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Friday, February 16th, 2007
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2:27 pm
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I just picked up my first hitchhiker.
When I turned the corner, I saw her standing there in the cruel non-seasonal heat. She was burdened with plastic bags and clutched a tired-looking purse tightly to her chest. I stared at her as beads of sweat cascaded down her forehead. I felt ashamed as I sat comfortably on leather seats with the pleasant breeze of my air conditioner. I wondered what type of sadistic mental disease gripped her brain. I wondered how many knives she kept hidden in her sacks. I wondered where she'd make me drive once she hijacked my car. I wondered how many judgments I could pass with a fleeting stare from 30 feet away.
It didn't matter. I sailed by, giving her only a moment's pity. I looked down the road ahead of me, a 2-mile stretch in a barren canyon, uphill, and only after that do the houses begin to crowd the landscape. While I could be home and happy in 3 minutes, it was a more arduous journey for her. She'd have to trudge up the dusty sidewalk ten times longer than I would drive it, without the benefit of a cooling system. Why was I afraid to help her? Why did I have to attach so many taboos to lending a ride to a stranger? I hung my head in shame, as my only justifications were horror movies and old wives' tales. I pulled into a left-turn lane, and waited to go back. Time seemed to slow down, and my stomach turned with apprehension. I fought it, I tried to quell my fears, but I was scared, illogically and immaturely scared. Cars kept on speeding by, they taunted me; they were spaced so perfectly that I couldn’t make the turnaround.
Finally, I took a chance and wrenched around the turn. The smell of burning rubber came wafting through the vents and spiced the bitter air. The odor stung my nose, and I winced against it. I came back to the intersection, heart pounding and shrinking in my seat, and saw her still standing there, only now with a look of collapsed trepidation splashed across her sweating face. I sat at the red light, the no u-turn sign glaring at me as if it knew my plans. The light flickered green, and I made my illegal turn. I pulled over next to her, and rolled down the window.
“Need a ride?”
No response.
My mind raced. I hated myself for spurting out those words. What was I thinking? I don’t know her, she could be crazy. What if she kills me? I can drive away right now and no one would ever know. I’m not obligated. The doors are still locked, I can just leave. Someone else will come by. But no, they won’t, I know this neighborhood. The rich and privileged never stop.
It was too late. She came walking up to my car, her left hand wiping off the moisture from her forehead. I unlocked the doors, and she came in with only a meek mutter of a, “Thank you.” She sat awkwardly, and stayed clenched together as if in fear of me. She didn’t make a move for the belt, and shrank herself even further in the seat. I didn’t try to start any conversation; I wanted the ride to be over as much as she did. We continued up the road in a tense silence, our fears probably feeding off each other’s inaction. The radio mumbled at a low hum, and I kept my eyes glued around the bends in desperate anticipation of when I could dump her off.
“So, where can I take you?”
More stale silence. After some deliberation, she let loose a single syllable, “Lights.” I knew where she meant. I also knew it was 600 more yards down the road. I was waiting for her to pull out the bloody butcher knife and brandish it threateningly. I was waiting for the alternate personality to manifest and the psychosis to set in. Nothing came. My tension was reaching a crescendo increasing in magnitude as I came closer to her stop. My hands trembled, and I was angry with myself for the selfish and paranoid reaction. 100 feet. What’ll she do? 50. How much longer? 10. I rounded the next curve, and stopped.
“Is this good?”
Another muttered, “Yes, thank you” and she stepped out. Her plastic bags ruffled and shifted, her purse strained as it was lifted off her lap. She left.
I never even learned her name.
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