South by Southwest - a tale from U.S.A.
Standing in the heat of a south-Phoenix morning in early summer, I looked down the highway and prayed for a ride. I was the only hitch-hiker around - but there weren't many more vehicles. Sit, stand, walk up & down, look at the cacti. Hot and dusty, I was thirsty and starting to sweat. I looked up and down the highway, and couldn't believe that this wasn't the ideal place to hitch a ride. Easy to see and be seen, ideal place to stop, and obvious where you were going: one long road from south of the city centre all the way to San Diego: some 355 miles passing some of the most amazing scenery in the southwest USA.
A local might have been less than impressed with where I was right now, but I looked at the rough edges of the desert, the hard long empty tarmac stretching on for ever, the burning early sun, and pictured myself in my own little classic that would never reach any film theatre outside of my own imagination. I was waiting for the Greyhound at an improbable bus stop in North by Northwest; I was backed by the theme from Paris, Texas, long before it was written; I was watching the tumbleweeds roll in a thousand childhood fantasies, and trying to summon a mirage in the heat-haze. Any minute a cowboy would appear and challenge me to a duel over the love of a Mexican sweetheart.
My fantasies were interrupted by the arrival of another hitch-hiker, and then another. How in the world was I ever going to get out of this place with no traffic and competition?! They both positioned themselves on the wrong side of me in hitch-hiker etiquette: queue jumpers. The appearance to a potential ride being that they had arrived first and had therefore waited the longest. Still, not to worry; that's not what always counts the most. I looked the safest bet, I was sure: bound to get the first (best, longest), ride. Wrong. After about half an hour the second hitcher to arrive got a ride in a nice-looking car. The other remaining soul and I exchanged looks. We had something in common now, didn't we? A mutual reason to be mildly pissed off, and a reason to pass the time. He seemed a little too upset though: kicking the air and swearing loudly, I figured that he wasn't in the best of moods for a chat, and decided to steer clear. He'd taken up position about twenty yards up the road from me. I slowly put a little more space between us and tried to pretend he wasn't there.
God, I wished I had a bottle of water, (did they sell water in bottles back in 1980?); anything to drink would be good. The guy up the road opened a bottle and slaked his thirst. A truck passed by. I saw it coming in the distance, and imagined the trucker driving non-stop from New York to California, desperate for some conversation to while away the hours. It seemed like ages before he reached us. Didn't even slow to take a look, just roared by and disappeared a lot faster than he had arrived - is there such a thing as a visual Doppler effect? The other hitcher seemed not to notice, sat with his back against his bag and swigging from his bottle, he seemed to have lost interest in hunting down a ride.
Another hitcher arrived. Couldn't be that bad a spot then? Just an unlucky day. For me anyway: the new hitcher got a ride in the space of about ten minutes. It was my ride too - he just ran faster then me. I couldn't believe it. I felt like I was fighting a losing battle; felt like I might shrivel up and dehydrate before I got a ride as far as the next junction. You have to keep going though, no sense giving up now. After more than two hours? Hell, no. Back down to the two of us, the other guy had finished his bottle, and presumably bored with the scenery, was now staring at me. I sat down on my rucsac during another long lull in the 'traffic', and tried to look cool. An uncomfortable while passed, during which it didn't feel at all right for me to attempt any kind of conversation with him by approaching nearer, though I clearly felt the need to end this visual 'interrogation'. Maybe my imagination was just a little too lively in the heat. I was glad though, and it was an unwelcome relief when he got up and started to walk slowly towards me.
"Hi", I ventured. "Where you headed?", he asked. "As far as possible". "Yeah?" He paused. A loooong pause. "Where?" "No, I mean, umm, well as far as I can go, you know. Depends. On the ride." "You don' know where you're goin'?" "Well, just as far as I can go, you know. I want to get to San Diego. I've been waiting for ages" "You wanna go to San Diego? Long way. You won't get there today."
He was older than me - in his mid to late twenties I guess, wearing a moustache and a black leather jacket. He was sweating a lot. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a bottle of beer, then popped off the cap with the edge of a knife. I couldn't help thinking of all the comments I'd heard about the bizarre English taste for warm beer. He took a slug, then proffered the bottle without saying anything. Barely before I'd had the time to think about refusing, the bottle was withdrawn and he took a long, long drink. He grimaced and stared into nothingness. I now wasn't sure if he had actually offered me a drink. He didn't look at me at all, for which I felt a little glad, but made me feel somewhat nervous - especially after the way he'd earlier been staring at me. It gave me the opportunity to look him over though, and I began to get uncomfortably curious about the state of his watery bright blue eyes. If they bore any relation to the state of the brain behind them, then I should be worried: they weren't the washed-out eyes of a drunk, they were the eyes of someone on some other kind of drug, and were most likely seeing the world a little differently to me.
Religion and Heavy Weather
"Jesus is with us" Out of the blue. I was at a loss. "He's always here. Everywhere." I still didn't know what to say, and was wishing I did. He looked at me close up for the first time and I wished he hadn't. It wasn't pleasant. "Um, well, yeah." "The End could come anytime. You have to be ready." He stared at me intensely, and obviously expected some kind of response. He was grinding his teeth. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, well, that's right." Shit, was that the best I could do? "Yeah." He turned and took a couple of paces as if to go, then turned around again. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. Luckily, my previous inability to come up with any kind of sentient response, stayed with me. If it hadn"t I might have panicked. As it was, I just stared at him gormlessly. "You don't know. I'm ready. Are you ready?" "I, er, I er", I was now very scared. "You never know what will happen. Anytime. You have to be ready. You never know - this could be the End" I was frozen to the spot. There was nowhere to go. Then he just turned and walked away. It was like watching a tornado disappear toward the horizon. Only he didn"t disappear. And unfortunately neither could I.
You might understand how uncomfortably and slowly the minutes passed on that road. Not much time had passed before a car pulled up in between us. I was extremely unsure of the correct protocol to adopt toward a drug-induced lunatic. Should I run for the car and pray to get the lift, should I let him take the lift? I went for the latter option, and volunteered a friendly wave in farewell. He didn't respond, but I was more than glad that he was going. I even began to feel afraid for the driver of the car. I needn't have worried for her: he didn't get the lift.
I have never wished for a ride as much as then. While he was talking at the car door, I had taken the opportunity to put a few more yards between us. The next opportunity to come along - and I jumped at it. It couldn't have been a more inappropriate getaway: a VW Beetle loaded to the gills with what seemed to be all the worldly possessions of its owner. Crazy man was on his feet and hovering as if he were about to join us. Please. Please, please just let me in and take me anywhere. I told the driver that I was heading towards San Diego, and he said that that's where he was heading. He wasn't sure if there was room for my rucsac though. I doubted it too, but that was the least thing that was going to stop me getting into this car. Some rapid persuasion that it was no problem, and an immediate demonstration of how the damn thing would-fit-in-uurgh! And we were off. I really didn't want to look at Mr. Crazy as we drove past, but couldn't help but see him from the corner of my eye. He didn't look happy. I was glad that I'd got the ride; yes indeed.
Tale last updated: Monday, April 5th, 2010