Just a short little story, the idea for which popped into my head the other day. Basically just a little campfire tale.

The Hitchhiker

The cool breeze felt good coming in through the open window of the ’68 Oldsmobile. The engine rumbled heartily as it cruised down highway 108 at 60 miles per hour. Ronny ran his hand through his long brown hair, humming to the Johnny Cash tape playing.

“Yeah”, he thought to himself, “it’s a good night to be out.”

Stars lay scattered across the dark night sky, the high beams of the Olds pierced the veil of blackness. Shadows of the fields of corn rushed by the windows. The gentle vibration of the road soothed Ronny’s hectic soul. His long fingers tapped out the rhythm of the song on the steering wheel.

The endless yellow and white lines of the road, interrupted only by intermittent traffic in the other direction hypnotized Ronny. The soft tan vinyl upholstery, everything about this old car felt like a second home. Up ahead, the blinking hazard lights of a vehicle parked on the side of the road interrupted his reverie. The Olds slowed as he approached, and Ronny’s deep blue eyes peered into the darkness as he neared the disabled car. It was a off white hatchback, some foreign model. One of those crappy ones from the 80’s, Ronny thought. The back left tire was flat. As he continued to slow, out of the darkness two white eyes stared in his direction.

The ebony skinned man, presumably the driver of the Yugo piece of shit, or whatever it was, stood rigid, his head turning as Ronny crept by. The man seemed cautious and curious at the same time. Ronny debated for a moment. “You can do this”, he thought. Taking a deep breath, he directed the giant car off the road onto the shoulder. Gravel crunched under the tires. Cash’s voice cut off mid-song. He glanced back into the rear view mirror once, half expecting those white eyes to appear suspended against the blackness. The driver hadn’t moved other than to turn and face Ronny’s now stopped vehicle.

Ronny let a truck hauling a horse trailer rumble by, then threw open the large heavy Olds door. It creaked on its hinge then fell silent, only to be replaced by the sing song of the crickets. Ronny turned the keys in the ignition and removed them from the column in an easy, practiced motion. The jangle of keys from the house, car, and the cellar along with the collection of odd keychains had a pleasant familiarity to it.

Slowly, Ronny walked back to the driver. He stopped several feet short of the car and driver, and they seemed to size each other up.

“You havin’ car trouble?” Ronny drawled, spitting into the grass.

The man nodded slowly but firmly. “Back tire’s flat.”

“Don’chew gotta spare?” Some city guy can’t even change a tire? He thought to himself in disgust. Don’t know nothin’ in the city.

“Just had another flat yesterday. Got the spare on it.” He motioned towards the front left tire. Ronny’s eyes followed his curt gesture and nodded in agreement. The front wheel had a donut on it, smaller than the other tires. “The other flat’s in the back end. I was going to take it in to get patched tomorrow when I got home.”

Ronny stepped to the back of the car. Although the situation was obvious, he felt compelled to go through that ancient male ritual where any situation, now matter how well previously analyzed, needed to be inspected by the most recently arrived individual and see if something new could be ascertained. The motorist seemed to observe this as well and shook his head as they walked towards the back end.
Crouching down Ronny rested his arms on his bent legs. “Yup. Not much you can do out here.” He rose up. The man continued to just stare at him. Wasn’t polite at all. The man seemed reserved, detached as if he didn’t care or didn’t know how to care. He wasn’t completely sure about this one. “Well, I s’pose I can bring you into town. But Mercksville’s a good thirty miles that way, you know.”

The man shrugged, again uncaring or unaware of the local surroundings. Ronny realized he didn’t know if the man was a local or not. Hell, for that matter he didn’t even know his name. What would mamma say about his manners?

Wiping his hand across his shirt, Ronny stepped up and offered his hand. “Ronny.”

A pause, then the man took his hand as if offered a grenade for analysis. He shook it abruptly. “Epistle Miles”.

“Eh-pistol?”

“Epistle. I’m a messenger of the Great Speaker Amand, on my journey of the word.” He spoke this mumbo-jumbo as if everyone were a messenger of the great talker, or speaker or whatever it was.

“Yeah…” Ronny just nodded slowly, a little more unsure now about this whole thing. The guy sounded just a bit off his rocker. “Well, whatever works for you man. You wanna ride or not?”

“I will take journey with you, my child, and thank you for your generosity.” He then turned and walked towards the passenger side of the Olds. Ronny turned and followed him.

Crawling in, he fired her up and leaned across the broad seat to unlock the other door. The man stiffly sat down and buckled up, looking straight ahead. Ronny paused for a moment before hitting the power button on the radio, but then he realized, hey, this is MY car and I can do what I want. Plus, he needed Johnny about now.

The engine coughed to life then settled into a contented purr as they moved onto the open road again. For a few miles Ronny could do nothing but stare ahead and watch the turn offs from the road and oncoming traffic. He felt anxious, so he glanced at Miles, who sat facing straight ahead, stone still.

“So, uh, you into religion I guess?”

“I carry the word close to my heart and to others, yes.”

“You always, uh, this focused man?” Loosen up, he wanted to say.

At this Miles turned to him and smiled. “I keep the path ahead always in sight. You would do well to do the same.” He nodded to the road and Ronny glanced back, seeing oncoming traffic. He quickly turned to pay attention to the road for a minute.

The conversation began again, haltingly and Ronny attempted to understand what passed for this guy’s religion. Through Miles’ strange sayings and the crazy views of this ‘great speaker’ guy, Ronny just couldn’t quite follow.

“Sorry man, but it’s just not for me. Good luck converting somebody else.” For it had felt less like a conversation and more like a conversion as they spoke. They passed a sign, 8 miles to Mercksville. Ronny’s heart jumped. How much longer did he have with this guy before they got there?

“I’m afraid there is no choice but for all to follow the Great Speaker, Ronny.”

“Or what dude? You’re starting to sound a little freaky you know. You’re not gonna, you know, put some curse on me or try to kill me for not being a believer, are ya?”

Miles turned and faced out the window for a moment, apparently watching the dark rows of endless wheat and corn fields. He took a deep breath and turned back. His hands seemed to be fidgety. “Ronny. I am sorry. You were kind to pick me up. There are those silly stories about crazy hitchhikers who are picked up only to kill the hapless driver. I can assure you that while you may find my beliefs strange, I am not one of those people.”

Up ahead Ronny saw the turn off onto an empty road, he’d seen it earlier in the week and checked it out. He braced himself, taking another deep breath, and turned off the road. “Yeah, Miles. There’s your problem. You see, all the stories you hear over campfires talk about a crazy hitchhiker killing the driver. You never hear about it the other way around.”