Rhode to Nowhere
By James Johnson
Last November, on a lark, I agreed to accompany two traveling musicians on an impromptu road trip from North Carolina to Rhode Island. Two more random locations, I struggle to think of.
The mission? To get from point A.) to point B.), with only $200 between us, musical talent (of which I have none), and our wits (of which I have even less). The method? Hitchhike. Why? ‘Cause I’m a genius, that‘s why.
Before we get into the true brilliance of our plan, let me first introduce you to the sherpas to my hitchhiking journey, folk rock musicians Manquillan Minniefee and Stephen Waters.
Though just barely scratching 20 (guess who had to buy the booze), Minniefee and Waters claimed to be experienced hitchers. Hitchhiking, after all is among the most cost effective ways for them artsy types to travel, besides just being cool.
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Disclaimer: Hitchhiking is not cool! It is reckless and dangerous, not unlike smooth tasting cigarettes, European sports cars and sex … all of the terrible things in life.
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Still, despite their experience, both Waters and Minniefee admitted that this would be among their longest hitches to date. Much of Waters’ experience was actually in train hopping.
“I’ve probably train hopped six or 10 times when I was a kid, just to get to a bigger city,” said Waters. “I think you would have never made it on a train, and we would have been in mad trouble … ‘cause you would have died.”
“Yeah, then we’d have to get rid of your body,” Minniefee added helpfully.
It Begins
We left early in the morning so as to give ourselves plenty of day light to work with, and were dropped off by a friend at a gas station just off of highway 95. Naturally, we dressed to the nines. A hitchhiker, you see, is part salesman (the product being his or her company), and as such, should look presentable and provide a pleasant odor.. Preferably “new car smell.”
We also carried a sign written on a piece of cardboard which read “Providence, RI. We’re nice, I promise.”
Sadly, no matter how friendly our smiles, how charming our sign, or how much leg I exposed (should of shaved), the rest stop we’d been dropped off at was proving to be a lost cause.
Finally, Waters concluded that the location was not an active enough rest stop to insure us a timely pickup, and decided to make a change in our strategy.
“Lets just walk to the next exit and see if we get any better results there,” said Waters. “Maybe if we get lucky someone driving down 95 will pick us up before we get there. It’ll probably only be like a mile or two.”
16 Miles Later
I learned a lot during this magical trek.
Mile 2: Walking makes me cranky. And by “cranky,” I mean I used expletives that I wasn’t aware were a part of my vocabulary … Apparently I‘m fluent in Spanish.
Mile 4: Stephen Waters walks at about the same pace that I run. I mean my God, half the time the only way I was able to communicate with him during the walk was by calling him on the phone. No joke.
Mile 7: It is now too dark to read our sign and too cold to stop walking. I have learned to hate my sherpas. Their stupid optimistic smiles, their dumb happy-go-lucky attitudes, their idiotic insistence that we do not give up and build a new life along the edge of the interstate highway. We could build a house out of abandoned truck tires and burn my clothing for warmth!
Mile 12: Though Minniefee and Waters seem virtually unaffected by the walk, my feet are now sore and bloody, my head light and my pace staggered. Though weak, I hope to catch up with Minniefee, so that I might hop on his back and ride him the rest of the way. The world is my pony.
Mile 16: Suddenly something occurs to me - “I own a car!”
A 1993 Toyota Corolla, to be precise. We rest briefly on a bridge as I begin making phone calls to arrange a ride back home, so that we can instead drive to RI, using the power of modern technology. The money we had would easily cover the cost of gas and toll booths. The only problem would be making enough money while in RI to get us all safely home. But that’s a story for another day … Hint: As of this writing, I am no longer a car owner. Why? ‘Cause I’m a genius, that‘s why.
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