Content
THE big grey roadster streaked by me and came to a halt fifty yards down the highway with screaming tires. I got my lungs full of the smell of hot oil and burning rubber. It choked me so that for a full minute I couldn’t breathe. Neither could I move; I just stood there staring stupidly at it and at the two black skid-marks the wheels left on the concrete. I was heading west, via the thumb-route, and had been waiting over three hours for a lift. I can’t remember exactly where I was at the time, but it was somewhere in New Mexico, between Las Cruces and Lordsburg.
It seemed sort of crazy, that car stopping. I had begun to believe that only old jalopies and trucks picked up hikers any more. Bums are generally pretty dirty and good cars have nice seats. Then, too, it was a lonesome stretch in there and plenty can happen on a lonesome stretch.
The guy driving the car yelled at me over his shoulder. “Hey, you! Are you coming?” He acted as though he was in a great hurry, for he goosed his engine impatiently so I’d shake a leg.
I snapped out of it. It was hot as a bastard and I guess the sun was getting me. Somewhere back along the line I had lost my hat and the top of my head seemed to be on fire. Anyway, the last two hours I had been waving cars more or less mechanically, not expecting anyone to stop. A few hundred of them must have whizzed by without even slowing down a little to give me the once-over. You know, hitch-hiking isn’t as popular out west as it used to be. I suppose that is why the real bums stick to the rails.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” I shouted as loud as I could. My throat was caked with road dust and even opening my mouth was painful. It felt like someone had given my tonsils a good going over with sandpaper. Taking the lead out of my pants, I broke all records running to the car and piling in, lugging my valise after me. “Sorry, mister. The heat’s got me down.”
The man reached back, pressed a button behind his seat and the rumble popped open. He pointed to my valise. I tossed it in and slammed the rumble shut.
“Make sure your door’s closed, Johnny.” I made sure.
We drove along for a little while, neither one of us saying anything. I was glad of that. I never know what to say to strange people driving cars, except the old line of gab which is flat as hell. The chances are a guy knows just as well as you do that it is a nice day, that the scenery is pretty, that the road is quite rough in spots and that it can’t be much farther to Deming. Then, too, you never can tell if a fellow wants to talk. A lot of rides have been cut short because of a big mouth.
I was sweating like a man in a Turkish bath, so I kept to my own side of the car. My dirty polo-shirt clung to my back as though it was glued there and I could feel little drops of perspiration trickle down my legs into what was left of my socks. On either side of the road baked endless low hills covered with green sage. Every thing in sight reflected a glare in spite of the thick coating of dust which had settled even on the highway itself. The top was down on the car, but to catch some breeze I had to hold my head out over the wind-wing. We were making better than seventy miles an hour with the road full of curves, yet I was too grateful for the air to be nervous. As I cooled off a bit I took back all the names I had been calling the Southwest.
“How far are you going?” he asked me after a while.
“L.A.”
The man turned to face me in surprise. “Well, you’re really traveling, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I answered him, “but I don’t expect to make it for a couple of years at the rate I’ve been promoting rides.”
“Not much luck?”