My hitchhiking days are over. I’m back living in texas, and here’s why:
After a quick juant to the west coast, I was headed back to NYC so that I could vote in the Presidential election. I had come as far as Virginia, and the guy I was riding with reached his destination, so I ambled in to a Kroger grocery store to find somthing to eat.
I finaly decided on three “Lunchables”, took the, to the counter, paid $10.56 (I still have the receipt), and exited the store.
Sitting down on a bench outside the store, I enjoyed my first two overprocessed (though tasty) “lunches”–deciding to save the third, as I was not as hungry as I had thought. I put it in my pack, and started toward the highway.
As i approached I-81, I glanced at my watch: 2:43. 'Good, I think to myself, ‘I can probably catch a ride before rush hour’. It is utterly impossible to catch a ride between the hours of 4 and six in any city with more than 10,000 people.
I settle by the road, and pull out my dry erase board. after fumbling for the marker for i bit, I write in bold letters: NEW YORK CIty (I started to run out of room on “city”)
After sitting for about twenty minutes, I notice a car slowing as it aproaches. In traditional hitchhiker fasion, I leap up and start to do my “Gee, thanks mister!” act (even before the guy stops–it seems to work). So now my back is turned to the oncoming trafic, running up to the now-stopped car.
When I wake up, they tell me that every thing is going to be fine, that they’ve contacted my family in Texas, and they are flying there right away. They tell me that I’m in a hospital, and that I was hit by a truck, That I’ve been there for two days, that the driver of the truck that hit me is in the hospital too, that these police men want to speak with me…
I try to sit up to talk to the cops, only to discover that I’ve been straped to the table. The nurse tells me not to try to move, and I ask why I’m attached to the bed.
One of the police officers answers my question, I’m being brought up on charges for “illegal solicitation of a ride” this, turns out to be the least of my problems.
After considerable arguing between the doctor and one of the cops, I overhear “it’s not like he’s going to run.” The doctor realises that I’ve heard him and gets a guilty look on his face, I’m still not sure why.
They bring in a priest to talk to me, which only succedes in scaring the living hell out of me, making me think I’m going to die–it turns out that I’m not. The reason the priest is there is to council me about the loss of my limb.
They had to amputate my left leg, just below the knee. It had been completely mangled (that’s actualy the word the doctor used) when the truck ran me over. I’m due to be fitted for a prostetic one in a few weeks when the swelling has gone down.
Needless to say, my hitchhiking days are over–Being able to walk efficently is sort of a requirement. I’m not down though—I had loads of fun, I got to see things most people never do, and I met some amazing people.
eggo
