by John Waters
I notice the biker who picked me up is missing a couple of front teeth, but he’s still kind of cute. He tells me he’s married to a lady surgeon and speaks highly of her. She keeps him in line. He seems to like that. We talk about how the biker identity is fading fast today with young people, and how a bad white boy is more apt to copy the black gangster style if he wants to be a rebel. I can tell this rubs him the wrong way. “Why would they do this?” he wonders, and before he can answer himself in a way I feel could be racist, he stops himself and smiles. He knows it’s a losing argument. I bet his great wife has taught him that racism is not only wrong—he likes being wrong—but stupid. He’s too sweet and nice to be stupid anymore. Maybe a strong woman with a taste for bad boys has tamed him to a point where he feels relief at not having to be a troublemaker, at least for part of the time. I bet they have a great sex life and a nice relationship. He pulls off at an exit to scout the return entrance ramp for me and, seeing it’s a good one, lets me off. I feel happy again. I want to kiss him goodbye on the cheek, but it’s only Day One, so I’m still a little sheepish. I think he might have laughed. In a nice way.
REAL RIDE NUMBER FIVE
THE CORVETTE KID
It’s gonna get better, I keep telling myself. I’m on a roll. Having no idea where I am is kind of liberating. It’s still pouring rain but the biker wasn’t lying, there are “services” at this exit. I see a Burger King at the top of the hill in walking distance from where I, once again, have my thumb out. Uh-oh. Almost no cars come down this road either, and the ones that do don’t turn onto I-70 West. They’re all local rides—what I am beginning to learn is the enemy of successful hitchhiking. A big truck with the motor running is parked right off the road a little way up from me, but I don’t see any driver. Maybe he’s sleeping in the back and maybe … just maybe he’ll pick me up.
I stand there for at least forty-five minutes. A wall of water pours down on me and it doesn’t let up. Then it gets windy. My most recently drawn sign is now sopping wet again. I feel like crying. I wish the truck driver would wake up and see me standing there helplessly, but I guess he’s still sawing wood. At this rate my trip will take ten years, and that’s if I’m lucky. I can’t stand it anymore. I have to wait it out somewhere—the downpour can’t continue at this strength forever.
I hoof it up the hill to the Burger King. No customers are inside, except for one weird-looking guy, but he refuses to even make eye contact. I ask the young girl behind the counter if she has some cardboard, and she nicely gets me a box and I attempt to break it down. What would be a simple task for most men is, for me, as always, problematic. I rip the corners incorrectly, tearing into the sides, and end up with only two usable pieces of cardboard. I write the I-70W message again but make the letters too small to read from a distance and have to do it over. Oh, well, one dry sign is better than none.
I decide since this is an almost-empty fast-food restaurant now would be a good time to try to eliminate. As long as that weird guy doesn’t try to follow me inside. Oh, good! It’s a single toilet with a lock on the door. And it’s clean. I sit down on the toilet and remember I haven’t eaten a thing. What do I expect? Shit or get off the pot. I get off. Mission canceled.
Back in the restaurant, I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed to see the one weird guy is gone. He might have given me a ride! Then again, he might have killed me. Oh well. I look outside and sheets of rain are pounding the glass windows of the Burger King. I feel like such a vagrant standing inside here without a purpose. I force myself to leave.
I slog back down the hill, in what must be flooding conditions, to my hitchhiking spot. The truck is gone. That’s who the weird guy was—the driver! Maybe the other backup trucker was asleep in the bunk, snoring, getting on the other driver’s nerves. I’ll never know.
I fucking stand there in the rain for another half hour. You can’t imagine the misery of waiting for a ride in the endless pouring rain. Because of the limited peripheral vision caused by my having my rain-slicker hoodie up, I don’t even see the miracle suddenly happen. I just look up and there is a 1999 red Corvette ending a U-turn right in front of me. The driver, a cute, stocky blond guy, rolls down the passenger window and asks, “How far do you need to go?” I feel like Francine Fishpaw in Polyester when Tab Hunter pulls up in a Corvette and the Odorama Number 8 smell “new car” begs to be scratched and sniffed. “San Francisco,” I say as I climb in, and “The Corvette Kid,” as I immediately christened him in my mind, doesn’t seem to blink. “I’ll take you as far as I can.”
From Myersville, Maryland, he’s a twenty-year-old sandy-haired Republican town councilman (the youngest in the state), who, dressed in T-shirt, cargo shorts, and white leather Nike sneakers, is on his way to pick up his lunch at the local Subway sandwich shop. He tells me he stopped because he “feels guilty.” “Two weeks ago I saw a hitchhiker standing right where you are and I didn’t pick him up.” We chat. He has no idea who I am even after I tell him. He has never seen any of my films. I don’t ask him how far he’s going and he doesn’t say. I just keep talking. We both realize we’d probably head-butt on some social issues, so we wisely avoid politics. And as he puts it, “potholes and how to fill them” was more a subject a town councilman like himself would deal with and those are “not exactly Republican or Democrat issues.” We cross the state line into Pennsylvania. A twenty-year-old transporting a senior citizen across state lines for hitchhiking fun. “Is this a federal offense?” I say out loud. We both laugh.
His mother starts texting frequently, and while I don’t see how he answers, he admits she’s alarmed. After all, her son borrowed her car to go to lunch and now is in another state with a supposed John Waters (whoever the hell that is), whom he picked up hitchhiking. Imagine the red flags going off in that house! I try to picture her Googling me. Great. What would come up first? That I was just awarded the Outfest Gay Award and would be performing my one-man show, This Filthy World: Gayer and Filthier, in two months? Or my friendship with ex–Manson Family member Leslie Van Houten? Or the dogshit-eating scene in Pink Flamingos? “Plus, how do you know it’s really him?” I can imagine Dad butting in, “How do you know it’s not some ‘Crockafeller’-type impostor serial killer or robber who’s gonna steal your mother’s car and murder you!?” “Is there an AMBER Alert out for you now?” I ask The Corvette Kid, nervously recalling the Tarantula “worst ride” chapter I’d already written. He laughs again. I guess that means there’s not. We keep going.
We’re now on an adventure. And why not? I think. What twenty-year-old wouldn’t want to go on such a crazy spur-of-the-moment trip? How often could this unlikely scenario repeat itself? If The Kid is worried about running off with a gay cult-film director, he sure isn’t showing it. We talk about small-town life versus the big city. Youth. Dating. A girl he wants to hook up with later in the month when he goes to Joplin, Missouri, to help tornado victims rebuild their homes. Drugs. Show business. And taking chances in life.
We see a sign in western Pennsylvania saying LAST FOOD AND GAS FOR 123 MILES, so we stop and I fill up the tank. He accepts with gratitude and makes no mention of turning back. We have been traveling for hours. We get back in the car and drive a short way to New Stanton Plaza and go in this Quiznos sandwich restaurant for lunch, which isn’t so bad. I trust The Kid but make some excuse about bringing in my bags and signs because “I have to find something inside,” but the real reason is that you never know—he could get cold feet and drive off while I’m in the men’s room. I buy us lunch. At first he protests, but I tell him it’s the least I can do since “we’re now Thelma and Louise.” He chuckles and says his mom and her friends always call each other that.
But I can see by The Kid’s nervous glances to his cell phone that his mom ain’t laughing now. Why is her son 160 miles away with “The Prince of Puke”? Have I kidnapped him? Is he fighting me off? She must really be upset because when he finally gives in and calls home, she doesn’t even recognize h
is voice. “Who is this?” I can hear her suspiciously ask. “It’s your son!” The Kid sputters in exasperation. Does she think it’s me on the phone impersonating him and he’s locked in the trunk? I offer to speak to her, but he acts as if he doesn’t hear me and gets off the phone.
He keeps driving. His mom keeps calling back. Finally I hear him tell her, “I’ll be home by seven o’clock,” which I know is impossible, but I don’t butt in. We go through West Virginia but just the northern tip. Another state of runaway fun! Wheeeee! I can’t believe this kid is such a daredevil. Good God, we’re in Ohio. We’ve been driving for four and a half hours. Even I know our little folly has to end soon. I tell him to start looking for a good exit off of I-70 West to drop me off where there are gas stations and motels.
We pull off on one and both realize this is a lousy exit for hitchhiking—a big shopping center—all local rides, no cross-country travelers. He doubles back to the exit before, which is smaller; a gas station, a convenience store, and one motel. I fill up his tank again, take his photo with my BlackBerry camera, and we shake goodbye. I take out another THANKS FOR THE LIFT card and hand it over. I know The Kid won’t regret picking me up on the l-o-o-o-n-n-g-g drive home, but I can imagine him thinking, what the hell just happened? “Come back and go to California with me,” I joke, and tell him if he ever needs to contact me to go through Atomic Books, where I receive mail without having to give out my personal address. I’m not sure why I just don’t give out my business card. After all, he is my new best friend; the only Republican I’d ever vote for. Why on earth am I nervous to tell him where I live? We’ll both remember this day forever, won’t we?
It’s still only four o’clock, plenty of daylight left. Why not keep going? I see a sign in the distance for a Days Inn, so if I ever get stuck here, at least there’s a place to stay. I’m feeling cocky; the rest of this trip is going to be a piece of cake. I set up shop right between two gas stations (one with a Food Mart, the other with an advertised ATM machine inside) in St. Clairsville, Ohio, where The Corvette Kid has left me. I figure most cars going by here are headed to the I-70W entrance that is, according to a sign I walked past, right up the hill. I couldn’t see the ramp but I have faith it is there just waiting to welcome me west. Lots of cars come by but none stop. One nice biker-type lady pulls out of the front gas station, rolls down her passenger window, and says, “Come on, honey, I’ll take you up two exits,” but I turn her down politely, explaining I am “in a pretty-well-set-up hitchhiking spot and want to try and catch an interstate ride.” But nobody stops. I amuse myself by watching these two gearhead guys in a pickup race back and forth between the gas stations. Why don’t they just walk? I wonder. I fantasize all sorts of illegal scenarios—drugs, stolen car parts—but I guess their activities could be totally mundane. One is very cute, but neither ever makes eye contact with me despite the fact that they practically have to run over me every time they drive back and forth. I imagine running off with them.
By now, the evening rush hour is in full swing. All these cars headed to I-70 West and no one is driving cross-country who wants an infamous companion? I’ve been standing here now for more than two hours. Has my roadside charm disappeared? A cop slowly drives by, looks me over, but keeps going. Phew. I remember that ridiculous song “Ohio” sung by Doris Day, but feel the opposite of its geographically proud lyrics. “Why oh why oh why oh, why can’t I get out of Ohio,” I want to sing out for the world to hear. Endless string of traffic. No rides. No eye contact from drivers. “All you need is one ride!” I chant over and over, and suddenly, lo and behold, someone stops. I’m so excited, I fumble picking up my bags and packing up my signs. I rush to the car and see the driver peering out through the rolled-down passenger window. He’s not bad-looking. Maybe this will be a great ride. But just as I’m about to get in he says, “Never mind, I’m not going that far,” and pulls off. Well! Why did you stop, then? I want to scream after him. Rejected! I know it’s been a long day, but do I look that bad? Soaked. Then dried out. Old. I take it personally.
Just when I couldn’t feel much worse, the cop comes back, does a U-turn, pulls right over into the second gas station, and drives to the edge of the parking lot near where I am standing. “You can’t hitchhike,” he tells me after getting out of his vehicle. “But I’m writing a book about hitchhiking across America,” I tell him. “I’m also a film director.” This throws him, I can tell. He hadn’t been expecting that answer, and I guess he believes me. He hesitates and finally says, “Okay, but don’t stand in the actual road itself and never go down to the interstate!” I agree to his terms, kind of surprised he’s this lenient.
It’s getting late. Not dark yet, but still. I hope the only reason I got rides today wasn’t just because it was raining and people felt sorry for me. I’m suddenly worried the one hotel I’m anywhere near might have no vacancies. I give up for the day, sure I’ll have better luck bright and early tomorrow morning.
I plod across a bridge that goes over I-70 and look west in optimistic but shaky confidence. These bags are kind of heavy, I realize as I climb up, up, up a steep incline, seeing only the Days Inn sign, which was erected to be visible from the highway below. I notice a couple of giant trucks parked on the side of the incline. Rounding a bend and feeling like a weary and weak Elmer Gantry, I huff and puff to the parking lot and finally into the Days Inn lobby. Thank God they have a room. The lady at the desk doesn’t blink when I tell her I have no vehicle. I walk to my motel-style room, past many trucks, some with their motors running. I’m too tired to think dirty.
The room is actually fine. At least there’s decent lighting, something many hotels (even fancy ones) neglect to consider. Not everybody fucks in the motel rooms—some people read! For the first time today I check my e-mails. Good God. Hundreds. That’s what you get when you ignore your business. I go through and only read personal ones. Even though it is after office hours I call my assistants at home to check in, something that will have to continue through the trip and I know gets on their nerves. “But I can only talk to you at night now,” I explain. “I can’t read e-mails standing by the side of the road in that sunlight, and I certainly can’t be doing business inside a car when I am trying to talk my way to San Francisco.” Susan and Trish seem to understand and are relieved I’m somewhere safe for the first night at least.
I’m surprised to realize Days Inn has no room service. I’m not being a snob here, but I thought I could at least get a hamburger or some sort of crummy pizza. But no, only “complimentary breakfast between 6:30 and 9:00 a.m.” I go back out in the lobby to see if there are any dinner alternatives, but the local take-out menus for restaurants that will deliver here seem too depressing. Nosing around, always looking for inspiration, I see there is a bar in the motel. A big one with a disco ball! Only one couple is inside, but it looks kind of amazing. A set from a low-budget Convoy meets a Stayin’ Alive sequel. On any other night I’d be in there in a Baltimore second, making friends. But tonight I’ll pass. Hitchhiking with a hangover would be unthinkable.
I’m not hungry anymore anyway. I go back to my room and get out my map and realize I’m only three hundred miles from my house in Baltimore. It’s gonna be a long trip. I eat a little bit of the “trail mix” I brought with me, some of which has spilled out into the bottom of my still-damp bag. I feel like a homeless hamster. It’s the end of Day One. I guess if you’re this tired, you can sleep anywhere. Nighty-night.
REAL RIDE NUMBER SIX
COP
I wake up early. Day Two. That I’m actually going to walk outside this motel room and stick out my thumb again seems even more shocking to me now that I’m past the point of no return. I peek through the curtains and see it’s not raining outside, but it is incredibly foggy. Great! My fear of multiple car and truck pileups on the highway accelerates. I throw away my first pair of worn underwear and leave a $5 tip for the maid, wondering if such gratuities are even customary at the Days Inn.
I go into t
he breakfast room for my complimentary meal, hoping some cross-country driver will see me and offer me a ride. But no. It’s a hideously lit area with a TV blaring. The six or seven grizzled men inside don’t make eye contact with one another, much less me. They look stunned by the grim routine of their lives. I feel the unfriendly vibes immediately, and with one look at the pitiful breakfast choices this place offers—white bread, packaged donuts—not even instant bad scrambled eggs or microwaved greasy bacon—I lose my appetite. Instead, I gulp down a cup of tea and immediately go to the bathroom and try to pee again, still filled with future lack-of-facility concerns. I check out of the motel quickly. Nobody makes small talk.
Alone in the dense fog, I walk down the big hill in nervous silence toward my same hitchhiking spot from yesterday. It is scary foggy. I mean the kind where they could shut down the interstate. A truck or two pass me by leaving the motel and I hold my sign up, but I’m afraid with zero visibility that they’ll actually run me over. I march back onto the overpass that crosses I-70W and look off into the pea soup and hope against hope that today will be easier.
But it’s not. Same spot. Same deal. Lots of cars. No one stops. I wonder if I should walk up the hill to where the real I-70 entrance ramp is. Nah, probably nowhere to pull over there. Besides, it’s engulfed in even thicker fog. Better stay here. All it takes is one car. But that one car doesn’t stop. I stand here for hours.
The fog finally starts to burn off and it gets hot. I put down my sign and apply sunblock, which I’m always afraid will look like bird shit if I smear it on without looking in a mirror to see if it’s rubbed in thoroughly. I put on my Scum of the Earth baseball hat to protect my bald spot. No one will recognize me now, but that’s better than sun poisoning. I slip on my sunglasses, too. Now I really look like a loony tune. A different cop drives by and gives me the eye but doesn’t stop. I’m surprised.
