I don’t usually pick up hitchhikers. Actually, I almost never do. I’ve only picked up a couple in my whole life. So I don’t know what it was that made me consider picking one up that day. I guess it might have been the way he stood.
I was driving pretty slowly – the road was empty, I had time, and the colors of the trees on that cool fall afternoon were so pretty; I was in a mellow mood. I was going slow. And when I rounded a curve, I saw him.
He looked like an ordinary guy. Red and black flannel shirt, navy windbreaker. Hiking boots. Medium height, but he looked tall to me that day – probably because he’s so thin. Lightish hair, kind of shaggy.
I think it was his stance that made me pull over; there was a frail look about him – old and tired. Like my granddad when he was sick that last time. His hand was stuck out, his thumb signaling for a ride. And he looked . . . harmless. That’s what it felt like – harmless. Harmless and sad.
So I slowed, and when I’d just passed him I pulled over, gradually. The tires crunched on the gravel, then the right side went into grass. I stopped, and put the car in park, because as I looked through the rear view mirror I saw him drop his arm, and stoop to pick up the duffel bag at his feet, and straighten his back, and start toward me, and the whole thing was so slow, like in slow motion. He was moving at the speed of a sloth. I thought it would take him fifteen minutes to walk the ten yards to the car.
Eventually he reached the door, and opened it, and slid inside, pulling his duffel bag onto his lap. He didn’t seem to take up much room on the seat. He didn’t look at me. He shut the door.
“Howdy,” I said, but I don’t know why. I’m not a “howdy” kind of guy. I probably haven’t said howdy since I was eight years old, playing cowboy with my cousin Nick.
He nodded slightly, but didn’t face me. It was one of those situations where, for some reason, you feel compelled to talk, and the talk is forced and awkward because the other person isn’t holding up their end.
“I’m not going too far – only to Dickson, to my house. It’s only a few more miles up the road. I don’t know if that’s going help you any. Maybe you want to wait for someone who’ll take you farther. Where is it you were headed to?”
“That’s okay. That’ll be fine,” he said softly, and when he finally turned his face to me, I saw with surprise that he wasn’t the old guy I had imagined him to be. He was young – younger than me, definitely. Maybe only twenty years old. His face was narrow, smooth and unlined, with a couple days worth of pale stubble, and his lips were thin and calm. But when I looked into his eyes – his eyes gave me the creeps. They were so sad, his expression so lonely – God, it was awful, it reminded me of a wild animal in a cage, one that has given up, one that’s just lying there, waiting to die. I turned away fast, and briskly put the car in drive and checked the mirror – empty – and hurried back onto the road.
I didn’t intend to talk to the guy. But even then, with him in my car for all of five minutes, I felt like I wanted to. I figured it was because I felt sorry for him, that had to be it. I didn’t know then what I know now. I just figured it was because of my kind nature – and pity.
“My name’s Doug MacDonald,” I said. And for some reason I had the strongest urge to put out my hand and shake his, though I hadn’t planned on that when I gave my name. I wanted to touch him – God. Gives me the shivers even now, just remembering it. So I did put out my hand. I gripped the wheel in my left, and extended the right – extended it far, into his personal space, really reaching to him, really an unmistakable offer. But – God damn it – as I held my silly hand out there in the air, sneaking glances at the road between long looks at his face, he didn’t respond. He was looking forward at the road, but I knew he saw my hand. I knew he did. He couldn’t miss it. But that son of a bitch didn’t put out his own. He left mine hanging there in the air, till I felt so ridiculous that I put it back on the wheel. I knew I should feel – I mean, what I would normally feel, with anyone else – would be some anger at the insult, and an immediate coldness. But all I really felt was acute disappointment.
He did answer me, though. He cleared his throat slightly, still looking ahead, and said, “My name’s Mack.”
I had the ridiculous urge to giggle. I haven’t giggled – at least I hope I haven’t – since I was five years old. “Mack the Knife,” I said.
Mack smiled wanly.
“Mack, like ‘Hey, Mack!’ – like a New York cabbie,” I went on. “Mack like a Mack truck.” Why was this guy making me act like a moron? “What’s your last name?”
Mack shook his head. Slightly. Everything he did he did slowly, or lightly, or slightly. Why wasn’t he irritating me? Why did I feel, instead of annoyance, a growing fascination? Even – Jesus – affection? It was giving me goose pimples.
“Just Mack,” he said. He steadied the duffel bag a little as we rounded a sharp turn. I was driving faster and faster. I was driving too fast. He had never put on his seat belt.
“Well, Mack, we’re almost in town. Would you like to have a drink with me? There’s a nice little bar on the edge of town – just a small place, friendly. Want to come?”
“Sure,” he said. Softly. “Thanks. I’d like that.”
And I relaxed back in the seat, inordinately pleased. Like a kid who’s asked his mom if he can keep the stray dog that followed him home, and she says yes. It was just getting a little dark as we pulled into the parking lot. Six thirty or so. I hadn’t had dinner, and thought about the good chili they serve here. I wondered if Mack had eaten yet. I turned off the ignition, and swiveled to my new friend, who was just sitting there.
“You can toss your bag in the back seat,” I said. I waited patiently in my seat as he slowly turned and lightly tossed the bag onto the rear seat, then, without looking at me, turned toward his door. I had the insane urge to jump out and rush over to his side and open the door and help him out of the car – like a guy with a prom date, for heaven’s sake. Absolutely crazy.
I didn’t open his door, but I did go and stand beside it, and resisted the impulse to help him like I used to help Granddad – just take his elbow nonchalantly, you know, not saying anything, or maybe saying “there you go” or something, trying to cover the awkwardness of helping a grown man do a simple thing like get out of a car. You want to help, they need your help, but you don’t want to take their dignity, don’t want to treat them like a child, or an invalid. Even though – at that point – that was all that Granddad really was. He died two years ago, in 2013, and he wasn’t a man any more by then. He was neuter – like a little child. Why did Mack remind me of all this stuff? He moved slowly, yeah – but – I don’t know. It was weird.
Finally he got out, and straightened, and I slammed the door shut for him – the passenger side sticks, and you have to close it hard. Mack was already starting toward Dave’s. I hurried and caught up.
Dave’s isn’t anything special. It’s so ordinary that if someone asked me to describe it I bet I’d draw a complete blank, even though I eat there often. It’s anonymous inside, as if it could be any place, any where, and that’s comforting. There’s no special kind of style or anything, you know – it doesn’t draw just one kind of clientele, like blue-collar, or country, or yuppies, or students. Just a mixture of ordinary people, and you can always blend in and it’s safe.
Mack hesitated at the door, and I reached and opened it, and kind of ushered him in. I passed him as he paused inside, and turned to give him a nod or something. To put him at ease. Maybe he was really shy, like me. Maybe he was even worse than me – although that seems hard to imagine. In any case, I felt a proprietary warmth, a protective feeling – though we’d barely spoken.
I moved to the last booth and slid into the seat facing the door. Mack was glancing around, and then slid in facing me. I slid out again for a minute to take off my jacket and put it on the seat beside me. Mack kept his on.
“You had any supper, Mack?”
He made a kind of ‘I don’t know/doesn’t matter’ gesture with his shoulders and head. He was looking at the bar.
“I’ll buy. The chili’s good here. Very good.”
“No, thank you. Just a drink, I think. But thanks.”
“Well, if you change your mind, just give a holler.” I don’t know where this hearty, cowboy talk was coming from. And I couldn’t imagine Mack giving a ‘holler’ if his life depended on it. Probably a normal person’s speaking tone was his way of shouting. If he hollered he’d probably shatter.
He kept looking at the bar, where a few people were seated on stools. When Maggie, my favorite waitress, strolled over he put his hands in his lap and looked down. Yup, shy all right. Really nervous.
Maggie dug her little pad from the pocket of her tight jeans, and a pencil from somewhere between her ear and her pony tail, and poised them to write.
“What’ll ya have?” she asked in a friendly way. Maggie was just what a shy guy liked, a woman all cheerful and smiling, all comfortable, who teases – when she teases at all – in a gentle, non-threatening way. She even answers her own questions for you if you’re too shy to speak. Motherly, you know. She has three little girls, she told me once – and no husband. She’s offered to fix me up with somebody – not that it would do any good, of course. Who wants to date a nerd who’s only five foot six?
Well, Mack looked down at his hands in his lap when she approached – shy, like I said. His shoulders were hunched. I felt happy and free – in comparison I was confident and self-assured. I felt bold. Even brash. It was a heady experience. Maggie looked at me and smiled.
“Chili’s extra good tonight, Doug.”
My answering smile was expansive, though I could feel a blush creeping up my neck. Why now? I’m not self-conscious right now, darn it. If I could change one thing about myself, it would be this disgusting propensity to blush at provocations so slight that they verge on non-existent. I’d even change that before I’d change the height thing. Oh well, maybe I would change my height first. I don’t know which hurts more. Right now, the blushing does. When it’s bad my face can get as red as a matador’s cape.
I hung onto my smile with dogged determination, and ignored the blush. It doesn’t help, but what else can I do?
“I’ll have the chili, ” I said brightly. “Extra crackers. And a Coke.” We both looked at Mack.
“Whiskey and water. Double.” he said, speaking clearly enough to be heard even though he was speaking to his crotch. He never looked up.
Maggie raised her eyebrows and looked at me questioningly, and I shrugged. “All on one, Maggie.” I said.
It wasn’t until she was gone that he looked up. God, he was worse than me with women. I hadn’t thought it possible. Poor guy. It made me feel even sorrier for him and even more confidently nonchalant for me. I leaned back in the booth, and wished I had a cigarette. I have no idea why. I don’t smoke and never have. Never wanted to. I just felt like I should have a cigarette in my hand.
“So, Mack. Where’re you from?” I expected another shrug, but instead he answered plain enough, ‘Austin.’ still looking at the table top, and occasionally at the napkin holder.
“Austin, Texas?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“You don’t sound like a Texan at all.”
“I know.”
“You don’t act like a Texan.”
He made a vague nodding motion with his head.
“What’re you doing out here in Pennsylvania?”
A pause. He scratched his eyelid lightly. “Passing through.”
“Where’re you going?”
He looked up at me, then, finally meeting my eyes, then looking away again. He opened his mouth to answer, but before the words were out I knew for a certainty that I was going to take him home with me.
“I don’t know.” he said.
I just smiled.
“Well, I do,” I replied happily, leaning forward, filled with good will and a funny kind of tenderness. But before I could make my announcement, the announcement that I assumed would finally make this strange man smile, smile in profound gratitude, Maggie was beside us, setting down a cocktail napkin and a wet glass of whiskey, and a Coke in a glass and a straw encased in white paper for me.
“Chili’ll be just a minute, ” she said, holding her little round tray to her belly. She looked at Mack, curious. I did, too. He had dropped his head again. Maggie and I swiftly exchanged glances, and I think our faces showed the same emotion – worry, mostly.
“Sure you don’t care for any dinner?” she asked solicitously.
He nodded without raising his head. But Maggie didn’t leave.
“I’ll bring you a menu, anyway. Maybe somethin’ll look good.”
Mack shook his head a tiny bit, and reached for his drink. He sipped, then put it down, still holding the glass in his thin, bony hand.
I looked at Maggie again. But she didn’t look at me this time. She was staring at the top of Mack’s bowed head, staring and staring, and her face looked funny. Then, to my amazement, she started to sink down; still gripping her tray in thumb and forefinger, she dipped down, steadying herself with the other three fingers on the table’s edge. I watched, fascinated, as she sunk down till she was squatting on the floor. She put her right hand on the edge of Mack’s seat.
“What’s the matter?” Her voice was so soft, and so full of concern and so gentle – her mother voice. It was like she was talking to her littlest girl. I tore my eyes from her and checked Mack’s response. He’d turned his head away from her and shook it.
“Are you …” she took her right hand from the seat and reached toward his elbow, and when she made contact – we froze. God. Nobody moved – nobody in the whole bar, I bet. Until Mack said, still facing away, in his empty voice – “Don’t touch me.”
I was suddenly aware that a woman had materialized at my side, standing next to Maggie. I was enveloped in a strong perfume. I wrenched my eyes from the Mack/Maggie tableau and looked at the new arrival, a pretty blond. But she wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes were fastened intently on Mack’s turned head.
“Excuse me,” she began after a tiny throat clear. “Don’t I know you? I . . . I’m sorry to bother you like this, but I’m sure I know you from somewhere. I’m sure. Are you -“
We were joined by another woman – I glanced at the bar – empty stools. This woman was nicely dressed in a pretty pink suit. I stared. She stared – at Mack, of course.
Mack put one elbow on the table, his arm raised, and slowly turned his face and let his closed eyes gently come to rest in his palm.