The Hitchhiker

The Hitchhiker

(A true story)

Maine in spring is a breathtaking masterpiece of nature, where the sky radiates an endless azure brilliance, and every breath of air feels as pure and invigorating as a pristine mountain stream.  It was like that on the day I gazed out the window of my age-old car and spotted a hitchhiker standing in the weeds. He was a kid, in his late twenties maybe, sandy hair, thin and looking like he had seen better days. At first, I started to drive past, then I changed my mind and pulled over.

I was driving a tri-color beat-up, Ford; he warily opened my creaky passenger door and jumped in on the seat next to me. He carefully placed a ragged, worn gym bag between his feet, then he thanked me for picking him up and we rode quietly for a while.

I wasn’t born in Maine, but I had moved there a few years earlier when my wife and I purchased a money-losing B&B in Ogunquit.  My rider could tell by the few words I had spoken that I wasn’t a native Mainer. . . If you ever get a chance to travel to Maine, you will quickly notice that people here talk a little differently. For instance: “Ayuh” - means Yes . . . “Bah Hahbah” – is not a sheep, it’s the town of Bar Harbor . . . and “Cah” - is a car. You see "R" is pronounced “ah” . . .  The letter “R” doesn’t get a lot of love in Maine.  And if you ever ask a real Mainer: "What's the weather supposed to be like?"  Do not be surprised if he looks to the sky, holds out his hand and says: "Oh, bout like this."

My rider was a Mainer all right, but after a while he began to realize that although I was a “Flatlander”, (anybody not from Maine) that I was probably O.K. He told me about the “Wicked Big, eight-point buck” he just missed two hunting seasons ago.” And he said: “As far as fishing, if you want to get top-grade Cod or Haddock you have to go out at least 8 to 10 miles.”  We agreed that the Red Sox really do suck and were probably part of the reason for our unhappy childhoods. We both laughed at that . . . He seemed like a good kid!

*Did you ever notice that stories like: “the Fish that got away was soo big,” and the Buck that those hunters just missed was always “a huge 8 pointer;” it was never Bambi . . . And the word “Wicked”: In Maine parlance: Wicked doesn’t mean “bad”! Wicked is more like very or extremely, like wicked cold, or wicked fast or wicked good chowdah.   

Everything about this day had been Wicked good so far.  My rider was starting to open up and when he finally did, it was a GUSHER!!

Ethan had married a girl named “Kayleigh, who was a waitress at Floyd’s Diner and the prettiest little girl you ever saw. She was blonde with big brown eyes that lit up and twinkled when she smiled, about five foot three, but “really strong”, he said. “She could handle a stick shift because she had learned to drive a farm truck when she was fourteen. She knew how to use a chain saw and she could split and stack wood as neat as a crafted wall.” And the best thing, which he showed off to all his friends was: ”She could shoot a deer rifle better than anyone.”

They both wanted children but decided to hold off for a couple of years. Ethan was a fisherman whose pay was stingy, but with Kayleigh’s salary at the diner and her “tips”, they figured they could put together enough money to buy their own fishing boat.  As a captain of his own vessel, Ethan would finally make some good money.  When that occurred, they would be able to start a real family with kids, lots of kids.

They had had a good life, having been married for over five years and remaining deeply in love.  Two years ago, they purchased a two-bedroom bungalow in Searsport. It was small, a little decrepit and needed a ton of work. But because of its sounds and smells and closeness to the ocean, they agreed that it was a great bargain.

On the gable end of the roof there was an antique, copper weathervane. It was designed in the shape of a robust fisherman shouldering a tattered net and gazing out to sea. Whenever the wind blew from the northeast that ancient apparatus would squeal like a rusty wagon wheel . . . Kayliegh pleaded patiently with Ethan every time the wind blew and reminded her . . . He vowed he would fix it, but for one reason or another, he never got around to it.

He told me that early last year, Kayleigh had developed some unexplainable physical symptoms. She had a strange, electrical tingling in both her feet, her vision had become blurry, and although she ate like a lumberjack, she was growing thin and steadily losing weight. 

When she finally did get up the courage to go to the doctor, all her most daunting fears were realized. The doctor told her that she was already in an advanced stage of Type 1 diabetes. He stated that improper treatment of high blood sugar can lead to long-term complications such as heart disease, strokes, and diabetic retinopathy.  

She was given a complete physical, prescribed several medicines for her elevated blood pressure and started on a regimen of sugar-free dieting and insulin. Ethan helped and they did everything the doctor had ordered.  But even with all their most passionate efforts, the disease continued to course recklessly through her body.

It wasn’t long before she developed raw sores on her feet that refused to heal. Her toes swelled up grotesquely turning a blackish brown color. When they became more seriously infected, they had to be amputated. Over time the doctors amputated her entire right foot and shortly after, her leg just below her knee.

Ethan said he had taken time off work to care for her. Together they struggled to fight an unrelenting enemy that showed neither mercy nor reprieve and that tiny house by the ocean had become their fortress. When everything seemed hopeless, when there was nowhere to turn, and with their world collapsing all around them, home was the one place where they felt safe and protected.

Ethan remembered: “One raw winter night we were huddled closely together on our frayed, vintage couch. We were comforted by the crackle and warmth of the cozy fire that burned enthusiastically in our rustic cast iron stove. The forecast was calling for snow with intermittent squalls, but we had lived in Maine all our lives, so one night of bad weather didn’t faze us at all.

Suddenly the air became still. . . It was a strange uneasy calm, the kind that makes your stomach nervous and the hair on the back of your neck stand up on end. The usually crashing waves grew lethargic and flattened out submissively on the rocky shore, and the night birds ceased their idle chatter growing woefully silent.  After an hour or two went by we decided that the weather must have spared us, probably turning north as it often does in mid-winter. 

Another hour went by, nothing . . . Then, without whisper or warning a fierce, snarling Tempest came thundering in off the Atlantic.  Within minutes ten-foot swells were mercilessly pummeling the coast as this Black Howling Monster snapped stout branches from full grown trees as though they were seedlings. 

Sleet fell like frozen daggers, strafing our time-worn windows with such violence we thought the glass would surely shatter. The peeling shutters rattled and pounded as though they might be ripped from their weary clapboards and hurled dismissively into the crashing surf. The whole house rocked and quivered like a helpless child grasped in the clutches of a Savage Nautical Demon. And when the wind shifted from the north-east, that scowling weathervane screeched as never before bellowing out its painful, wailing groan.”

Ethan turned sheepishly to Kayleigh and started to apologize, but she, wise enough to know what he was about to say, stopped him. She gazed into his eyes and said: “It’s O.K. Ethan, everything’s gonna be fine” . . . They sat there dolefully quiescent as the tenacious rampage persisted with its grisly display of Primitive Power. Finally, after an eternity of anxious hours and weary skittishness, the storm withdrew surrendering timidly to the peaceful gray of dawn.

An eerie silence fell over the coast and neither spoke fearing a secondary, more destructive assault. Thoughts and reflections raced through Kayleigh’s mind. Then pensively she reached over and, ever so lightly, touched her husband’s shoulder. In a trembling, apprehensive voice she asked . . . “Ethan . . . am I gonna die?” 

Ethan hesitated; it seemed as though he had stopped breathing, as his thoughts must have gone back to recount those dreadfully cruel memories. . . Cars and 18 wheelers were zipping past as I drove more slowly now and listened, transfixed by this incredibly sorrowful story. . .

After a while his head seemed to clear, and he came to the part that I was dreading most. He said: “It seemed like that storm was the starting point for Kayleigh’s final downturn.  Her once sparkling eyes had become glazed and dim, allowing her to see only faint images and shadows. She cried in terror at the event of any sudden or unexpected noise. She grew weak and ashen, and we reached a point where every day was worse than the last, and the next was worse than that.  I prayed to God to lessen the misery she was going through as Kayleigh’s eyesight grew steadily more corrupted . . . In reality, all I could do was stand helplessly by as doctors sawed bones and hacked off hunks of flesh from the woman I so desperately loved.

After six agonizing months of operations, amputations, and painful existence in a state of nightmarish dread, it ended. Kayleigh’s short, tormented life was taken away when, on a dreary autumn day, she was stricken by what doctors called “Sudden Cardiac Death.”

In the following weeks and months Ethan had to come to terms with a whole new set of challenges.  That time he had taken off to assist his embattled wife had cost him his job.  Their house in Searsport had been their citadel.  Unfortunately, that little home on the ocean, that home they loved so much, carried an unpayable mortgage. In addition to the mortgage, he was burdened by a mountain of hospital bills. Not unexpectedly, the Bank unceremoniously took his home and all its contents.  The hospital was just as harsh as they hounded him relentlessly to come up with the payment for all his outstanding balances. At this point in his life Ethan had no Sanctuary!

“I just needed to get away”, he said. He had read that the fishing industry in Alaska paid their workers enormously well. He had grown up fishing so he decided that that would be an easy transition. He took his last bit of savings and found his way to L. L. Bean . . . Nothing substandard would do; he realized that. . . He was headed for Alaska with brutal, unforgiving weather; he couldn’t skimp on workmanship or quality on any of the items he chose. He bought the best of everything he could afford, spending nearly his entire small fortune.

Fully equipped with his blue duffle bag of personal items and a large canvas sack holding all his fishing gear, he began his monumental journey. Before long he was picked up by a middle-aged man in a black Chevy pickup. The man told him to toss his gear in the back and “jump in.” He was a friendly, outgoing Maine guy so they talked easily with each other. After a few miles the man told him that he hadn’t had any coffee yet that day and he wanted to make a stop. Ethan readily agreed and the truck peeled off at the next exit.

While they were pulling up to the diner with a gas station alongside, the man said: “I need to get some gas, why don’t you run in and order me a coffee and a walnut Danish; they have really good Danish in this place. And while you’re at it, get one for yourself, on me!” 

Ethan went happily inside, ordered the 2 coffees and Danishes, sat down, and waited. After what seemed like a painfully long while he started to feel a little uneasy.  There had been no lines at the station, so it seemed to be taking too much time to fill up a gas tank. Without finishing his coffee, he paid the bill and walked nervously next door.

When he reached the area where he had seen the truck park, he found only his blue duffle bag lying abandoned in a dusty rut next to one of the gas pumps. One terrifying look made him realize that the Chevy truck with all his priceless, irreplaceable fishing gear had Vanished! Panic-stricken he rushed into the station hoping beyond hope that this wasn’t happening. . . The attendant told him that he had barely noticed the truck pull in. He said that “The driver just kinda sat there for a while; he seemed to be rummaging through something on the floor of the vehicle. A few minutes later, he tossed something out the passenger window (Ethan’s blue duffle bag) and drove off.”  

We had just reached my exit and pulled into the commuter lot when he came to the end of his poignant narrative . . . There are tolls at the entrances to my exit, so I always left little 35 cent piles of coins on my dashboard. Ethan noticed the cash and asked me: “Can you spare that change on your dash?” That’s just how he said it! . . . I said, “Yea I can spare it.” He meekly put the coins in his pocket, thanked me, and started to walk toward the highway.

I sat there, stunned and unsure. I pulled out my wallet which contained a twenty-dollar bill and four singles.  I jumped out of my car and yelled as I ran frantically toward him holding out the twenty and two singles. Then I stood there and watched as he made his way down the ramp entrance to I-95. In seconds he was past a stand of aspen and disappeared around the sloping bend in the road.

It’s so strange! After all these years my whole body still aches when I think about that young wife of Ethan’s, a person who implausibly had become very real to me. I can never help myself from asking: Did she not have hopes and dreams and glistening ambitions? Did she not have a heart and a soul and a burning desire to someday be a mother with a horde of mischievous, loving children running all about her? . . . She never had the chance; it was all taken from her. 

She leaves behind an abbreviated legacy: it is somber and easily trivialized! . . .  “She was a perky little waitress with blonde hair and twinkling almond eyes. She worked in Floyd’s Diner where, because of her unassuming charm and playful exuberance, her customers adored her. She could drive a stick-shift and use a chain saw. She was young, and innocent, and strong, but not strong enough to conquer the insidious Beast that dwelled within her! . . . She died a tragic and untimely death!”

And what about the vile man in the black Chevy truck. . . I don’t think he was a professional. Most likely it was a crime of opportunity; he saw an opening and he took advantage. He probably was a man who drank too much, lied on his taxes, cheated on his wife, grew old and fat, and died in his sleep without the slightest feeling of guilt or one second of pain.

And Ethan? Young enough to be my son. I often think about him! He was alone in an often very unkind world, a world which asks no quarter and gives none. It is a place where sincerity is often treated with contempt and innocence with opportunism. It lies out there with its great, greedy claws poised to devour the unsuspecting and dispatch the guileless . . . He had no money, no clothes, no equipment and was facing an unimaginably dangerous journey. He would be traveling over thousands of miles with just as many obstacles. How would he eat? Where would he sleep?

He was obviously a boy with rugged desire, determination and will; but would those strengths be equal to the challenges he was about to face? Would there be another, more corrupt creature, in a black Chevy pickup lurking out there? Would that create some perilous encounter which turns out horribly?  And in the end, would that affable, unsophisticated, Maine boy be deprived of securing some small piece of life’s treasures, a victim of his own unrealistic aspirations?

With all my heart, I pray that he discovered his Promised Land! I hope he came across a rewarding maritime job making lots of money, became a ship’s captain and maybe even purchased his own barnacled fishing boat. In time, I hope he found a girl as Wicked pretty and brave as Kayleigh. And I hope he found another little home by the ocean with a cozy wood stove . . . and on the roof . . . a bright, shiny weathervane that didn’t squeal!  

Ron St. Laurent