On a lonely
stretch of US40 between Kansas City and Columbia, my 1965 Corvair Monza
sputtered and the engine temperature gauge spun up to the red line. Without a radiator to boil over (the Corvair
had an air cooled, rear mounted engine that Ralph Nader had declared was unsafe
at any speed), an overheating engine was a pretty good reason to stop quickly or
the engine could be ruined. Searching for a wide spot on the shoulder, I
opted for a gravel covered stretch just after a short bridge over one of the
creeks that fed into the Blackwater River.
The tail of the bridge guard rail lent some protection from big rigs
edging over and clipping the Monza while I was off to get a tow.
This was the
autumn of 1967. Around half of all
telephones still had rotary dials and finding one to make a call required
hitching a ride or making the walk to the next town down the road. I tried both.
For the walk, I stayed on the wrong side (walking with the traffic) so
that I could walk and thumb at the same time.
Thumbing a ride was rising in disfavor because of unscrupulous folk –
sometimes hitchers and sometimes drivers.
College kids had a bit easier time of it because they looked less
sinister and few had anything worth stealing.
I didn’t hitch often, and never told my folks, but every ride felt odd.
On this day,
my ride came from a traveling salesman. By
the time he saw my thumb extended and got his dusty old Ford Galaxie stopped, I
had to jog about forty yards down the highway.
“Where’re you headed?” he asked as I opened the passenger door. “Just to the next town – that’s my Corvair by
the bridge.”
“Get in. What do I call you?” I slid onto the naugahyde seat. Before an answer, the Galaxie
was rolling as my door creaked and slammed shut. I sat tight to the door because safety was
distance. His from me, mine from
him. Seat belts? Nope – if they had been installed they were
pushed under the seat out of the way. An
extension rod ran from coat hook to coat hook across the back seat. His shirts and suits hung ready for each new
day and town through his territory. The
telltale burn spots of smoker’s ash on lapels increased as flying ash landed while
he drove with the windows down. An open
ashtray was full of butts smoked close to the filter overflowing in a random
pattern on the hump in the floor. Two
packs of Winston’s and a chrome Zippo lighter with an Army logo lay on the seat
close at hand.
I never got
his name. Not one joke about a farmer’s
daughter and a traveling salesman passed his lips. He never said what he sold. He just talked – and talked. Like an unreformed Harold Hill, customers
were suckers as he laughed about the ways he got them to buy. He alluded to a son and daughter he never saw
because his ex got custody and moved them to Connecticut. With work demands, he didn’t have the time or
money to see them. After the divorce, he
had his freedom – no more nagging every time he got home until he hit the road
again. He didn’t like LBJ but hated
Bobby Kennedy. Believed Nixon was the
answer. Kids drafted to go to Viet Nam
should just stop whining and the ones who ran to Canada should be tried for
treason. Hippies should get a job or go
to jail. In the disrespected style of
Willy Loman, his boss was a jerk who worked him too hard and shorted his
commissions.
I don’t
believe I spoke a single word. He made
full use of his captured listener as his disconnected soul spewed out. When he let me out at an Esso station with a
pay phone by the door, it felt like I escaped.
The first thing I did was call home – collect. After I told Dad about my car (but not about
the ride), he said to catch the bus to Columbia so I wouldn't miss any
school. He would come and tow the car
back home. He thought he could fix it
himself. Simple - connected - whew.
A few weeks
ago, an empty phone box reminded me of a time when making a call was an act
that required purposeful effort and some risk.
Before cell phones, Twitter, Facebook and email, there were long periods
when everyone had time for introspection or marked loneliness.
As I
looked at that disconnected phone box covered in stickers and a used water cup
inside, I hope there is still a good way to give someone the deep good feeling of
accepting the charges for a collect call.
--td