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8 Thumbs and a Dog Goin’ East


Dosin’ on Doug

Another lugubrious day squished my spirits right from the moment I awakened. I slept by the side of the road the night prior, bivy in the desert sand, between brittle bushes free of leaves, with dead tumbleweeds bouncing around through the gusts of her fury. That slight chill, cooling my sunburn, erasing the touch of fire against my skin quickly vanished with the clear blue sky. That good old Texas sun snarled down at me and with each mile I tired to a plodding pace seeking refuge under any lone tree or viaduct by the I-10.

I squinted; my eyes witnessed a pull-off a few hundred feet ahead, with pavilions, a bathroom, and limited traffic. I stopped. My feet cramped from constant walking on the rough endless pavement as I cooled off in the shade, massaging my calloused feet, one toe at a time.

“Hey buddy…thought ya be further down the road by now. Doug’s still back there hustlin’ his moose story,” snickered Todd.

I guffawed, exposing my yellow teeth, as I took a drag of a cigarette I found from a nearby ashtray, offering the last few drags to Todd.

“Where’d ya come from anyway?”

“Got some miles in last night and crashed by the side of the road…figured I’d get some in while it was cool…no way was I gonna listen to fuckin’ Doug and his moose story at the Love’s for another day,” I said in a disgruntled voice.

“Yeah he’s still back there…he didn’t wanna walk this far.”

“I think we’re like 15 miles away from the next truck stop…not sure which side of the road it’s on, but anything is better than where we we’re at…there’s too many people there anyway tryin’ to all hitch the same direction.”

“Yeah I agree…you wanna get to walkin’…got a long fuckin’ day ahead of us with this sun…least we got smokes with all these butts on the side of the road. Won’t get no rides though in this fuckin’ state.”

I wiggled my feet back into my boots, tying the laces extra tight for the tedious journey ahead of us. Todd’s grim look depicted anguish and hunger. His bony jaw-line cut deep into his face beneath his pitted eyes. Sweat flowed off his balding scalp pulsating against his frontal veins as he roamed forward in a rampant progression. He fueled his body off sniped cigarettes, taco bell packets, and the little water leftover from his 20 ounce coca cola bottle.

The sun grafted its blaze into our skin leaving us as red as tomatoes. We relaxed momentarily, at each glance of potential refuge, under bridges, in viaducts and occasionally behind barren vegetation.

Why am I here again? Oh yeah…that’s right, fuckin’ Border Patrol…I could have been on my way to Fort Worth by now, but instead I’m walkin’ in the middle of an 80 degree day while the sun pisses heat, blistering my skin,” mumbling to myself in a bilious tone.

I gazed over at Todd. “Fuck dude, Texas fuckin’ sucks man…still got like 10 miles of this shit and not a single soul has stopped to even offer us water…”

“I walked from El Paso…80 fuckin’ miles….no one is goin’ to stop…they don’t care…we’re too close to the border…they prob think we’re illegals haha…”

Our monotonous efforts dwindled to a less than desirable pace over the next 10 miles. The bones in my feet whimpered in pain below buckling knees and the only reason I kept hobbling along was to get as far away from Doug as humanly possible. My brain felt hazy through the lackluster mindless path we wandered. The sun stole our morale a bit with each footstep, stripping our probity, as we crawled like infants towards the next truck stop. Somehow through the drenching inferno we persevered, shedding a mile or two per hour, posting up in front of the family-run truck stop with little to no energy.

The truck stop lay on the westbound side of the highway, which spawned the first problem as we needed to hitch east. As we grounded ourselves in front of the building I noticed another drifter sleeping along the side wall, problem two. He lay sprawled out next to a pile of puke, a camouflage cap covered most of his face with his scruffy red beard poking through. A small piece of cardboard angled next to him against the wall with his life story scrawled across it in small-black lettering, “Stranded with no money, and food, lookin’ for a ride east…anything helps…God Bless!”

And just when I thought it could not get any worse I heard a dilapidated Honda pull up emitting plumes of smoke. A chain jingled and a four-legged canine jumped out, her tongue drooped out of her mouth flopping side-to-side. My eyes widened as I stared at her ridiculous sunglasses and behind her frame stood the old hobo from the Love’s. Doug stood there with his bottom lip pronounced as if in deep thought. He looked like Bubba from Forrest Gump, waddling back-and-forth closer to us, fiddling into his pocket pulling out a wad of 20’s.

“Didn’t get a ride outta there, but crossed the street…held my sign that said, “East” and people kept handin’ me 20’s…even the cops gave me money before they tore up my sign…easily made 200 bucks…think it was my Veteran’s cap that did it or Pam layin’ down in the heat…Pam and I started walkin’ down the road and got picked up from a guy who got a speedin’ ticket…said he was goin’ further, but he’d give me a ride to the next truck stop…”

Todd and I looked at each other befuddled and perplexed. I sat there exasperated tilting my head towards the man whom woke up against the wall. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and sat up from his slumber, initiating conversation while twirling tendrils of his beard between his index finger. This allowed me to break free of Doug’s ersatz behavior as he continued to babble on with his far-fetched stories. Todd and I looked blankly off into space as the fourth hitchhiker introduced himself.

“The name’s Brian…I been stuck here for a day already…walked from the Love’s the other day after Border Patrol stopped me back on the 10, at the checkpoint.”

“So you drove to Van Horn? Why’d they stop you,” I said confusedly?

“Hahaha…well…funny story…I was bangin’ this broad back in Vegas…and well shit was goin’ south…so I kinda “borrowed” her car without tellin’ her and started drivin’ it across the country…but ya see…I kinda forgot about Border Patrol. They nabbed me back at the checkpoint for drivin’ a stolen vehicle, but they couldn’ hold me cuz I knew the bitch, her numba, and all her information…so I just started walkin’…ended up here.”

“What in the fuck…hahaha…well it’s gon be hard as fuck now to hitch outta here with four fuckin’ people all goin’ the same direction…Guess we’ll figure it out tomorrow man…I’m goin’ to fuckin’ sleep,” I mumbled.

And I pointed at the on-ramp across the highway at a nice patch of grass nestled between thistle and gravel. With four hitchhikers, one truck stop for the next 70 miles and limited traffic, I pondered how long I’d fly a sign tryin’ to hitch outta Van Horn, Texas? What person would hitch out first? Would we kill Doug by the end of the next day? Find out on the next episode of The Memoirs of Hobo.

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3 Responses “8 Thumbs and a Dog Goin’ East”

  1. June 5, 2017 at 2:35 PM

    Haha good times bro

    • June 6, 2017 at 7:38 PM

      Yeah man, it was nice travelin’ with you dude. Let me know if you end up around NY.

  2. June 9, 2017 at 12:51 AM

    Miss the road dude. I’d rather be broke.

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