Along for the ride

It was shaping up to be a vagabond Christmas.

As a first-year college student, I’d been invited to bask in the glow of my grandparents’ Yule log. Alone for the holidays and stranded on the East Coast, I accepted. But getting there would be the hard part.

I had no car keys of my own and a healthy fear of the species known as Greyhound. Luckily, a little bribery persuaded a dorm-mate into taking an extended, scenic drive. Unfortunately, he had no interest in spending his Christmas Eve in Gambrills, Md., and somewhere outside the nation’s capital, I had no choice but to break out my thumb.

After the first hour, things looked bleak, and I imagined Joseph stuck on the dark side of Bethlehem. My case may have been even more desperate. Mary had hit the road in search of a better prospect.

“Some Christmas … ,” I muttered to myself, my thumb and arm starting to grow sore. The mythical “season of giving” was nowhere to be found. Eyeing the roadside and some less-than-friendly looking bushes, I considered the worst case.

But just when things looked darkest, the light showed through in a most unexpected way. A beaten, orange Ford Mustang, complete with black racing stripe and T-top, appeared on the horizon. Soon, its indicator was flashing and the vehicle skidded to a high-speed stop. Glass-pack mufflers rumbled beneath the beast and cigarette smoke crept out of the open window. This cradle of American steel would have to do the trick, I thought. After all, hitchhikers can’t be choosers.

I cautiously crawled inside and ended up sharing the next two hours of my life with a man I knew only as Ed. Ed’s passions went to menthol smokes and bands like Van Halen and Black Sabbath. His highs revolved around fast cars, blonde women with long legs and cold, canned beer. His fuzzy dice had black with white spots and strongly scented with Vanillaroma. On his forearm, a hastily made tattoo read, “Honcho.”

Still, Ed was my personal savior on that fateful Christmas Eve. He not only shared a ride, he offered me a glimpse of another flavor of the game of life. And when it was all over, Ed went 20 miles out of his way “cuz’ it’s Chrissmas” and left just as he’d appeared, spitting gravel as he powered down the dirt road outside my grandparents’ house.

Sweating menthol, ears rumbling with the echo of glass packs and weary of the open road, I rolled into dinner a little late. Immediately, my grandma’s growing senility assigned me the name of Joe. Grandpa was never much of a talker anyway, and the rest were distant relations and complete strangers. Stuck in the corner, trying to relate to my plate of turkey and stuffing, I started missing the Mustang.

The scene shifted just in time. After watching from across the room, a dapper, great uncle of my dad’s approached. He understood that I had arrived that evening by thumb and was beyond curious. Dressed out in tweed and a cravat, the man had never lifted his thumb in his life. But somehow, he comprehended hitchhiking intimately.

With great envy, he mentioned my father over a brandy. And for the first time in my life, I heard tales of my dad’s exploits thumbing from coast to coast and across the European subcontinent. He related my 22-year-old dad’s yearly ritual, a cross-country venture in search of snow. Armed only with his thumb and a backpack, he set out on the highway and hitched from the Chesapeake Bay to Aspen. In the spring, he returned via the same route. His nights were spent in fields adjoining the highway. His days were spent communing with strangers.

And after nearly four decades, the tweed had remembered every detail of every journey. “I was really quite jealous, you know,” he said, staring wistfully into his brandy glass. “It must’ve been something getting out in America that way. “Yep, it must have been something,” he added with a tinge of regret.

That wistful look was still impressed in my mind’s eye two days later, as I eagerly looked deep down an endless ribbon of highway. I raised my right thumb high in the air and scanned the horizon. My eyes were searching for a battered orange Mustang or anyone interested in sharing the ride.

– Will Sands