Carsick: John Waters Hitchhikes Across America (24 page)

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 the 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.

I see one of the cute gearheads from yesterday in his pickup pull into the gas station. He’s still racing around, hopping in his truck, peeling out to drive the short distance to the other gas station. What on earth is he doing? He must have seen me by now, too! I’ve been hitching out front of where he works for two days, but he still resists any greeting. I’m so bored and frustrated I pretend I have a crush on him in an inappropriate Jane Bowles kind of way.

It’s getting to be lunchtime, I gotta do something. This is definitely not working. Then I see somebody walk up toward me on the shoulder of the road. Oh, no! Not another hitchhiker, I fear. Hey, buddy, I was here first, I imagine arguing, remembering those 1960s hippie turf hitchhiking wars that always erupted in either New Haven, Connecticut, or Santa Barbara, California—two hot spots for interstate-ride begging. As he gets closer, I realize he is a real homeless person. He passes me by and says hello. The first local who has actually spoken to me since I was dropped off in this godforsaken town! I say hi back.

Giving up here, I finally tread up the hill, and when I get to the top, I see the problem. Yes, the entrance ramp to I-70W is here (and it has an okay place to stand), but the real reason no one was stopping is almost none of the traffic is turning onto the interstate. I’ve been standing on a big local route leading to a large shopping center and a lot of the town’s business and retail locations, so nobody’s been going my way. They were just going to the mall. Fuckers!

I stand in my new spot, figuring now I’ll get a ride. Not sure why I think that. Same tiny percentage of cars swerve off onto I-70 West. The same cop comes cruising back and I see him eyeing me, but he keeps going. It’s getting really hot. I don’t have much water left. I see a woman who looks straight out of one of my movies walking up the hill toward me. Again I pray it’s not another hitchhiker. She looks mean, too. Maybe a hooker? But this hardly looks like a sex hot spot to me. She passes me by. Maybe she’s just going to work. Why do you have to turn everybody into a tawdry character? I chastise myself.

The ball of hell known as the sun is rising fast and is now almost directly overhead. I could pass out. I notice one tiny area of shade across the street on somebody’s property. Whoever lives in that house above couldn’t see me if I sat there for a moment just to rest my weary bones, could they? I plod over to the shady spot of grass and sit down. I don’t look at my BlackBerry messages—it’s a world too far away. Instead I call my office and whine to my assistants. They are patient, even though I know they’d like to yell, “We told you not to do it, fool,” but instead offer the encouragement that “someone will come along.” “Yeah, but suppose they don’t?” I argue, and then realizing they couldn’t possibly have an answer to that question, we hang up. I just sit there. The first gnat I feel on my skin gets me back on my feet.

I go back to my across-the-street spot, but still nobody stops. St. Clairsville, Ohio, I hate you. I guzzle my last drops of water and decide I’ve got to walk back down the hill and get some supplies. I can live on trail mix alone, but I do need liquids. Maybe I can talk someone in the first gas-station convenience store into either giving me a ride or letting me pay to be taken to a better area with more cross-country drivers. I pass the second gas station with the gearhead. He doesn’t look up but he’s still there, so our possible affair is not totally out of the question, I guess.

I go into the convenience store in the first gas station and buy water. Now that Coke distributes Evian, I am always pleasantly surprised to find it available in places like this. The guy behind the counter sees my hitchhiking sign—he must have noticed me out front, too—and doesn’t look away. I ask him if there’s a better rest area down the road and he says, “Yeah. There’s a truck stop about a half hour away,” and I inquire, pitifully, “Know anyone I could pay to drive me there?” Silence for a second. “Yeah, me,” he answers, “when I get off work at two o’clock.” “How much?” I demand, all perked up and instantly relieved. After giving it a moment’s thought he says, “Twenty dollars.” “Deal,” I answer, thinking to myself I would have said okay if he’d asked for a hundred! “I’ll go back out and hitchhike, and if I’m still there when your shift ends, let’s do it,” I negotiate. “Okay,” he agrees, and I feel optimistic. Otherwise I might have to ask him for a job. I feel like I live here already.

Back in my first hitchhiking spot between the two gas stations, I feel as if I am in
Groundhog Day
. I hope the gearhead doesn’t think I’m stalking him. Same old story. Lots of cars. No rides. Then I see the same cop coming back down the hill, only this time he pulls right over to me. I can’t tell if he’s a mean cop or not. He asks me for ID. I show him my license and explain I’m writing a book on hitchhiking. He doesn’t show his hand but goes back to his vehicle and calls in my info. Satisfied there’s no warrant against me, he comes back and gives me my license. I explain that “an officer told me yesterday in this exact same spot” that I “could hitchhike here” if I didn’t “stand in the road.” “Oh, yeah,” he answers, “what did he look like?” “A blond,” I answer, conjuring up idealized Tom of Finland visions. I figure now may be the time for my “fame kit,” so I take it out, tell him I’m a film director, drop the H-word (
Hairspray
), and offer him a look. He silently reads my whole bio—“film director, writer, actor,” etc., and then he looks up at me and says with a straight face, “It doesn’t say anything here about you being a professional hitchhiker.” I laugh. He does, too. “You could give me a ride,” I suggest brazenly. “Okay,” he says, “I will.”

I can’t believe it. I get in the “cage” in the back and it’s the exact opposite experience of what I imagined in the “worst” chapter. This time I wish he
would
put on the siren, but I keep my mouth shut as we peel out. I quickly forget the guy in the convenience store I had hired to give me a ride. Oh well. I told him if I
didn’t
get a ride. Besides, I just saved myself $20.

“I can only take you to the end of my county,” the officer explains. “This is a sheriff’s police car, not a state trooper’s, and in Ohio each county has sheriff cop cars that do all the work even though state troopers have all the power.” Just as I’m thinking how relieved I am
not
to be with those lazy state troopers, he offers to “call ahead and see if I can find another officer to take you further into Ohio. The exit I’m thinking of is okay,” he advises, “it’s got a filling station and restaurant, but the second one, outside of my county, is a truck stop with a hotel and it’s bigger and probably better for getting a ride.” Either all the other cops think he’s crazy or they
are
busy because my protector and real-life peace officer can’t find any fellow sheriffs to help me out.

“Sorry, I’ll have to drop you off at the first one,” he says as he exits I-70W and pulls into a giant travel plaza that also is a diesel-truck stop located next door to a McDonald’s. We’re only seven miles from where he picked me up, but I am so grateful. Maybe I could stay and be his deputy and we could hang out in cop bars after work and get drunk together, I fantasize. “You should have luck here,” he says cheerfully; “lots of cars enter and exit on these ramps.” He waves to the lone gas-station attendant and highway workmen entering the fast-food restaurant, obviously familiar with the locals. “I’ll come back and check on you,” he says as I get out, “and if I find another officer who can take you to the next truck stop, I’ll have him come get you.” Wow. Public service at its finest. I suddenly like Ohio again.

REAL RIDE NUMBER SEVEN

MALE NURSE

I go into McDonald’s. People look up at me, I hope in recognition, but I can’t be sure. Maybe it’s just because I look like an unidentified flying oddball. What to order? I decide on the plainest thing I see on the overhead menu. A Quarter Pounder. It’s not bad. At least I’ve finally eaten something. I try making eye contact with the diners seated around me, but nobody seems to want to chat even though my hitchhiking sign is in full view and you’d think that might be a conversation piece. Not here.

I go outside and stroll through the trucker gas station, hoping someone will see my sign. If they do, it doesn’t help. I walk up the lonely highway toward the entrance ramp. I pass a lot displaying sample chicken coops with a sign directing interested buyers where to call. Will I have to sleep in one tonight?

The entrance ramp is a good one with plenty of space for a driver to pull over before the high-speed merge onto Route 70 West. I stick out my thumb once again. It’s very hot. Lots of bikers are on the road because it’s maybe the first summery-type weather of the year. They always give me the thumbs-up sign when they see me hitching, and I return the gesture. Once again I’m stuck. Nobody stops. I stand here for four more hours. What the fuck am I gonna do? Maybe no one will ever pick me up! Susan texts me, “Are you okay? Looks like you’re still in the same place.” No, I’m not okay, I think. I can tell I’m getting dehydrated. I see a nonchain, local-diner-type joint back where I was, across the street from McDonald’s. Maybe I’d better take a break, stroll over there to get some shade, and see if any friendly drivers are inside.

I walk back past those now-even-more-threatening chicken coops. I can’t help myself—I pick one out just in case that has to be my lodging for the night. I go into the diner and am disappointed to see it’s almost empty. Lunch hour is long over so I blatantly ask the table of guys sitting together if they’re “going my way?” They politely say no. Then I order a large Coke, something I would
never
do! I haven’t had a Coca-Cola in twenty years but I’m about to faint, and when I was a kid, my mom always used to give us a Coke if we were feeling queasy. The waitress eyes me a little suspiciously, but maybe I’m just being paranoid. I use the bathroom like any other paying customer and think of that rude
TMZ
segment I saw where they tailed Larry David and Jeff Garlin into a gas station, and when Jeff Garlin exited the men’s room, the reporter had the nerve to ask him if it was number one or number two. Just number one for me. Especially here.

When I return, the waitress delivers my order and I ask her if she knows “anyone I could pay to take me down the road to that bigger truck stop” that the cop had told me about. She doesn’t know anyone. Sigh. I drink the giant Coca-Cola and it hits the spot. Any calories I get here
have
to be canceled by the anxiety of this godforsaken day. I leave a 50¢ tip on a $1 check and feel like a fool.

I go back out in the heat and once again plod my way back up to the entrance ramp. Again no one stops. Then I see a cop car pull over, but instead of feeling paranoid I am praying (once again!) that it will be my mythical “cop from the next county” who was originally contacted by the first cop and is now free to give me a ride. But no, it’s the first cop! “You still didn’t get a ride?!” he marvels. I am mortified. “It’s mostly local traffic,” I offer as a flimsy excuse. “Well, shake your sign or something,” he advises with exasperation. I feel like such a loser; a lazy hitchhiker who can’t even hustle a ride properly. He waves goodbye and heads back in the opposite direction from where I’m going. I’m amazed I never imagined waiting this long in any of my “worst” ride chapters. I have been hitchhiking today for about nine hours and have been inside a car for less than ten minutes. And it’s only Day Two! I will never get to San Francisco.