Thirty Nine

July 17, 1974 6am

Now what.

Mike has driven away.   

I turn around to face the building-the lone edifice in this rest area. Again, I check to see if the building is anything more than a men’s and women’s relief station.  It’s not.  I do notice a coke machine near the back wall of the building. No pay phone, though. No inside area of any sort besides what houses the sinks and toilets.  No gas pumps.

I survey the parking spaces. There are two campers and a car with an attached U-Haul trailer.  There seems to be some movement in one of the campers. Nothing is moving in the other two vehicles. It occurs to me, not for the first time, that the only people who will stop here are those who need to use a restroom or those who feel they need to call it a day and sleep.  Since it is just past 6 am, and since most people sleep at dark, I can’t imagine many or any drivers coming in to sleep now. And even if they did, they would be coming to sleep and therefore, not be going anywhere for a while.  

How many people will pull off in any given hour to use the restrooms? The highway itself does not have much traffic this Monday morning. Only a small percentage of the few numbers of drivers will need to pull over.  It is Monday, so I think it is possible some cleaning people might come at some point to take away rubbish and clean the toilets, but that would happen only once, maybe twice a day—and how far would they be going when they leave, and what is the likelihood that they are forbidden from picking up riders.  

This is not good.  It looks to be another very hot day and my chances of getting out of here are infinitesimal. There is nothing about tomorrow that would make my chances tomorrow any better.

There is something positive about the situation. And that is, whoever is stopping will get out of the vehicle and I can ask them, beg them, to take me somewhere, anywhere. It is tougher to reject someone when they are standing next to you.  Still, my options are limited.

The man in the one camper where there was movement, emerges and heads to the bathroom. I go right up to him and tell him of my situation and ask for a lift.  He responds to me like people do-- like I occasionally do--when approached by a panhandler.  He do-si-dos around me. He, a middle aged man, goes into the can, comes out and I implore again. We do the same dance.  He gets back into his vehicle and soon drives up the ramp that leads to the highway.

My guess is that it is a quarter of a mile from the lot to the interstate. But so what? The ramp is valueless since anyone going up it would have been someone I might have addressed in the spartan facility. Walking to the highway would also be valueless.  Hiking on an interstate in most states (though not Colorado I discovered earlier) is illegal. Besides it is very dangerous. Standing on the shoulder when cars are going 75 miles an hour, a hiker is a sitting duck for a driver who is shaking off drowsiness and drifts to the right.  

I consult the map hanging on the building. I can’t tell if the next exit is two or twenty-one miles away because I am not quite sure of where the rest area is. The “You are Here” marker on the map is written above two exits. Where “here” is could be one exit or the other.  But even if it is only two miles to the next exit, walking on the interstate for two miles is crazy dangerous.  And if I have to walk twenty one miles, forget it. I’d be roadkill before Tuesday. Perhaps if I started walking a cop would pick me up, but where would the cop take me? To the slammer? I must look like hell despite last night’s shower.  Ragged tee shirt and jeans, wild hair, each follicle looks as frightened as I am. I will not impress an officer of the law.  

A young man emerges from the car with the U-Haul. He looks like a possibility. Bearded, about my age, lumbering to the restroom with what appears to be a bag of toiletries.  I intercept him.

“Please. You’ve got to help me.  I was stranded here by a truck driver. He tried to molest me.”

The fellow puts up his hand like a traffic cop. “Can’t help you.” He says.

“Look” I say as he passes me by “just take me an exit or two, anywhere.”

“Can’t help you.” He says again and disappears into the restroom.  

I wait a few minutes outside when he goes in to use the facilities. I don’t want to follow him into the can, but I do.  He’s at the sink.

“Hey. I’m in trouble. Just take me anywhere. Anywhere on 40.”

“Not going on 40.” He says through a mouthful of toothpaste.  He spits. “Going on 54. Through the Texas and the Oklahoma panhandles. Besides” he stops again to run a washcloth over his face, “Besides I can’t pick anyone up.”

“Why not? I can scrunch up anywhere.”

“It’s not that. It’s not my car. I’m driving someone else’s car and stuff to Emporia.  I promised the owner I wouldn’t pick anyone up.  Look, sorry.”  He is nice about it. 

“Just one exit.” I don’t even like myself the way I am speaking. I don’t know if I would give me a lift.

“Sorry.”  he says through the washcloth.

I leave the restroom while he’s still doing his wake-up wash-up dance by the sink.  I think maybe I have a shot with this guy. There’s only one other vehicle in the lot. Who knows when the next highway rider will have to empty his bladder?  If I was driving, I’d want to wait until I found a place where I could get fuel or maybe a sandwich before I stopped. This guy with the beard may be my last shot for hours.  

The beard exits with a towel around his neck. I try one more time. “Buddy. I’m in a jam. Please just take me anywhere out of here. I got dumped here because I wouldn’t put out for a trucker.”

He sighs. “I told you the situation.” He looked at me and I sense he’s vacillating. “Let me think about it for a minute.”

There is hope.  “I’ll pay for gas.”

He waves off the gas offer.  “It’s not that. I told you, I promised the guy who’s paying me that I would be the only one in the car.” 

“Just get me out of here.”

"Okay." he says after a moment.  "I'll drive you a little ways but when we get out of Oklahoma and as soon as we cross into Kansas, I have to let you out."

I am beyond effusive when I thank him.  We walk to the car. He clears out room in the front seat. I get in.

Before I am buckled up, he says again: “Really as soon as we get into Kansas.”

“No problem” I say genuinely.

***

Once in the car, I look at my map and see that route 54 goes from Tucumcari on a northeast diagonal toward Kansas. It is not an interstate. A two-lane highway for the most part with an occasional passing lane. The road will take us through what appears to be desolate areas of New Mexico and then more desolate areas through the Texas panhandle, and not much more life through the Oklahoma panhandle.  The first town in Kansas that we will come to is a hamlet called Liberal.  That’s an oxymoron I think, Liberal, Kansas.  I wonder how often the locals have tried to change the name of the burg. 

Liberal looks to be about a 3 ½ hour ride from where we are, and it is yet another 4 ½ hours to  Emporia.  Liberal might be tough to get out of, but it beats baking in the rest stop in Tucumari. I feel an enormous sense of relief.

The ride through New Mexico and Texas is as desolate as the map suggested it would be.  Does anyone live in this part of the country? Dry and deserted.  I don’t see much at all in the way of civilization along the way.  There’s the town of Logan in New Mexico and then a tiny burg called Nara Visa before we enter Texas.  For the nearly 100 miles between Nara Visa and the Texas Oklahoma border there is just about nothing.

John is the antidote to Mike and Tim.  Quiet, soft spoken when he does speak and thus far considerate. We drive easily together.  His one admonishment was that I thanked him one too many times for the lift. He said something like it’s enough.  After the first half hour of conversation, we settle into silence.  

I start playing back the night with Mike. I determine to warn the police and construct letters in my head based on information that I wrote on the phone book.  I still doubt that Mike is a killer even with his last words etched into my head.  But he is dangerous. He might try to molest another hiker.  I run through an interrogation session I’d have with state troopers once they receive my letter.

We’ve driven for about three hours when we reach the Oklahoma panhandle. We arrive at a hamlet on the border of Texas and Oklahoma called, appropriately, Texhoma. There we stop at a diner.  When we enter the diner we exit 1974 and walk right into 1934.  This place has to be a movie set from the Grapes of Wrath. Fly paper hanging from the ceilings.  Lame fans trying to address the heat.  An old Confederate flag tacked onto a wall-a wall that could not have been painted anything close to recently. A woman tending the grill looks half dead. Customers at the counter wearing ten-gallon hats could be one dimensional stick figures for all we can tell. Not much chatter.

“Do you believe this place?” Says John.

“I’m not sure. Is Roosevelt still president?”

“Franklin?” says John.

I point to a picture of Nixon near the menu that is nailed above the grill. “They’re up date.”

“I wouldn’t bring up Watergate.” Says John.

After lunch we leave the Dust Bowl diner and continue on 54 into Kansas.  We are close to Liberal and I figure that I might have to soon get out. John drives right through town. As if he can read my mind he says, 

“It’s okay, Kozak. Let’s see how it goes.”

It went well. We got into playing car games and spent at least an hour or two on a game he called Sherlock Holmes.  You each identify a famous character and keep the name to yourself. Then you alternate asking yes or no questions trying to ascertain who the opponent’s character is. Whoever correctly guesses first wins. 

By the time we were a couple of hours into Kansas we were chummy, laughing, and had devised a few other car games to play.  At one point John confided that it had made the day long trip go better having my company. I told him, once again, that I would be forevermore, grateful.  He told me he would be dropping the U-Haul off at Emporia State College. Then he would be phoning friends of his who lived on a farm outside of Emporia. They were coming to pick him up.  He said there was plenty of room at the farmhouse if I wanted to stay there.  God bless this godsend. Maybe I was due this lift given my last two days. 

Once we got to a town called Pratt, we left 54 and took a similar road, route 61, northeast until we hit route 50 in Hutchinson. Then it was east and northeast on 50 all the way to Emporia.  A sign as we entered the town welcomed us to “Friendly Emporia.”  It felt that way to me. We followed the signs to the campus.  John found a phone booth and told me he had to make a couple of calls.  Half an hour later he’d exchanged the U-Haul and his buddies from the farm had come to get us.   

We washed up when we got to the farm and then rode with his friends to a pool hall where we had beer and hamburgers.  I ate my burger and shot pool feeling better than I had in a long time. We got back to the farm and I had my choice of couches.  Had to share one with a friendly cat, but that was a square deal as far as I was concerned.

The next morning John drove me to the ramp for I-35 toward Kansas City.  Of all the people on this journey, John stands out as the most decent. Could have been because I was so needy when he came along.  We drove together for nine hours on back roads. It would be the third longest lift I would have on this trip.    I wish I had retained his last name and coordinates. But I did not. I waved goodbye at the highway and John the Savior, exited from my life.  But I will never forget him.

For better or worse, my night with Mike became a faded memory.   Thoughts of writing a letter of warning surfaced infrequently.