don’t care if I have my own darkroom anymore, as long as I can learn digital and do that.” I had to breathe. The words lay on the table like a platter of spaghetti; it looks like just sauce and pasta, but there is so much more in there. “I especially want to do portraits, of the special needs kids at school, of the girls who are shy because they think they’re fat or ugly, of the guys who are glued to their video games and push their glasses back up their noses all the time. I want to take portraits that make them stop and go, whoa, look at me, I’m—beautiful.”

  She continued to look at me. The waitress brought our drinks. (A martini for her, a Coke for me). “And I like to go exploring in the woods and find abandoned buildings and stuff.”

  I couldn’t shut up. “The contrasts between the concrete and the paint chipping off and the vines growing over everything, maybe a sopping wet, bedraggled teddy bear under a bush or an ugly piece of trash by a wildflower. I love that—that—dichotomy, is that the word I want?”

  She nodded. And smiled. Our food came and was I glad. I felt like I’d ripped off my skin and shown my heart.

  “I think you’d be good at that. It must hurt that your mother shot you down so bad.”

  Yes it had, and still did.

  What the hell; I added, “And I’m gay.”

  There was a busboy at the next table. He froze, looked over at me, looked again, and smiled happily. “You’re even better looking with your clothes on!” he burbled, suddenly embarrassed to find he’d said that out loud. “On—the—video? Internet? Oh, God!” and he grabbed his bin and hurried away.

  “Oh, he’s darling!” Miss B. enthused, looking after him. “Don’t you want to chase him down to the men’s room? Oh, to be fifty…. Maybe sixty…years…younger. Well, crap. Now, tell me about all this?” She had her teacher’s face on.

  I told her the whole story so far, leaving nothing out. She loved it, but she had paled somewhat during my description of Phil Filbert. When I was done, she said quietly, “I have a confession to make. That first man—Phil? That’s my son. I wasn’t home when he got there and obviously I’m not there now. He doesn’t know I still have his car…he thinks it’s great that I let him use mine. Oh dear. What a sticky web we weave…I didn’t mean to lie to him, really, don’t you think it’s just a normal thing, to avoid your family and not tell them the truth sometimes? It might only hurt him, you know.”

  I admit it; I was beaming. My mouth was full of apple pie and I was happy as a clam. I loved this old lady; I wished she was my relative that I was going to stay with and not my own Aunt Sophie. Well, you can’t have everything.

  “I have something for you—and then I’d better say au reservoir, and go back home, see if Phil is still there. I can tell him I set out and got lost…he’ll believe it. Then he’ll pray for me. You have your backpack? Good. Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

  Several moments later she reappeared, paid the bill, and came over to me. “Close your eyes, my dear, so that you can use them later. I’m going to put a small gift in your bag. You’ll get more use out of it than I would.” I heard rustling, then she kissed my forehead, and was gone. I felt the air close in where she had been, as if she had just vanished, or only been something in my imagination. When I opened my eyes, I peered into my backpack, but whatever she had put in was on the bottom. I got up to leave, saw the bus boy grin at me and shake his ass, and left.

  Hurriedly, but smiling.

  Chapter 6

  And so I’m outside again, leaning against a pole, thinking, hmm, pole…dancing. No. No more excitement, dull would be good. Although it’s supposed to be an adventure, right? And here comes my next ride. It’s a man and a dog. I see the dog first; he’s all white except for a black ring around one eye like he’s been cold-cocked (oh crap, how about a better term than that?) K O-ed. Punched. I can’t help thinking it’s the ugliest dog I have ever seen. Nonetheless, I climb in, shoving the dog over to make room. Gently of course, seeing the size of it. Him, yeah, definitely a him. He starts licking me.

  “Jimmy, now leave the boy alone—say, don’t I know you? What’s your name, son?” The man has glasses, gray hair, a goatee, and huge forearms covered with curly red hair. Big aviator sunglasses hide his eyes.

  Well back to normal. We ‘burn rubber’. Jimmy was now in my lap, licking my face. This thing weighed a ton. Maybe a ton and a half. He couldn’t sit still. His head was shaped like an egg. I don’t think I’d ever seen a happier dog, though.

  The car though, the car was ugly. Actually, so was the driver—he looked like a stereotypical hick, or an old, worn-out porn star. Trying to be nice I said, “So tell me about your car, ungh…” that last part was forced out of me as the dog sat on my gut, slurped my face, and then stood up and turned around, put his front feet on the dash board and his back feet on my crotch. (In my crotch.) His stiff white tail was whopping back and forth across my face as he barked at the breeze.

  “This here is a 1975 Ferrari 365 GT4 Berlinetta Boxer. It belongs to, uh, me. Yup. Beaut, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah.” No. It was the ugliest car I’d ever seen. Long, but boxy.

  “I just sold my white van to a buncha hippies.” He stared at me again. “They want it painted so I’m gonna meet up with them and detail it for them. Heh heh, I got some ideas for it.” He chuck
led wickedly.

  “You wanna beer?” he asked suddenly. Yes, yes I did wanna beer, dammit, so I took one and watched sideways as he opened his bottle with his teeth, or, tooth. I said, “Is your dog a boxer too?” I glugged beer. I’d meant to sip but the dog’s butt knocked the bottle into my mouth and it was swallow or die, well, glug or die. The dog farted.

  “Hell no, he’s 90% bull terrier and 10% little black dog down the street. That’s a joke, son. The other part is pure bulldog, that’s why he’s got those fat jowls, don’t you sweetie pie? Who’s a good little doggy then?”

  ‘Little’? Where did that part come in? Jimmy farted again. I drank. Whip whip whop went the long white tail. Appropriately, the radio blared out, ‘‘And now for ‘Bungle in the Jungle!’’’ and the driver cranked it up. “I love this song!” he shouted, banging his fist on the dashboard.

  After an endless monologue, which I had tuned out, enjoying my first (as far as I knew) beer, and the music (who was Elton John? Gloria Gaynor? They seemed cool) when my driver snarled, “Shee-it.” Two syllables. “Look here, son, do me a favor. My name is ‘Frank’, got it? And that’s your dog now, not mine, nope. He’s uh, twelve years old, right? Actually he’s almost not quite a year, a puppy still, but he likes you and my real name is Chuck but you don’t know that.” He glared at me. Uh oh.

  I had no idea what was going on because the previous night notwithstanding, I was an easy drunk and not used to liquor. I nodded amiably. “Sure, Fruck, whatever you say—say, aren’t those sirens? Sure they are, yes! Sirens! But don’t worry there are only six police cars and they are, um, well look at that. These don’t look the same as…”

  Three cars, all modern looking, which made me realize in my fuddled state that the others had been really old, probably older than I was. And they had us blocked in. Frank handed me his beer, so I was holding two. He said, “Drink it, stupid.” I drank. The dog licked at the other so I poured some into his mouth. The car slid to the curb and Frank started to get out.