The Unexpected Passenger

by Charles C. Cole

My grandfather, bless his soul, always said, “Hitchhikers made their choice. We are free to make our own.”

I was refueling at a rural diner just off the interstate, taking my last sip of generic coffee before wending my weary way. It was my second day traveling alone cross-country. My final destination was still over twenty hours and many hundreds of miles ahead of me. The locals probably took immense pride in their “unique” home turf, but my eyes rarely observed anything beyond the shoulder of the road.

My butt was numb, my neck stiff, and my car smelled like greasy fried food because I’d purchased a dozen cheeseburgers the night before to tide me over and keep me from needing to stop.

From my temporary perch, I noticed a figure in a loose gray hoodie with a long black beard standing just beyond the gravel parking lot, holding a small cardboard sign with both hands. A tractor trailer exited for parts unknown, throwing up dust in its wake, with a sarcastic “Good luck, buddy!” honk.

I had room in my ’67 Mustang, barely, if my fellow traveler didn’t mind holding a gym bag in his lap for a couple hundred miles and keeping his legs apart, on either side of the boxes I had wedged tightly on the passenger-side floor. But did I really want company? And what if this was a ruse to steal my ride? I was six-foot in boots, early 30s, comfortable in my skin at the gym or the beach. If they wanted to rob me, I’d make them work for it.

I made my way. The sign said, succinctly: “East.” Up close, the beard looked solid black, store-bought, fake, part of a costume. I reached across and rolled down the passenger window.

“Where you headed?”

“East.” The voice was comically deep.

“Can you be more specific?”

Then a female voice replied: “As far from my dirtbag ex-boyfriend as I can get!”

“You’re a woman!?”

“So?”

“I can give you a ride, but it’ll be crowded. I just don’t want any trouble.”

“Then don’t make any.” She climbed in before I could ask her name. “Drive,” she said. She yanked the seatbelt in place like she expected me to peel out. I did not.

I drove. “I’m Carston. Can I ask your name?”

“You can ask.”

She checked out an aluminum “Louisville Slugger” bat I had crammed against the door. “Nice!”

“I’m not good, just sentimental.”

“If you ever want to get rid of it...”

I changed the subject. “Fool many people with that beard?”

“It’s not for you. It’s in case my stalker drives by and looks in your window.”

“It could work.”

“It has before.” Big sigh. “If it’s alright with you, I’m gonna take a nap; I’m exhausted.”

She didn’t try to lean back, not that there was room, just crossed her arms and closed her eyes. What was I doing? She was early twenties, petite, with inky letters across her knuckles and a piercing just above her left eye. I considered turning on music but didn’t want to bother her.

About an hour later I was leaning “ever so,” trying to make out what she’d spelled across her knuckles.

“Another inch closer, and I’m gonna break your nose,” she said.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I know.” She caught sight of a highway sign. “The next town’s Grande Island. That’ll do, for now. You can drop me outside the post office.”

“Need any money?” I asked.

“I need a do-over is what I need.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“A little.” She managed to put both feet up on my dash, to stretch her legs. She had the tattoo of a rubber duckie above one ankle and the small feet of a child.

“My sister manages a house for women in need of temporary help.”

“Good for her.”

“I could take you there.”

“That’s a very nice gesture — thank you — but I need to find my friend; she has my kid.”

“Wow! I’m sorry for your circumstances. I wish I could do more.”

“You got a girlfriend?”

“It’s not official, but we’re heading in that direction. That’s part of the reason I’m moving.”

“Be nice to her, and we’ll call it even.”

I dropped her a few doors down from the post office. At first, she looked around as if she expected someone to spot her at any moment. Then the nearest telephone pole distracted her: it had homemade flyers, mostly white, stapled all over it. She smiled when she looked closer.

“Something interesting?”

“Somebody lost something. The picture’s not very good.”

“Cat? Dog?”

“Me.”

She tore the flimsy photocopy off with a loud rip and handed it to me through the open window. “Here. It’s not as fancy as those posters inside, for the celebrity criminals. You wanted my name. Check the local news in a couple of days.”

I didn’t look. “Offer still stands,” I said.

“Can’t. This is home. I’d be a stranger anywhere else.”

“Could be a good thing, for a new life.”

“Someone else would find me. And it would start all over. It’s just who I am. My mom says I get it from my dad’s side: he’s been in jail since before I was born, so maybe.”

“Can I see your face?”

“Why?”

“Never mind.”

She unhooked the beard from one side, without taking it completely off. She had a white scar above her right cheek and a couple of missing teeth: battle-hardened, but with a survivor’s spark. “Can I borrow your bat?”

“Don’t hurt anyone, please!”

She yanked it free. “Only in self-defense. I may die young, but I’m going out swinging.”

I closed the door. “Good luck.”

“Tanitha Grace.”

“Good luck, Tanitha Grace.” In my head: Make good choices, little sister.

Maybe it’s because I later got married and mostly traveled around with kids, two girls, but she was the last hitchhiker I ever picked up.