The Hitchhiker

The hitchhiker stood firm on the side of the poorly kept desert road, his left thumb stuck up at an almost unnatural angle. In his other hand, he held a piece of cardboard that had Phoenix written crudely in black Sharpie. Behind him, a mile away if not more, was the town of Las Vegas, the neon lights from the city barely visible from where the hitchhiker was stationed. As he patiently waited, the hitchhiker tried to think of how he had ended up here, why he would have ever wanted to go to a place that somehow would make him poorer, but his mind drew a blank. He realized he would never get anywhere if he kept being this impulsive, but it felt as if something kept stopping him like he was under a spell that made him forget his promise over and over again.

The sun beat down on him, dying his skin a pinkish hue. The hitchhiker was a lanky man, his weight nowhere near what it should have been for his height. He only had one pair of clothes; a t-shirt and jeans with black tennis shoes caked in a light film of dirt that wouldn’t come off, no matter how hard the hitchhiker tried. 

He also wore a small gray backpack that could barely hold his few possessions. He had his wallet, now empty of any money, save for maybe a quarter or two. A shell necklace he had found near a dumpster was also shoved in. Finally, the hitchhiker had a pair of blue sunglasses, that he only wore sparingly, so that it wouldn’t be ruined like everything else. It was the only thing he had held onto from his old life, the only thing that showed that there was maybe hope he could be whole again.

He had been out there for over two hours, silently waiting for someone to pick him up. He wasn’t worried, however. Someone always turned up. A car always came. Always. One of the surest things in the world, like death and taxes.

The sun was stuck halfway down the horizon when the person came. They were driving a four-seater pickup truck, painted a dark shade of red. The driver honked twice in quick succession, and the hitchhiker opened the door and sat in the passenger seat.

The tucker portrayed the perfect stereotype of a Southern redneck: Fat, sunburned terribly, and clad in overalls and a red flannel shirt. He also wore a straw hat that covered his bald head.

“So, why ya want to go to Phoenix?” the trucker said, his voice thick with a Southern accent.

The hitchhiker gestured to himself, made an X with his arms, then pointed at his mouth. It took the trucker a moment to comprehend what the hitchhiker meant.

“Got it, yer a mute!” the trucker said upon realizing this. The hitchhiker wasn’t, but he just easier to say that. It was sometimes easier to just be quiet. The trucker pulled back into the road and got back to driving. 

The trucker and the hitchhiker were in the truck in complete silence for nearly two hours, with nothing but the faint sound of the radio to disperse the silence. It was night now, but there were no clouds and the moon was bright so it wasn’t very dark. The clock said ten as they pulled into a gas station. “Looks like we need some gas. Do ya want to get anythin’ at the store?” the trucker asked. The hitchhiker shook his head and showed his empty wallet.

“Well, that ain’t a problem, pardner.” the trucker responded and held out a twenty-dollar bill. The hitchhiker immediately beamed up; no one had ever given him money for nothing before. He nodded and took the money. “Just make sure tuh give me the spare change.” the trucker said, as he stepped outside and went to the pump. As the trucker filled up the truck with gas, the hitchhiker walked into the store. He grabbed a large bottle of Pepsi, a Lays Barbecue bag, and two packets of Peppermint gum. The cashier rang everything up, giving the hitchhiker back a change, twelve dollars exactly.

The hitchhiker looked at the money. It wasn’t very much, but it would help. In a moment of desperation, the hitchhiker walked to the back of the store and put the money into his wallet, which he put into his pocket. He walked out of the store, trying to act confident, and got back in the truck. “Let me jus’ go tuh the bathroom,” he said and walked into the store. A few minutes later, the trucker came back out of the store and sat in the driver’s seat. “No change?” the trucker said, and the hitchhiker shook his head. The trucker nodded silently and went back onto the road. 

They continued their silence, until the trucker pulled off of the road, onto a rough dirt and sand trail. “There’s a shortcut here tuh miss the traffic.” the trucker said to the hitchhiker. They drove on the bumpy trail for several miles, and since they couldn’t go very fast without damaging the truck it took a while.

It was long past midnight by the time the trucker pulled off onto a shack. The shack was small, only about ten by twenty feet, and was made of sheet metal. The already rough trail went rougher to the side of the shack, before disappearing almost completely. A few lonely shrubs decorated the surroundings of the trail and the shack.

The hitchhiker looked at the trucker in confusion, and the trucker responded, “I jus’ need tuh get somethin’ from here quickly. Sorry for not telling ya before, but this is a shortcut, overall.” The trucker went behind the shack. For several minutes, the hitchhiker sat in silence in the truck. He started to doze off a bit, and he was about to fall asleep when he suddenly heard a shrill voice:

“Ya gotta take a look a this, pardner!” the trucker screamed. The hitchhiker groaned and got out of the car and began to walk toward the back of the shack. He shivered; the temperature had dropped severely, and he could see his breath. He felt uneasy about the whole situation for a moment but pushed it deep down. After all, the hitchhiker felt confident he could overpower the trucker if push came to shove. He got to the back and saw the trucker standing over a large hole, next to a large mound of dirt and sand. “Ya gotta see what’s in the hole here. Come on.” the trucker said, as he held out his hand to beckon the hitchhiker closer. 

The hitchhiker approached the trucker and looked into the hole. In the hole, there was nothing except for something that looked like a wooden frame at the bottom. Confused, he looked closer, and he felt something touch his back. The hitchhiker looked behind him and saw the trucker standing over him, his hands on the hitchhiker’s back. Before the hitchhiker could react, the trucker pushed him, and he fell into the hole and got knocked out.

When he came to, the hitchhiker was in complete pain. He was facedown in the wooden frame, which he realized, was a coffin. He turned up and saw the trucker standing on top of the hole. His previous generosity and hospitality were completely gone from his face, replaced by red-hot anger.

“By the way, ya dropped yur WALLET!” the trucker yelled, throwing the hitchhiker’s wallet down into the hole, landing square on the hitchhiker’s forehead. “Ya know? I almos’ thought ya was different. I almos’ thought I wouldn’t hafta do this. But I was wrong. All of ya bums are the same. Y’all are all jus’ thievin’ liars.” 

The hitchhiker grew desperate now. “Please, you don’t have to do thi-” the hitchhiker said, forgetting about his apparent muteness before he was cut off by the trucker.

“Yer not a mute either? Yuh’re even worse than the others! Now I don’t feel too bad ‘bout doin’ this. Goodbye, ya dirty bum!” the trucker laughed as he grabbed two things from the side. He saw it was a shovel and a large wooden plank. A coffin lid, the hitchhiker realized. He tried to get up, but the pain was overwhelming. Even so, the hole was far too deep for him to be able to climb out. The hitchhiker could only watch as the lid slammed on top of his head and as dirt and sand slammed on top of it. Before long, it was over. And the hitchhiker was alone in the dark. He tried to scream for help, but he knew that no one could hear him. He screamed anyway until his voice was hoarse and his hands were bleeding from pounding on the wood. It was getting harder and harder to breathe by the second. It wasn’t very long after that when voices and images of his life long ago played through his mind on repeat like a home video. Come on, sweetie. The hitchhiker hadn’t heard that voice in a long time. “M-mom?” he managed to spit out between gasps for air long gone. Come home, please. Everything is gonna be all right. You’ll see. Come home. Come home.

It wasn’t very long after that that everything ended.

Once it was said and done and the hitchhiker was buried, the trucker stood over the grave, to make sure the hitchhiker didn’t try to do anything. When he listened closely, he could hear the cries of the hitchhiker, before they eventually dissipated into nothingness. The trucker smiled. What a baby. he thought. He waited a few minutes after that, just to be sure, then got back into his truck. He drove back onto the road and drove in a random direction. It wasn’t long before he saw another hitchhiker, #38, this time whose sign read Reno. The trucker stopped next to the hitchhiker and honked his horn. Maybe this one will be different, the trucker thought. 

He never wanted to do any of this. He didn’t want to kill. No one did. But he knew that it was what he had to do. He knew that he wouldn’t be content until all of them were gone. Until the world would be finally cleansed.

But he hoped that this one could be different, as he had hoped for 37 hitchhikers before this one. The trucker continued to hold on to that tiny shred of hope, that pipe dream that this one would be better. But deep down, in a place where the trucker rarely let open, he knew that that wouldn’t be true.