On a cold winter’s day, with a nor’easter howling in from the Atlantic, I thought I would be stabbed by Santa Claus.
He wasn’t really Santa, of course. He was just a scruffy, down on his luck looking fellow with a magnificent but filthy beard, and long white hair curling down from a red toboggan cap. He didn’t wear a red suit, but an ancient military surplus coat and jeans. He did carry a bag over one shoulder, but it was an old army duffel, not a sack full of presents. One thumb was struck defiantly out in the weather, as if daring someone to give him a ride.
He was trudging toward Wilmington from Holly Ridge, back when U.S. 17 was mostly two lanes. I started to pass him by, but had a twinge of guilt and swung in a few yards ahead of him and waved him over. He glanced up, face red with cold and rain, and slowly made his way to the truck.
I told him I could take him as far as Wilmington. Not-Santa tossed his duffel in the back of the truck and got in. He grunted something like a thank you and settled into the seat. He said “Yes” emphasized with an expletive when I offered him a cigarette.
I tried to make conversation for a few miles, but was rewarded with nothing but grunts and ‘uh hmm.” I shrugged and shushed figuring to respect his privacy.
We were about in the middle of what is now Hampstead when he sighed and reached into a smaller bag, maybe half the size of a pillowcase, that he kept tied around his waist.
He pulled out a comb, and a long jagged piece of what had obviously once been a large mirror. It was about the size and shape of a medium hunting knife. He began combing his beard, mumbling to himself. I was a little nervous, but not terribly so.
Not-Santa turned in the seat, and half-pointed the mirror shard at me.
“I was a victim of grand larceny,” he said. I gulped, and said I was sorry.
“I carry this to be sure it doesn’t happen again,” he emphasized. I reached into the door pocket, and slowly pulled out the antique revolver I used for snakes.
“I haven’t ever been robbed while I was carrying this,” I said, trying to sound both unworried and dangerous. He nodded and said something like um-hmm again, then returned the mirror to his bag of tricks. He never said another word, not even thank you, when we pulled in at my office. He just opened the truck door and started walking.
I’ve picked up too many hitchhikers through the years. The habit always worried my mama, but I have only seen one or two actual cases of a hitchhiker turning out to be a serial killer or something, despite hundreds if not thousands of stories of such.
My father kept me from ending up on a milk carton once when I wanted to help an erstwhile rider.
Papa, Brother Mike and myself were heading somewhere when we saw a young woman in extremely short shorts and a halter top standing beside the rode, waving frantically. I hit the turn signal to pull over, and the Old Man told me to keep going. Brother Mike was neutral, but I argued that it wasn’t safe for her to be out there by herself. Plus, she was cute as a speckled pup. The Old Man was insistent, so we kept going.
A few days later, we saw a newspaper account of how a young woman was flagging down drivers beside that same highway — and helping her companions rob them at gunpoint. It was a pretty good racket for them until they stopped an off-duty sheriff’s deputy. Papa said he remembered our famous Uncle Winnie falling for the same honey trap during the Depression, so I guess some things never go out of style.
I’ve been penny-poor broke before, and folks stepped up to help me more times than I like to admit. I firmly believe that a ride or even just a bottle of water given for the right reasons can be the blessing someone needs to turn themselves around. At the same time, I believe in stewardship, since there are plenty of folks out there who have no desire for anything that requires work.
. So I developed the MRE test.
In my truck, I keep a box with two kinds of MREs: both the (speaking relatively) good ones used by the military, and the infamous “Homeland” meals. I think the latter are handed out after hurricanes and disasters because the government wants to make people more miserable, but that’s just my opinion.
A truly needy person will be grateful for the Homeland meal, and I’ll automatically offer them a better one for later. If someone claims they haven’t eaten for two days and they turn down a Homeland meal, I know to keep my hand on my snake-repellant for the rest of the ride.
I was an idealistic twenty-something when I picked up Not-Santa and would have picked up Mata Hari, and there were still lots of hitchhikers back then. I met a carnival worker, an artist, a couple of house painters, and just plain people, some in need of a ride to a gas station (the reason I had to raise my own thumb a few times) and others with no particular destination. There was a singer with a beat-up guitar, straight out of a country song, who was heading for what he thought would be his big break. I met a guy just out of prison being given a chance to reconnect with his family. I tried to see a little Jack Kerouac in each of them, although mostly it was pragmatism, not philosophy, that set them on the road.
One such fellow was walking in the travel lane of U.S. 421 in the dark when I picked him up. He thanked me for not running him over — those were his words — and asked if he could get a ride to Wilmington. I was heading back to college, and for some reason, had some extra cash, so I bought us both a coffee and breakfast at an all night fast food joint.
I wish I could recall that fellow’s name; he was about my age, and had a good sense of humor. He had nowhere to go, hadn’t really come from anywhere, and vaguely thought he’d try to find one work at one of the beaches. How much of his story was true, I shall never know, but it was so unremarkable that it had to be a factual account of little successes and losses, and a desire to see something other than his hometown. He was a good storyteller, and good company for a long drive in the night.
I let him stay the night at my apartment, and he headed out on foot the next day, reluctantly taking me up on my offer of a shower and a scant few dollars.
He was a marked difference from the one I called the Vampire.
A neighbor called me one morning and said there was a man in black pants and a black hoody walking down our road. It was bitterly cold, and I was headed for work, so I drove around til I found the fellow. He was unnaturally pale, and didn’t speak as I pulled up beside him and rolled down the window with the offer of a ride. He just came over and crawled in the truck. Unlike Not-Santa, he didn’t put his seatbelt on.
I said I was heading up to the store a short distance away, and I’d be happy to drop him there. He mumbled something and sighed. Despite the warmth of my truck’s cab, he drew deeper inside his hood, as if he was afraid of the sun. I dropped him at the store and he jumped out without a thank you — or even shutting the door. I kind of felt bad, wondering if he had a mental illness of some kind.
Later I asked around, and folks who knew him said he was just rude like that.
If the weather is foul and I see someone walking down a lonely road, I’ll likely give them a ride if I can. It’s a dangerous habit, I know, but life in itself is dangerous. I have yet to be hurt by a hitchhiker, although I don’t collect them like I used to. There’s too much crime and not enough time, it seems, and you rarely see a classic hitchhiker anymore, anyway.
Still, if I come across one that my guardian angel doesn’t steer me away from, I’ll give them a ride. You never know if you’ll find someone grateful for even a Homeland vegetarian lasagna, or a singer looking for a big break. It might be an ex con on his way home to start over, a philosopher-house painter, a vampire in need of a Sundrop, or just someone to share the road for a little while.
