Go My Way
By Sarah Clayville
You know you shouldn’t hitchhike.
It always ends in a misunderstood tragedy. Just a shattered body abandoned in a muddy ditch on Route 11. Rumors spread. Reporters swarm. Nobody pulls apart the driver’s life the way they examine that bent broken girl who must have been broken on the inside, too, to climb up into his cab and ask for a ride.
You know you shouldn’t hitchhike.
But there are only two options. Stay or go. Staying is more dangerous than riding with a stranger into another state like an explorer, only the world’s been explored ten times over. You pack your precious things, the few things you’ve bought with your own money. They’re not tainted with traps to keep you stuck at home. You walk in your yellow and blue running shoes until your calves ache in crashing waves. Then your thighs slowly burn. Soon the bottoms of your feet are numb, and you imagine all the tiny fine lines etched into your soles you can’t even feel. You wish memories could go numb. If you carry them long enough can’t your brain pretend they’re gone?
You know you shouldn’t hitchhike.
Only this man’s eyes are kind. His lips are embedded in a thick red beard, and the way he swings open his truck door for you is the nicest invitation you’ve received in a while. Hitchhiking in the morning feels safe, the sun rising and painting the sky a sweet peach. The color reflects in his expression, half a smile carved under his left ear. I could use the company, he murmurs. This is an old movie, you tell yourself. This is 1952 when hitchhiking was as safe as picking up a loaf of Wonder bread from Safeway. He sits silent for miles and lets the country songs speak for him as the radio pinballs from one man’s tune to the next.
You know you shouldn’t hitchhike.
The small cab with a warmer under the seat feels more like home than home ever did. When you tap your hand on your denim knee, he grins and pats his hand on the steering wheel in time. He hands you an egg sandwich wrapped in foil. Don’t take candy from strangers, your father’s voice cautions. Your father has kind eyes, too, and vicious hands. Suddenly those memories flood the cab, and nothing is safe. The sandwich shakes as you raise it to your lips. You almost hope there’s a drug hidden beneath the layers to help you sleep. But it’s just greasy eggs, bacon, and cheese.
You know you shouldn’t hitchhike.
Tell me a story, he says. That’s how you’ll pay me for the ride. The peach sun settles behind clouds, and a persistent rain rattles the windshield. You realize nothing in this world is free. As you unwind your story for him, the smile rinses off his face with the rain. Your voice betrays what makeup was supposed to conceal. He demands to know how old you are. Where you are from. Who’s chasing you. The driver slams the truck’s breaks and realizes you’re the danger. He needs to get you out of the cab, and he grabs at your shoulder to push only your memories aren’t numb. They’re fresh like blisters.
You know you shouldn’t hitchhike.
It could end up this way. A man and a child struggling by the side of the road. You fight for your life because he intends to take you back the way you came. Reverse is easy. But you beg him. Tell him you’ll gamble with the danger ahead because you know what the danger behind looks like. It’s a laundry list of four broken ribs. A bruised collarbone. Tattooed burns along your wrists. The driver tells you he doesn’t want trouble. But that’s not true. He’s the one who swung open the door, gave you the sandwich, almost touched that denim knee. Even though all those country songs warn about girls like you. They’ll break your heart because it’s all the power they’ve got left. He reaches for his phone. You reach for the one precious belonging Billy at school sold you in exchange for all your babysitting money. There’s a shot and a broken body in the ditch. Everyone will have to ask about the driver because the girl is gone. She flagged down another driver with kind eyes who ferries her north.
You know you shouldn’t hitchhike because things can go sideways real fast.
THE END