There aren’t many hitchhikers on the road to Hell.
I noticed this dude from four miles away. He stood where the road is straight and level, crossing what looks like desert except it has all these little empty towns and motels and shacks. I had been on the road for about six hours, and the folks in the cattle trailers behind me had been quiet for the last three—resigned, I guess—so my nerves had settled a bit and I decided to see what the dude was up to.
Maybe he was one of the employees. That would be interesting, I thought.
Truth to tell, once the wailing settled down, I got pretty bored.
The dude was on the right-hand side of the road, thumb out. I piano-keyed down the gears, and the air brakes hissed and squealed at the tap of my foot. The semi slowed and the big diesel made that gut-deep dinosaur-belch of shuddered-downness. I leaned across the cab as everything came to a halt and swung the door open.
“Where you heading?” I asked.
He laughed and shook his head, then spit on the soft shoulder. “I don’t know,” he said. “Hell, maybe.” He was thin and tanned with long, greasy black hair and blue jeans and a vest. His straw hat was dirty and full of holes, but the feathers around the crown were bright and new-looking, pheasant, if I was any judge. A worn gold chain hung out of his vest going into his watch pocket. He wore old Frye boots with the toes turned up and soles thinner than my spare’s retread. He looked an awful lot like I had when I hitchhiked out of Fresno, broke and unemployed, looking for work.
