Any other day, any other mood, I would have just kept driving. It was
just so cliche - her guitar, her obviously handmade skirt, nose
piercing. I wondered if people like her realised how neatly they fit
into a category. Was that intentional? Do you just wake up one day and
shuffle through identities like Cranium cards? Then determine you’ll
be...”you know, one of those hippy types? The vaguely drugged out,
musical, peace-loving ones?” I had lost track of what music this girl
would listen to - I knew enough that Dave Matthews Band fans were
probably my age and older. She still looked to be in her teens.
Although one never knew. I had mentioned Red Hot Chili Peppers to a
very young co-worker that very day and had met a blank stare. #things
that are depressing #outoftouchbecauseiamold
I realized - and this was probably what made me stop - that I fit a
pretty neat stereotype too. Driving a Malibu, black pumps, fitted
button down from New York and Company, hair in a ponytail with the bump
at the top, empty Starbucks cup on the floor, coming home from a job at a
bank where I was working until I could get my blog going or get a job
in publishing. With each successive addition to this picture, I had a
violently visceral reaction. I pulled the car over in response to her
extended thumb.
It also struck me as odd that she was hitchhiking in this particular
suburb. Why wasn’t she downtown? What would bring this girl out to the
little sleepy subdivisions that bordered the lake. There was literally
nothing here besides Paneras and brokerage firms and boutique soap and
candle stores on the mainstreet strip.
I popped the car locks and she opened the door. “Hey,” she said as she
poked her head in. “Thanks so much; you don’t know what this means to
me! I don’t have far to go; I promise.”
“Oh, no big deal,” I replied, “You can put your stuff in the backseat.”
She bounced in and I caught a patchouli-ish whiff of some incensey
fragrance and smiled to myself. “Where do you need to go?”
“The train station off of Ford, if that’s ok.” She sniffed loudly and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
“No problem,” I said “Right on my way home, actually.”
She had a sweet, freckled face. I felt myself warming to her instantly
- probably a misguided young thing who “ran away” to Grandma’s for a
few weeks and now was going to “stay with a friend” in the city - no
doubt a guy who she met at a show. I thought of how much cash I had in
my wallet - no doubt she would be a little short for the train.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, and then just as I felt obligated
to make some big-sisterly inquiries into where she might be going and
who she might be staying with and has she considered just going back to
her mom and dad’s, she spoke first.
“So, you’re a writer?”
My face must have betrayed my surprise because she laughed and pointed
to the book in my backseat - Be the Next Pioneer Woman - A Guide to the
New World on Online Publishing and Promoting Your Blog.
“Oh, well, you know - it is a hobby right now but I’m working on it -
hope to eventually being able to quit my day job!” I cringed inwardly
at the sound of my own voice. “Quit my day job”? What was I, a 40 year
old dad?
She picked at her cuticles. “Small world - I am actually a writer too.”
I smiled. “Oh yeah? What kind of blog do you have.”
“No,” she said, glancing out the window at the rain that had started to
fall in little icy drops. “I mean I do have a blog but that’s just
mostly to update people on my other work.”
I envisioned a Myspace - or whatever they have now instead of Myspace -
promoting her music - mostly twangy guitar and a gentle, weepy vocal
track. “What other work do you do?”
“Books mostly. Some other print media - getting into radio recently.”
I froze. “Oh?”
“Yeah, that’s actually why I’m out here - I’m starting a tour with some other young writers.”
Her nonchalance was unnerving. I was rapidly losing my calm and collected exterior.
“A tour?”
“Yeah, it’s a collaboration with a piece on National Public Radio about
young writers in print media as opposed to the all-digital trend -
we’re starting in the city and then moving cross-country.”
I felt like I was mentally drooling. “How...how many other writers are there?”
“Five of us on this tour. We’ll start another one in a few months with
a few more. I was just stopping by my grandparents house before I left
since I hadn’t seen them in awhile and my car died on me...they don’t
drive anymore so they couldn’t come pick me up, and my train leaves in
30 minutes. Hence the utterly ironic hitchhiking.” She smiled, and her
face was warm and intelligent and inviting.
“Wow.” I kept my eyes on the road and felt flat and ridiculous. I had been right about the grandparents, I guess.
“Hey, we actually are looking for some people to come help with press
tables, logistics, you know, that kind of stuff - one of the interns
from NPR has mono. You wouldn’t be interested in coming along, would
you?” She looked over at me with a raised eyebrow. “You’d get to meet a
lot of people in publishing.”
I paused to consider how ludicrous it was that this was actually an
amazing opportunity, and that I was actually considering going across
the country with a girl I had just picked up hitchhiking. And that it
might potentially be the best career move I’d made so far.
The rain swooshed up from a big puddle and blanketed the windshield. I
jumped and turned on my wipers. We were pulling into the train
station.
“Well...I...I would have to get out of work,” I said lamely, as she pulled her wallet out of her purse.
“Hey, we’re in the city for the weekend before we leave for Boston.”
She ripped off a scrap of paper from a grocery receipt and wrote down
her number. “Text me if you are thinking about it for real.”
I sat hunched over in the driver’s seat and accepted the paper. “Ok.”
“Oh, and here -” she turned as she got out of the car - “I know it’s a
little lame, but I am super appreciative and no one else stopped until
you.” She pressed something in my hand and then ran off into the rain.
It was a twenty dollar bill.
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