Carsick: John Waters Hitchhikes Across America

by John Waters

  “John is a movie director,” explains her manager, Wilson, who has now introduced himself; “he made Hairspray.” She looks at me blankly, and at first I wonder if the reason she doesn’t recognize me is my thick, luxuriant hair, but “No,” she says slowly, “I don’t watch movies.” “Yes, you do, Connie,” coaches her manager as if he’s feeding her lines in an interview; “we saw Hairspray on a plane from London that one time.” “What plane?” she asks, momentarily confused before giving up and mumbling, “All movies are the same, aren’t they?”

  Connie never once asks me why I’m hitchhiking and neither does Wilson, but after riding in silence for quite a while she says in a flat voice, “I like your hair.” No one has ever said that to me in my life. “Thank you, yours is pretty cool, too,” I offer, noticing the teased and dyed do that obviously requires frequent touch-ups. “My hair sometimes hurts,” she answers vaguely before whipping out her makeup bag and slathering on more liquid foundation.

  Suddenly we get a flat tire. I can’t believe it. “Shit!” yells Wilson as we pull over to the side of the road with the sound of flapping rubber and the rim hitting the highway causing a sudden racket. He gets out. I don’t know what to do. Connie has not shown one sign that she realizes what has happened. She stares straight ahead without blinking.

  I hear Wilson open the trunk and curse some more, so I get out for moral support. “Cheap-ass rental company! Just a donut wheel and no jack,” he gripes. “Do you have Triple-A?” I ask. “Yeah,” he deadpans, “if we had cell phone service out here.” My asshole makes a sudden hoodoo secret signal to me, and only then do I realize I should ask my magic helper for assistance. I can feel the gentle whirring at the end of my digestive system, eager to be of service. I check my watch. I only have twenty minutes of anal power left. I act fast. I aim my magic anus at the flat, and the tire inflates at such a speed lavender smoke flies out like some cheap special effect. Wilson looks at me in fear. “It’s okay,” I attempt to explain, “my asshole is magic.” I hear Connie Francis laugh out loud. Wilson stares with openmouthed amazement.

  Suddenly I hear Connie singing from the backseat, “Stupid Cupid, stop picking on me!” Wilson glances at me in gratitude and runs to get behind the wheel. I hop in the backseat but Connie doesn’t even look over as he pulls out. She is suddenly animated, almost deliriously cheerful as she keeps on singing lyrics from hit to hit. “Where the boys are,” she wails, sometimes a little off-key, but who cares? Connie Francis is giving me a concert in the backseat of a limo. Talk about a good ride!

  “We’ll stay all night and sing ’em all!” Wilson shouts in encouragement, using an old Judy at Carnegie Hall line as he speeds down the highway. We’re both thrilled to see Miss Francis so energetic. She immediately goes into a bellowing version of “Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool” and I throw caution to the wind and join in with her on the refrain, “Everybody’s somebody’s plaything.” Wilson turns on the radio and lo and behold, my all-time favorite Connie Francis hit, “V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N,” is playing. All of us shout out the letters and even my rectum sings along.

  It’s almost as if Connie Francis can hear my wazoo because she looks over at me for the first time and makes real eye contact, winks, and goes into a yodeling version of one of the cuts from Connie Francis Sings Jewish Favorites, an album I own and have forever fetishized. Suddenly I can hear my own asshole going a cappella the way the vocalizing anus did with “Surfin’ Bird” by the Trashmen in Pink Flamingos, only now it’s cuing Connie to go into “Lipstick on Your Collar” and she does! My asshole is doing a duet with Connie Francis! I can see Wilson is watching us in the rearview mirror, happy to see his client so inspired, happy to be in show business.

  I check my watch. Oh, fuck. Like Cinderella at the ball, my booty bewitching time is about to expire. I shake my thick hair like a young Ringo Starr, and Connie goes off the charts and into a whole new realm of music. Suddenly channeling Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s scary voice and skyrocketing to a new level of coolness, Connie raps an all-new ghetto version of the once-tepid theme song to Follow the Boys, a movie she starred in but has always disparaged. I watch her in awe as I feel the hair on my head thinning while my asshole lets out a final whistle of disappearing jubilation. Connie slumps back in her seat. Wilson stares straight ahead, afraid to look back at his rhyming chanteuse. “You’re staying with us,” Connie mutters with a glary-eyed expression. I do.

  GOOD RIDE NUMBER THIRTEEN

  DELMONT

  The Nugget was fine. They got me a separate room and I ordered room service and took a long hot bath. I adjusted to my old receding hairline once again staring back at me in the mirror under all that intense hotel bathroom lighting. My asshole seemed unfazed to be returning to its everyday functions, too. I was okay.

  I didn’t go to Connie’s concert, but why would I? I’d had my own private one yesterday. I heard it went well, though; she performed for seven hours and sang all her hits, every single one of them, in five different languages, and dared anyone to leave before she finished. Sounds like a triumph to me.

  I let Connie and Wilson sleep. I know she must be exhausted after the big day we had together. I slip a farewell note to each of them under their doors and walk out into the blinding sun of Sparks, Nevada. Since I don’t want to run up my host’s bill any more by raiding the minibar for hitchhiking water supplies, I walk to the nearest gas station, about ten minutes away: the longest I walked during this entire hitchhiking trip.

  All that complimentary tea I drank in the hotel room this morning makes me have to pee again, so I ask for the men’s room key—something that always makes me feel like more of a “porcelain pervert” than I actually am. I’m relieved to see the bathroom is a single, has a lock, and that no “payday” is awaiting me in the toilet. And good, there’s graffiti, too. I stand and pee and read a few of them: “I’m so horny I could fuck the crack of dawn.” “Here I sit brokenhearted, tried to shit but only farted.” How original! Can’t anybody come up with something new? Wait a minute, what’s this little one, written between the tiles in tiny letters? “For a good time, call Delmont 775-208-0823.” What the hell. I do. “Hey,” answers Delmont in a vaguely friendly way after picking up the phone on the second ring. “Uh … hi,” I stutter, suddenly realizing this Delmont is a real person. “I’m calling about your … ad. I was hitchhiking through town and—” “Finally,” sighs Delmont, cutting me off midsentence. “It’s about time! I’ve had that little notice up for two years and no one has ever called me. I’ve been sitting here waiting!” “Well, maybe you weren’t home when they called,” I offer up weakly, embarrassed that I am the only one desperate enough to give him a try. “True,” he says with a self-deprecating chuckle, “I’m on the road a lot, but I have an answering machine and I always check it. Nobody ever left me a message.”

  Suddenly all business, he quizzes me. “So how old are you?” “Sixty-six,” I answer, expecting to hear a click and a dial tone. “Cool!” he says with a suddenly sexy voice. “I like old guys.” “You do?” I ask in surprise. “Yeah. Go ahead and ask me what turns me on,” he replies. But before I can do so, he boasts, “I’ll tell you. I like crow’s-feet, some wrinkles, receding hairlines.” “So how old are you?” I ask, dreading the answer. “Twenty-eight,” he says proudly. Jesus Christ, I could be his grandfather, I think. Does anybody have “grandfather issues”? If this is a type, it’s new to me. There’s not even gay slang for this kink. I’ve heard of Daddyhunt.com, but Granddaddyhunt.com? Come on! “I live with my dad and my grandfather,” he volunteers, instantly blowing my sexually neurotic suspicions, “and I love them both, but I have to travel for work.” “What kind of work do you do?” I pry, feeling like a contestant on a salacious dating reality TV show. “I sell knives door-to-door,” he answers as if that is the most normal job in the world. “What kind of knives?” I stammer, flashing back to spinning on that wheel in Buster’s carnival. “You know, butcher knives, carving knives, cleavers. Everybody has knives,�
�� he boasts like the great salesman he is. “Hey, look,” he suddenly cuts to the chase, “you all talk or do you want to hook up?” “Uh … sure,” I gulp, amazed I’m going this far. “You still in the filling station?” he asks. “Yes, I’m in the bathroom,” I admit as I hear another customer politely rapping on the door to see if the men’s room is in use. “I’ll pick you up,” he announces, seemingly in a rush. “I’ve got a ’75 Chevy Chevelle, puke green. Just stand out front—I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Click.

  “Christ, now what have I gotten myself into?” I mutter as I exit the bathroom, avoiding eye contact with the middle-aged preppy guy who lets me pass, probably worried just as I was that an unflushed turd awaits him in the toilet on the other side of the door. I stand out front, but it sure doesn’t take him ten minutes. Delmont pulls up almost immediately. He is incredibly handsome but, I can tell, doesn’t realize it himself. Gap between his two front teeth. Skinny. Long hair—the kind that even looks good dirty. Black Levi’s, Beatle boots, motorcycle belt turned sideways so the belt buckle is forty-five degrees to the left, and a commie-style blue work shirt—the kind I haven’t seen since the hippie days. “Get your ass in here,” he says with a smile that makes me believe he doesn’t recognize me as that other John Waters person.

  “Damn, you look good!” he says with a happy leer and, as far as I can tell, no irony. “I’m John. John Waters,” I offer. “And I’m Delmont Perkins,” he says before leaning over and completely unnerving me by kissing me on the mouth. For a long time. We pull off; I am rattled but he seems happy. “So where you hitching to?” he asks as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “San Francisco,” I say, realizing I’m still about three or four hours away. “I’ll take you,” he says without giving it another thought. “You’re kidding!” I blurt, not believing my good luck. “Sure I will, as long as you don’t mind me selling some cutlery on the way—I can live anywhere as long as I got my knives,” he answers with confidence. “Fine with me,” I say, remembering fondly to myself that little-known horror movie Door-to-Door Maniac, starring Johnny Cash.

  Delmont pulls over at the first rest area we see and I think he needs to use the restroom, but no. He immediately opens the trunk and pulls out a custom-made briefcase and approaches a frazzled-looking woman getting out of her car in the parking lot. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he says with an easygoing charm that is already winning my heart, “you need any kitchen knives?” She freezes for a second, but his sexy smile inspires trust. “What kind you got?” she answers, much to my amazement. Just like the Egg Man in Pink Flamingos, Delmont opens his display kit and shows off a whole range of “the world’s finest cutlery,” encased dramatically in red velvet. “Who says you can’t have a love affair with a knife?” he asks, pulling out a “trimmer” and flicking the jagged edge with his finger, drawing a tiny drop of blood. “Cuts through a tomato like butter,” he announces like the connoisseur he is, and lo and behold, she buys it. I’m impressed!

  “See?” he says as he jumps back in the front seat and leans over and gives me another kiss, this one longer and deeper. “Damn! I love kissing you,” he says, and grins as we pull off and I try to believe my romantic luck. “Kissing is what makes you a good queer,” Delmont announces as if he’s discussing a scientific experiment. We don’t drive for long. He pulls over his Chevy to the side of the road and switches on the radio. Wouldn’t you know it? “Hitchhiker” by Bobby Curtola is playing. I’ve only heard the song once or twice in the past, but suddenly the lyric “I’m a hitchhiker on the road to love” takes on new meaning. We make out for about twenty minutes.

  I look up and see a fucking cop approaching the driver’s side of the car. I didn’t even notice the police car pull over! Who would, necking with such a cool guy as Delmont? “Jesus, the cops,” I mutter in panic, but Delmont just smiles in confidence. “Don’t worry,” he whispers, “watch me. I’m gonna sell him a knife.”

  “License and registration,” the cop barks as he looks down into the car. I pray he doesn’t notice our obvious arousal. “Sure,” says Delmont. “Hey, Officer, you interested in bringing home your little woman a nice present tonight?” “What d’you mean, boy?” the cop snarls while checking the valid ID, thinking at first Delmont is trying to bribe him. “It’s just that I sell knives for a living and we’re having a sale this week.” “Yeah?” I hear the suddenly interested cop answer as Delmont starts to get out of the car to get his kit out of the trunk. “Stay in your vehicle!” the officer shouts, pulling his gun in a moment of panic. “Okay, okay,” Delmont laughs, his hands in the air, “but I can’t show you my wares without getting out the samples.” “All right,” I hear the cop mutter, calming down, “but never leave your vehicle when the police stop you without the officer’s permission.” “Yes, sir,” agrees Delmont as he opens the trunk and starts his sales spiel. “We got twelve-inch, eight-inch, double-serrated—the kitchen knife of your wife’s dreams,” Delmont boasts as he opens up his kit, grabs a butcher knife from inside, and whack! whack! whack! dices an empty paper-towel roll like an onion on the floor of his car’s trunk. “How much?” the cop asks, impressed, as he hands Delmont back his license and registration. “Two-for-one sale,” Delmont hawks with pride as he sits back down in the car with the door open. “Butcher and paring knife,” he offers, “one day only! Sale price $59.95.” “You take credit cards?” our burly officer asks, giving me a disinterested once-over as he pulls out his wallet. “Sure do,” says Delmont as he whips out a portable credit-card terminal and swipes the cop’s MasterCard through without a hitch. “Drive safely, lover boys,” the cop says with sudden goodwill before he strolls back to his vehicle, happily thinking of all the action he’s got ahead of him once the wife gets a load of these brand-new classic kitchen knives.

  “So what do you do?” Delmont asks nonchalantly as he pulls back on the road and turns on his homemade mix tape featuring “Bumming Around,” by Jimmy Dean. “Not that I care,” he adds over the perfect lyric for our budding romance (“I’m as free as the breeze and I’ll do as I please”). “I’d like you even if you were unemployed,” he chuckles before giving me a wink. “Uh … I’ve made movies,” I finally admit with a tinge of dread. “Ahhhh … I hate movies,” he reluctantly confesses while I sigh in relief. “Overpriced tickets, fake stories, and those movie stars—no one’s that cute in real life.” “Well, you are,” I exclaim with honesty, then terror, realizing the most frightening thing of all: Delmont would be the perfect boyfriend.

  “So can I live with you?” he asks with sudden ease and little fear of rejection. “Sure,” I say, not believing I am agreeing to anything so preposterous. “I mean not all the time…,” he explains, “I gotta be on the road traveling and you’ll be in Hollywood being Mr. Fancy Pants, I guess.” “No!” I wail. “I don’t live in L.A. I live in Baltimore and New York and San Francisco and Provincetown.” “Can I ‘Occupy Waters’ then?” he asks, seemingly unimpressed. I’m not sure how to react. “I’ll chip in,” he offers; “knives don’t pay as well as movies, but I’m no freeloader. I’ll buy the food, pay all the gas and electric bills, and contribute more money at Christmas when knife sales go through the roof. Sound fair?” Well, how’s that for a prenup? I think, amazed. “It’s a deal,” I say with the dreaded combination of affection and lust pounding through my veins.

  Delmont pulls up to my apartment building in San Francisco, and the doorman comes out to help us unload our few belongings. He’s not used to seeing me arrive with a boyfriend of any kind, but I introduce him fearlessly and Delmont shakes his hand. We glide through the lobby in confidence and board the elevator up to our crazy new life together.

  Once inside my apartment, Delmont lets out a whistle of approval, looks out at the view of all San Francisco below from my living room window, kisses me again, and then takes off his clothes and hops in the shower. I take off my clothes, too, but give him his privacy. I hear the shower go off, but Delmont is still singing the Marvin Gaye version of “Hitch H
ike” as he dries off. The first song I heard on this trip and now the last. Amazing! He steps out of the bathroom naked and sees me. “Mmmm … you look great,” he whispers sexily in fully developed gerontophilia. “Come and get it.” Oh my God, I’m in love.

  THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN

  ANOTHER NOVELLA

  BAD RIDE NUMBER ONE

  STEW

  Of course, it could all go bad. Really bad. Rewind. Start over. Think negatively.

  I walk out of my house before Susan and Trish come to work. Naturally, it starts to drizzle, but I’ve worked up the nerve to actually leave, so I can’t chicken out just because it’s raining. I feel like a complete fool and try to hide my homemade signs until I at least get to the corner where I plan to begin to hitchhike. Wouldn’t you know it? Who’s the first to drive by but the headmaster of the nearby private school with whom I am always battling (often in the press) because of their aggressive and, in my opinion, privileged expansion plans. “Where are you going?” he asks as he slows down and pretends to be neighborly. “Oh, just on vacation,” I offer, thinking what a mistake that was for me to let him know I’ll be out of town so now he can start their newest construction noise even earlier in the morning because he’s certain I won’t be around to hear or complain. “You’re hitchhiking!?” he hoots, forgetting his good manners. I just keep walking, but I hear his laughter as he pulls off in the comfort of his late-model car. What do I care? I’m on an adventure and he’s going to work.

  I stand at my corner and stick out my thumb. “Faggot!” someone yells, and I pretend that this isn’t a bad sign. I wait a long time. No one picks me up—even when the cars are stopped at the red light. They plainly see me. The ones that do recognize me laugh in my face, and the ones that don’t, lock their doors. One contemptuous man is staring at me from his vehicle in hatred and mouths “Fuck you” before peeling off. Another woman says right to my face, “I hate your movies,” and then, when she pulls off, swerves over and tries to hit me. Another driver finally stops after passing me by and I run up to the car, carrying my bag, which seems already too heavy, but when I get to the passenger door, he gives me the finger and accelerates. It starts pouring. I take out my newly purchased poncho and put it on, but since it’s orange, drivers assume I’m a construction worker doing road maintenance and angrily curse the imagined rush-hour delays. Hours pass; I can’t believe no one is picking me up! It’s still raining. Maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow when the weather’s better, I think. You coward, my inner devil’s advocate argues back. Suddenly a bus swerves over to the slow lane to pass a car turning left and splashes a river of rainwater over my entire hitchhiking self. I am drenched. Fuck this, I think, and give up for the day. I walk the two blocks home with my tail between my legs.