I'm a Michigan man, in my heart and domicile. I'm now, as most know, in the "Country of Florida", a quote from a woman I never met. That quote probably sums this state up like no other, okay, there are a few choice sayings, but I'll hold my tongue so that I don't come off as crass, LOL. Recently I learned something, when trying to do a "good deed" and get in the good graces of the Universe.
In Michigan, hitchhikers are a rarity, but through my life I have helped my fair share. There was a man that I picked up when I was a teenager, terrorizing my two friends in the car. I stopped for a barefoot young woman in a nice dress who was staggering on the side of the road one autumn morning on my way into Target. Finally, there was an old man by the name of Mr. Ripkey in Port Huron that I gave a ride, circa late 90's. Never an incident, just a typical ride and some small talk.
I'm here to tell you to NOT, I repeat, DO NOT, pick up a hitchhiker in Florida, no matter how cute their thumb, or how innocently feeble they look, they are a different species.
While heading back to the Mothership from my side gig, I noticed a man walking with a gas can. He was probably mid-sixties, bushy red hair, a thick red beard, and coke bottle glasses. The gasoline can looked almost as old as he was. Like a good Samaritan, I stopped. I didn't entertain the fact that this was the "Country of Florida", which I should have. I also made a dire mistake, I didn't call and let Maria know what was going on, right then and there: a true fuck up on my part.
He staggered to my small Mario Kart, and hopped in. He didn't immediately say anything, as if we both could read fucking minds. So I asked, "you just need to get some gas and get back to your car?"
"Yeah, my girlfriend ran out of gas and I need to go get my car." I was stunned and figured it couldn't be that far away.
He rattled off a coordinate: 7142 Jazz Boulevard. I knew where that road was, but wasn't completely comfortable that I could find it. I entered the address into Google Maps and drove. The creature was quiet and smelly. The aroma was like his pits hadn't seen soap in at least a decade, and don't get me started on the other scents that wafted in my nose and caused a dose of acid to breach my throat, which oddly felt like vomit. He sat quietly breathing through his mouth, and I could almost see the droplets landing on the dashboard as he exhaled. I made small talk while I drove three miles, yes, three miles too far with this stench in the small confines of a Hyundai, and me trying not to breath.
Google said, "You have arrived."
I looked at the mailbox, and the address was not the address I typed in.
"Do you know where your girlfriend is?" I asked.
"She gave me this address, see," he held up his phone and showed me a house that clearly wasn't the house in front of me.
I searched in maps.
"Is it Jazz Drive?" I asked.
"Yeah, maybe that's it."
"Here's a picture of my girlfriend," he said, out of absolutely nowhere, showing me his phone. There was a picture, which looked AI generated according to the extra digits on each hand, of an attractive female, which clearly was not someone he was dating in reality.
"That's cool." I said. I wanted to get rid of this fucking creep, but had a mission to complete. Little did I know, Maria was worrying at home.
I turned the Mario Kart around and stopped at a traffic circle and Maria called. Now remember, Mr. Stinky is next to me, I didn't want to offend him. Maria's voice is the kind that you can hear across the room from a phone call with the volume on low. I was kind of vague with her, because I didn't want her to say what was on my mind and my passenger hear it, "Yeah, I'm giving this person a ride, he ran out of gas." I said.
"Male or female?" She asked.
"Yeah," I said, and hung up.
I finally got the bearings of where I was going, another fucking seven miles further south and I could drop this species of some planet I was unaware of, off. As I was driving, Maria tried to call three times. I could feel her worry, as my phone was ringing, and I was getting anxious because I couldn't tell her what was going on. Traffic in this "country" is foolish, and no one, absolutely fucking no one, follows the rules of the road, so I had to pay attention to my surroundings.
Red, the stinky man, mumbled, "Man or woman, and chuckled to himself." Missing the social queue by at least a minute.
"Yeah, she worries a lot." I joked, "Been with her for thirty years and she's always been worried about situations like this."
"I was married for thirty six, she slept around, so I stepped out." He chuckled at his own humor. I thought, yeah stepped out of your dumpster with a gas can and a thumb sticking out for a ride. I followed traffic to my destination, light after light, finally remembering to roll down the window and air out his stench. I was wishing I could be brave and just kick him the hell out.
The address arrived and matched exactly, I pointed to it, "That's it, here you go," I was irritated that I had just spent thirty fucking minutes taking this man way out of my way. All he should have needed was gas, this is me being mislead by my definition of a hitchhiker with a gas can.
"Thank you." He said, moving the lock on the door. I watched as he figured out he needed to pull the door handle to open and get out.
In the meantime Maria had left three messages, but I didn't listen to them. Instead I called. She didn't answer three different times, and my stomach sank.
Keep in mind Maria was stuck at the Mothership, no vehicle, other than the motorhome, no ways but her flip phone to call 9-1-1, and worried sick that I was dead somewhere in a warm palmy ghetto. (the scenario stated to the police, according to Maria): My husband picked someone up. I have his location, but if they get rid of his phone, I'll have no way to track him. He sounded odd on the phone. Dispatch walked her through prodding for a location. I see he's by a school and there's a busy road near him, she said looking at her tablet. For a woman with little resources, she pulled through, and within a few more minutes I would have had a squad car probably pull me over to check on me. She had done well.
I couldn't get her to answer.
I thought she might have just been mad and ignoring me. I did the next best thing, I video called her tablet. She answered, her jitterbug in the other ear, with dispatch as she spoke to me. I told her I was on my way home. The rest of that conversation I will bleep out and redact, because both of us were not at our best. Maria because her true crime, court tv watching mind had just stirred her overactive imagination and placed my body on the side of the road while some stinky goofball stole my car, ditched my phone and drove to Tampa. Mine because the good guy in me had been tarnished, I was taken for granted by a species I had never encountered in my life, except in my fiction, and my character read was disproven. Lesson learned.
I always strive in this life to learn something new every year and I learned: DO NOT PICK UP FUCKING HITCHIKERS IN FLORIDA!
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Tim Eagle
Tim Eagle is an author of the novellas Stolen Seed, Life Ship, and the Vasectomus Collection. He lives full time, on the road, with his wife, Maria and their dog, Cocoa. He grew up in Michigan and is inspired by the dysfunction of America. His books are available on Amazon, godless and this site timeaglefiction.com
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