Dark Roads of Nostalgia.

Around 2 a.m., I found myself in an all night diner gulping down black coffee and smoking a Lucky Strike on Avenida Revolucion with my good pal Hector. The bars were closing so we sat at the counter window and people watched. We both sat their silently when we saw some European tourists walk by with huge backpacks on their way to wherever.

Hector took a sip of his coffee and dabbed his pencil thin moustache with his napkin, "Tell me, have you ever hitch hiked anywhere, gringuito? Any place in particular? I find hitch hiking very dangerous."

Like a Z-Grade movie I stared into the obsidian cup that sat in front of me and I started to remember...Five...six years ago in the wilds of East Texas...

First off, let me tell you; hitchhiking is not a sport. It is not an art. It certainly isn't work, for it requires no particular ability nor does it produce anything of value. It's an adventure, I suppose, but a shallow, ignoble adventure. Hitchhiking is parasitic, no more than a reckless panhandling. Hitchhiking is not like it is in the movies. I stood out on that interstate for six hours before someone decided to pick me up. It was an old Chinese man in a rickety old pick up with a loose fender. It rattled worse than an old queens dentures. In contrast, the Chinaman at the wheel made no noise at all. He wore grim lips and a far away squint, both mute. Chinamen are like that. He made me sit in the back as he drove me only six miles before telling me to get out. He was exiting the freeway. I stood out there on that damn interstate with my thumb out for five more hours. People would drive by and honk, giving me the thumbs up as they whisked by. Others just would give me the finger.

I am again picked up by a smooth black cat named Alfred on his way to Houston to play a gig. Trombone player, he claims. We talked of minor things and state of the Nation.

Outside, the vista presented a kaleidoscope of images: acres of rusting car bodies. Streams crusted with yesterday's sewage. American flag over an empty field. Wilson Stomps Cars. City of Xenia Disposal. South Hill a vast rubbish heap. Where are the people? What in the name of Christ goes on here? Church of Christ. Crooked crosses in winter stubble.

We finally reached Houston in the early evening. We said our goodbyes as he dropped me off downtown. Walking into a cafe near the Greyhound terminal, I sat drinking coffee wondering what's the score. What's next? A tall red head guy who sat next to me struck up a conversation. Sitting in Levi's and a plaid shirt, he sported a dull orange mullet and his face and arms were covered in freckles. When he smiled he would reveal long yellow horse teeth. His name was John Poston and he thought the whole ordeal I was in was pretty damn funny. He also invited me for a lift. He was a truck driver and said he could take me as far as Fort Stockton. We finished eating and then we loaded up into his truck and took off.

Along the way the conversation was on our lives and John confided in me that he was a drug user. He had some crystal laced with opium and asked if I wanted any. Does a bear shit in the woods? We pulled off into one of those highway rest areas and spent the evening smoking that shit. Then John said he wanted to tie me up and beat me while fucking me. I was so high. I thought he was joking until he pulled out some twine and a policeman's club. But when he came for me I ran out of his truck. He started yelling obscenities, threw my bag out of the truck and took off.

"You fuck! I'll kill you, you fuckin' fucker!" Echoed into the deep blue night.

I grabbed my gear and walked aimlessly around the rest area. I was the only one there for a long time until a ratty old station wagon pulled up. A short fat bald man rolled down his window and asked if I needed a lift. I told him where I was going and he said get in. The man gave me the jitters. He would giggle between words. His eyes would dart around; roll in his head like loose marbles. He sweated profusely.

This man, as I'd known only as Nick, offered me a beer from a cooler in the back of his car. There was nothing in the back of the station wagon but a stained brown mattress, a cooler, and some gardening tools. I was very paranoid of this man as we sped west on interstate ten. We talked and he could tell that I was pretty high. He offered me some pills to bring me down and like an idiot I took them. The last thing I remember of our conversation was he telling me, "Oh, yes, my little buddy, there's no shame in one man loving another man, no shame at all." And then I blacked out.

Issuing winds of disturbances
White hot and howling
The winged mercury cries, broken he crawls
Caught with the flames of devils
Softly the silence falls, like a shadow
The fragile spirit of man

When I came too, it was in the afternoon and I was lying propped up against a broken wall that all remained of a gas station. A sign on the road said: PECOS 29 MILES. It was riddled with bullet holes. Flat desert was all around me and all I could hear was ringing. Ring. Ring. The ring of a telephone. I looked over to see a phone booth ten feet away. I got up and walked over to the phone but when I got there the phone stopped ringing. I slumped down into the booth. Everything I looked at had incandescent trails. My muscles tingled and my skin felt like wax. I stood up to take a piss. I wobbled a bit, feeling my knees buckle. When I did finally urinate, I only produced a yellow jelly like discharge. Very tired, I sat back down in the phone booth.

The sun rushed across the sky and the stars came out followed by the moon. I tried to get up but was blinded by the sun blasting over the horizon. I lay there watching the sun race across the sky. It suddenly got dark again and cold so I tried to get up. But the sun swung back around and held me down on the ground. I covered my eyes from its glare and licked my parched lips.

I was very thirsty.

The moon sped around and this time I was going to stand up. But by time I got to my feet the sun once again hurled itself over the horizon and the glare almost knocked me down. No, no not this time, Mr. Sun! I have to hitch a ride. I stood propping myself against the booth as the sun sank behind the mountains and the moon popped up with a boing! I walked out to the stretch of road and fell down. When that damn sun came back I heard the grinding of gears and the screech of breaks.

Cool, I thought, a ride. Flat on my back I extended my arm in the air, balled my fist and stuck out my thumb. I had to smile. It was a nice day.

"Hey, dude! Can you hear me? Are you all right? Help me get him in the car." The voice was hollow. Like wind through black trees.

"Is he dead? He looks like shit."

It all went blank. The sound of popping electricity. No...no more...no mas...

I woke up in the hospital in Pecos, Texas. Zonked out for three days. I never hitchhiked again.

Back in the now, I glanced over to Hector, "Nope. I'm not that stupid to hitchhike anywhere."

I took another sip of my coffee and continued to stare out into the night.