Rule Two - No Hitchhikers Thom Shilling   © Copyright 2022 by Thom Shilling

Photo by Raouf Dar at Pexels.

The inside of the service station was hot and humid. The air hung heavy, and the smell of stale cigarette smoke filled my nostrils as a hockey game was blaring on the AM radio. When I paid the attendant for gasoline and a Buffalo Newspaper, I noticed a man leaning against the wall drinking soda out of an old-fashion “swirl” Pepsi bottle made from thick glass. He was average height, had not shaved in over a week, and his black and white sneakers were held together with silver duct tape. I could tell little else about the man because he wore a heavy parka covering most of his body. I knew he wanted to ask me a question, but Rule One of my cardinal rules of travel is: never talk to strangers unless it’s absolutely necessary.

The man took a gulp of his Pepsi. “It’s a cold night out there, isn’t it?”

Don’t talk, don’t talk, don’t talk! I simply nodded and grunted.

“Yeah, a man could freeze on a night like this unless he gets shelter,” said the tramp.

I figured he would ask for a few bucks and then leave me alone. However, he did not ask for money. Instead he prodded, “Where you headed?”

His words sent a shiver up my spine. “Canada. I’m going to Canada.”

A disgusted look formed on the man’s face. Maybe I would be saved from this vagrant. On a cold winter night like tonight, the word “Canada,” conjures-up thoughts of colder and even more inhospitable weather.

Silently, I placed my wallet in my pocket, the newspaper under my arm, and walked out the door. As I approached my ice-covered car, I heard sleet crunching on the pavement behind me. It must be him. Remembering the drifter carried a thick Pepsi bottle capable of smashing my skull, I did not want him behind me. I quickly turned to face him.

“Hey buddy, where ya goin’?” asked the derelict.

I repeated, “Canada.”

In the little time my car sat next to the fuel pump, it had a thick coat of ice covering it. Consequently, I took the scraper out of my backseat and started to chip ice from my windows.

“Canada, eh?” replied the bum.

I’ve grown to expect most Americans degrading Canadians by saying ‘eh’ after pronouncing the word “Canada” but I never expected it from a down-on-his-luck bum. As I pried the wipers off the windshield, I knew additional talking might be necessary. So, I scraped the windows as loudly as possible and pretended not to hear him.

“Can you give me a ride to Canada?” asked my newest acquaintance. “I would really appreciate it.”

Immediately, I remembered Rule Two: Don’t Pick up Hitchhikers. Inside my brain, I thought, Shut up. Don’t say a word. Ignore the comment. Unfortunately, my mouth didn’t listen. “Do you have a passport? They won’t let you into Canada unless you have a passport.”

The man seemed confused by my words. He was either stoned, drunk, or slow-witted. “Okay, just drop me off before the border.”

Under normal circumstances I would tell the bum, “Get away from me or I’ll call the police.” However, tonight was brutally bone-chilling. It’s not that I was afraid to be rude and chase him away, it was one of those rare evenings where I felt pity for a man down on his luck. I heard myself say, “Get in the car,” and then I stood motionless; stunned by the sound of my own voice saying those words. Flakes of snow fell from the sky and melted on my glasses. Now genius, what are you going to do?

We got in my car and then pulled onto the New York Skyway. The Canadian border was only ten minutes away. The bum took a sip from his Pepsi bottle and pointed ahead, but said nothing for several seconds. Without turning my head, I used my peripheral vision to focus on the thick and heavy glass Pepsi bottle as he lifted it to get a sip. That thing can break my skull.

“You know, I helped build the Skyway,” said the bum proudly.

If I don’t say something he will surely split my skull. “Really?”

“Yeah. It was built in sections. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear a dull ‘thump, thump,’ each time we move from section to section.”

This time he lifted his bottle and hesitated. Here it comes. He’s going to crush my skull any second now.

“Do you know why it makes those sounds?”

If I continue the conversation, he may not think to kill me until I reach the security of the border. “I never gave it much thought. I assume the sections of highway aren’t perfectly even.”

“No, they’re even. The sound comes from the way they seal the sections of pavement.”

“Really?” Dammit, why didn’t I have a longer response?

The bum raised the Pepsi bottle and said, “Did you know they place a body or two in each crack to seal the joint? Yep, it seals the road it does. It seals it real good.”

Horrified by the probability of my pending death, I muttered, “I never knew that.” Now he’s going to kill me. Should I close my eyes and slam on the brakes? Should I drive into the sideguard and drop 30 feet to the ground? I’m sure I’ll still die, but I’ll take him with me.

His head bobbled as he lowered the empty bottle from his lips. “Most people don’t know that. They don’t know how to glue sections of road together.”

A chill ran down my spine and my tongue felt thick. “I never knew that. Thanks for the info.” He’s done with his Pepsi, and most certainly done with me. How will he do it? How will he kill me? Will he do it immediately or will he bash-in my skull when I get off the Skyway?

He moved the empty bottle to his left hand. Get ready. Get ready. Here it comes.

The hobo looked upwards and muttered, “Did you know there are square planets?” He pointed into the snow-filled sky. “Yep, there are square planets. There’s one right over there.”

Call it a hunch but I don’t think serial killers pay much mind to the shape of planets on a snowy night in Buffalo. When I exhaled, I felt the tension bleed from the nerves in my neck. I glanced at my dashboard clock. The border was only three minutes away. We’re in the homestretch. One or two more questions and I’ll be safe. “You’re right I’ve never heard of a square planet.”

“Very few people have ever heard of square planets. The scientists at NASA don’t want you to know it. If the general public knew about the square planets they would be in a state of panic.”

“Why is that?”

“Just think about it. If a planet is square then each side would be perfectly flat. Imagine how long the inhabitants of square planets can build their airfield runways.”

Struggling to limit my cynicism I simply asked, “Longer runways?”

“Yes,” said the man excitedly. “Think about it man. It takes longer runways to launch their space ships.”

Next, he’ll tell me the alien space ships need to get a running start to jump galaxies. “Really?”

“Yes. Most alien UFOs need to get a running start to jump galaxies.”

His theory brought a smile to my otherwise stoic face. “That makes perfect sense to me.”

The drifter tightened his grip on the bottle and growled, “You’re mocking me. Aren’t you?”

Crap! Crap! Crap! I’ll be at the border in two minutes. I need to placate him so he doesn’t crack my skull before I get there. “Uh, no. I’m mocking myself for never considering the obvious possibilities.”

“Don’t lie to me,” snarled the vagabond. “You’re just like the others. You think I’m mad.” As he lifted the Pepsi bottle, my whole body tightened in preparation for the fatal blow.

“Where would you like me to put this?” asked the tramp. “You can get a dime if you take it back to the gas station.”

“Uh, just put it on the floor behind your seat. One of my kids will collect the deposit.” Good. Good, now he knows I have children. Maybe he’ll hesitate to kill me if he knows I’m somebody’s father. Quickly I checked his reaction. Uh, why didn’t he put the bottle in the back?

As I approached the exit ramp I said, “I’m stopping just ahead, at the Duty-Free Shop. Where do you want me to drop you?”

“I’ll get out after you stop.”

This would be his last chance to murder me, but luck was on my side. The Duty-Free parking lot was covered in icy-wet snow with very few vehicles, so I parked at the front door. I cringed as he shook the bottle at me and asked, “Can you spare some change?

My hands trembled as I pulled a five-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to him. Without so much as a “Thank You,” or “Have a nice day,” or him just beating my brains out, he opened the door and left.

Relieved, I took a deep breath, placed my forehead on the steering wheel, and closed my eyes. He was out of my life, forever. Then I heard loud knocking on my driver’s side window. Every muscle in my body stiffened and my heart sank deep in my chest. Don’t look up. Don’t look up. After another tap on my window, I heard an unfamiliar voice yell, “Sir, sir. Are you okay?”

I lifted my head and saw the Duty-Free Shop’s security guard looking down at me. “Are you okay?” I nodded and rolled down my side window.

“Was that guy bothering you?”

Torn between the truth and never seeing the drifter again, I chose my second option. I lied. “No, he’s no bother. Just a poor guy down on his luck.” When I pointed at the entrance to the shop, the security guard backed away. After I locked my car, the guard escorted me to the front door. I looked back to see the vagabond one last time, but he had disappeared. His snowy footprints went from the car to a spot thirty feet away, then they vanished. They just disappeared. I flashed a puzzled look at the guard. “Where did he go?”

The guard shrugged. “Beats me.”

We rushed back to my car and traced the itinerant’s footprints - from my car to where they ended abruptly. Only a five-dollar bill remained on the ground.

Throughout my time on earth, characters have wandered in and out of my life. In this case I was glad to see him go . . . back to his square planet.

Note to self: Don’t pickup hitchhikers.

*****

• 2022 - Winner of T. A. Barron Award for Best Story- Adult Writer.

• 2023 - a finalist and published in Living Springs “Stories Through The Ages.”

• 2024 - Scheduled for publication in 5 Literary Journals/Magazines.