Just Outside of Everywhere.

Because Grand Island is so far from the Interstate I decided not to strain myself by walking such a great distance. Last summer I repeatedly made the mistake of walking tens of miles, only to find myself fatigued, when I could have simply waited in the place I was for, at times, the same ride.

I was on route 281 anyway and the edge of the north side of town wasn't far from where I was staying. I figured I'd take this road to 92, where I would head east just south of Saint Paul Nebraska. That would, with any luck, put me in Omaha by sun down. I could stay with family and head out toward Chicago on I-80 in the morning. I felt this was a solid plan, and all I had to do now was stick out my thumb.

Stick out my thumb I did, for about two hours without any luck. No bother, I thought. I've waited longer for rides, I just had to be patient. Directly after I had this thought a state trooper graced me with his presents and asked the usual questions, where was I going, why was I here, any drugs or weapons.
He ran my I.D. Then told me Hitchhiking within the city limits of Grand Island is prohibited by Law and if I would permit a search of my person he would gladly drive me to the northern city limits.

I responded with a counter offer. I would agree to a search if the officer would be kind enough to drive me to the south side and place me on an I-80 east on-ramp. The officer repeated my offer back to me to both confirm that he understood, and to consider it. I nodded, then he agreed to take me.

I wasn't long on the ramp before a computer network technician on his way to Lincoln gave me a ride.
Jeff noticed me on 281 early that day wile on his way to St. Paul. He was a little confused to see me hitching in a near opposite direction.

Jeff was a good conversationalist but unfortunately I was tired and couldn't keep up with him. When we arrived to the Lincoln junction on route 77 Jeff went south toward the capital and I stayed on the ramp. By now I was looking forward to a night in Omaha, confident I would get there tonight. It was only 4:30 pm and there is a massive amount of commuting traffic around this time.

A driver of a Swift 18 wheeler pulls directly off the off ramp and onto the on ramp. He looks me in the eyes as he hits his breaks and waives me over as he passes and slows down. I run over to the cab and climb in. The trucker asks be where I'm headed and I answer with Chicago, hoping he would be going at least that far. As I sit in the truck I notice a peculiar oder I recognize from my time spent in many public restrooms. Chris, the trucker, told me he would be able to get me to Chicago, I just had to be patient. There was a stop just out west a piece that he had to drop a load off at then we would be on our way. He had a thick souther accent, so I wasn't at all surprised when he told me he was from Alabama.
The oder from Chris would intensify every time he shifted in his seat, the smell got so bad at one point I had to crack a window for fear of gagging.

Chris talked constantly without pause. By the time we got to York Nebraska I started to wonder just how far “up the road” was. I had to interrupt him, he was telling me about his days as an employee for Halliburton hauling crude oil. The load we were hauling was apparently scheduled to be dropped off at the Lowe's distribution center just outside Cheyenne Wyoming. After Chris told me this he feverishly tried to assure me he would have me in Chicago by Friday.

I've learned a few things about riding with truckers from past experiences. One thing I've learned is that dispatchers are unpredictable. I can't remember a time when a trucker knew for certain where he was going before he dropped off the load from the previous run. Another thing I've learned is that truckers are lonely, all most every one I've been picked up by begged me to continue on with them after I reached my destination. They also tend to talk more than the average person, and there stories are generally larger than life. I usually find myself uncomfortable in the presence of truckers and don't consider them a preferred host, though they can provide you with greater distances of travel.

Chris stopped at a truck stop after I interrupted his monologue for the second time to express my desire to urinate. Once stopped he asked me to climb into the sleeper and grab a shew box. I flipped on the light and wile grabbing the box couldn't help but notice his collection of homosexual pornographic magazines laid out on the bed. Initially this didn't alarm me, but now that I'm aware of his sexual orientation it opens up the idea of another possible motive for picking up a hitchhiker.

I handed Chris the shoe box and watched him open it, inside was a stack of twenties. He handed me one and told me to get a twelve pack of Mountain Dew and anything else I wanted. Early and often in the ride Chris would brag about how well off he was, he explained to me how well Halliburton paid truckers and also let me in on a secret project he was working on, selling sand rails to Kuwait. As I mentioned before Chris talked, literally non stop, and by the time we got to the panhandle I started nodding off. I think Chris noticed this and pulled into a rest area, which was nothing more that a gravel circle.

Chris pulled the curtains over the windshield and started working on his log book. I wasn't sure if we were parked for the night or not so I grabbed a Dew out of the cooler and waited. Chris was still talking but I wasn't listening. He took off his shoes, creating a new and equally unpleasant oder that mixed well with the already existing smells of feces, urine, and sweat.

I took this as a sign that we were in for the night and took off my shew as well. Chris went back to the sleeper, turned on the television and watched the news, he encouraged me to sit in the drivers seat and watch with him. I looked at the moist condition of the captain chair, looked at Chris, who had now removed his shirt, then politely refused, telling him I was quite comfortable where I was. That was a lie.
In fact I was uncomfortable. Realizing I was in the middle of nowhere with a trucker who's intention, to me, are still very unclear, made me very uncomfortable. I stayed in the passenger seat and closed my eyes. Chris mumbled something in his southern drawl. I looked up to see he had removed all his clothes and was now standing naked, shifting items around in a cabinet by his bed.

I put my shoes back on my feet, as I was tying them Chris asked if my feet were cold. I shook my head from side to side, as you would do if disgusted, I replied kind of facetiously, “yeah, Chris, my feet are cold.”

He sat down on his bed, still naked, and opened the side display monitor of a DV camcorder then said.
“I know man, sometimes it gets a little cold up there on the feet, just let me know if it gets too cold for you and I'll turn it down.”

After he said that he pushed play on the camcorder. I couldn't see the screen but could hear the symphony of moaning quite clearly. I immediately stood up and reached for my pack. Chris said flustered “what are you doing man.” as he sat up.

“look man, you're freaking me out. I just can't handle your unpredictable behavior.” I said as empathetically as possible.
Chris said pleadingly “Don't worry Andrew,” he called me Andrew, “I'm not after you. Just relax man, I'll get you where you want to go, you just got to be patient.”

I wasn't really afraid of Chris, I just didn't want to have to deal with his eccentricities, and bad smells. I calmed down, and told him I couldn't sleep in the passenger seat. He cleared off a space on the top bunk, while apologizing for freaking me out.

Finally I fell asleep. In the middle of the night, closer to morning, I felt, what felt like a hand, touching the lower portion of my back. I rolled over to find Chris's dimly lit silhouette in front of me.
“what are you doing?” I asked sounding somewhat annoyed.
Chris appeared to fumble for an excuse for his actions and said, “Hey man, is there a bug in here?” he paused waiting for a response, but I gave him none. “Like a mosquito or something? Maybe it came in with your bag?” I didn't understand what he was getting at. Stupefied I answered his questions, “No Chris, there's no bug.” I watched him disappear back into his sleeper located under mine. I fell back asleep.

The next morning I found myself scheming for a way to slip away with out him noticing. This opportunity arose once we arrived at the Anheuser-Busch plant in Fort Collins Colorado. The trailer he needed to load wouldn't be ready until 3pm the next day, so he settled in next to a Ramada inn.
I grabbed my day pack containing my computer, and left my Carson pack in the truck.
I sat down at the lounge adjacent to the lobby of the Ramada and logged online. I booked an Airtran flight to Milwaukee for the next day at $99.

Coincidentally, my stepmother, Sharon, happened to be on a business trip to the Denver area. I called her asking for a ride to Denver from Fort Collins.

I went back out to the truck and told Chris I had family I hadn't seen in a while in Denver, I would stay the night with them. Chris showed signs in his face of anger and hurt. As I collected my things he added, “Well they've got me picking up a load going to Miami anyway.”
“I guess this worked out for the best then.” I replied. “Take care Chris,” I extended my hand for a hand shake. Chris gave my hand a firm, hard shake, then quickly let go. He put his truck in reverse gear. “Good luck in Tokyo man.”

I wound down in downtown Denver with Sharon over a good Falafel Sandwich. I slept well at the Marriott Courtyard that night.