Darwin Hitch Hikes to Town
I’m one of those people who pick up hitchhikers. I give spare change to street beggars too. I guess because some part of me feels like there but for the grace of God, go me. Maybe you’ve never had to hitchhike, but I have … and I hated it. Broke or broke down or both — it’s not much fun, but it does teach you humility and an appreciation for the kindness of strangers and gives you huge motivation to buy a used car.
The hombre I picked up this morning was a lean long haired young guy, maybe 30, looked a little worn out already. He asked how I was doing, I said fine, how you doing?
“Okay now, I guess,” he answered. “Just got out of the hospital.”
Course I had to ask what he was there for. “Well, I’m not real sure,” he replied. I’m thinking some unknown undiagnosible malady, but no, he’d been up river partying, drinking, doing some recreational drugs (although he didn’t say so) and when he woke up, he was in a hospital bed, no recollection how he got there, no memory of most of the night before. “How long were you in there?” I asked. He shrugged, didn’t know. Didn’t ask either, apparently. Helluva party.
“Yeah,” he mused, “got another one this weekend up in Darrington, some festival my pal told me was going to be awesome. Awesome,” he repeated, already imagining it. I read about guyz like this everyday, heroin addicts who are brought back from an overdose, but shoot up same day. Alarm bells don’t, apparently, go off for them. Or the line between life and death is just a tightrope they think they can walk, no net necessary.
In town I dropped him off at the curb in front of Mission Motors, the Christian used car lot. “Gonna be a gas,” he intoned, already halfway to Darrington in his mind. A better man than me might have lectured him. A better man might have offered adult counsel.
“Party on, dude,” I said, throwing the truck into gear. He won’t be hitchhiking much longer, I figure. Slow learn, fast burn.