the Hitcher

The year was 1987 and the video was another Premier Flicks rental. Despite the fact that I was still too young to be seeing this shit, my dad had no problem letting me watch what was probably the most disturbing movie I'd seen to that point. I learned quick, fast and in a hurry that Rutger Hauer is a scary, mean motherfucker. Pulling people apart and slaying innocent families -- all because he was a hitchhiker. This wasn't the 60's, son, my dad explained. I suppose this was all supposed to be educational. Maybe it was, it taught me not to let creepy white Dutch men in my car. And I remember very distinctly when C. Thomas Howell was carrying ol' boy around and got that vibe that let him know death was approaching, he saw the 'door ajar' light and deftly shoved Mr. Rutger out, rolling on the asphalt. But the man couldn't be stopped by a simple yet bruising encounter with the harsh black top. Nope. Evil, man. President Bush should spend a little time weeding out the evil-doing hitch-hikers -- that's homeland defense. And don't like you haven't seen the Hitcher, George. I know you're a big C. Thomas fan. Jennifer Jason Leigh was in it too, I think.

Okay, what a day. What a weird day.

I didn't do much before 2pm but find my passport. I mean, I was up at 6:30am, but I was sad and lonely. Getting out of Macon was even more imparative than before as long as I could avoid shooting myself in the face first. Eventually I went back to sleep and put to bed all the demons who'd crawled out from the covers with me earlier.

The bug-a-boo was Girl Kris, that immortal first love. How in the hell I woke up thinking about her is beyond me. In times of yore, I would have believed it was a psychic connection thing, but I know better now. And how can I explain to you what's going on with that situation? Well, simply put, I fucked up and told her we aren't going to be friends anymore. I'm nothing if not rash, and of course, I know this now. Oh well. It passed and I feel better. Fortunately, I didn't follow through with any of my urges to call her or write her or anything of the sort. If there's a time to do it, it won't be while I'm pining at the crack of dawn.

So yeah, I found my passport which meant I could cash my checks which meant I could get my driver's license. All I did was get the cash and hit the Waffle House where I could read and write before meeting up with Juliete T, the other significant ex I have. We hang out every other week or so. This time we were going to see a movie, the Forgotten.

While I was carefully crafting some of that immaculate literature for which I'm so famous, I lit a cigarette and the waitress said, "That zippo." It was implicit she meant the sound of it, the click. She went on to explain that in an Ashley Judd thriller that the click of a Zippo keyed her to the real murderer. It sounded neat. We discussed other famous Zippo movie moments. Somehow, the Forgotten came up.

"That just sucked."

"Oh don't tell me that, I'm seeing it tonight," I pleaded.

"I don't know, you might like it. You like Sci-Fi?"

"No, not really. Not much at all, actually."

"Oh."

I arrived early at JT's to help her put up a cabinet. In the middle of said act and the remorseful discourse on life, my cell phone rang. Lately it hasn't been ringing unless Mom needs something and at that, usually all she wants to know is if I'm alive. Most times I am.

The number that popped up was local but completely unfamiliar. Contrary to my common practice -- when you have creditors after you, you don't answer calls from mysterious numbers -- I picked up.

"Hey, man. Whatcha doin'?"

It was The Establishment, my imaginary Big Brother.

"Dude, what the fuck? What are you doing?"

"I'm in Macon off exit 161-B."

"What?! What're you doin' in Macon?"

"I'm on my way to Florida."

That's how most people I knew in Nashville knew about Macon. They'd driven through on the way to the Sunshine State.

"You're already moving?"

He'd written weeks ago to tell me he was leaving the Music City for South Florida -- this before all the hurricanes. I thought maybe he'd wait or call it off. No. He and Rainbow'd reached the point of no return a while back.

"Can you meet me up at the KFC here?"

"I'll be there in a few."

It hurt Juliet's feelings a little and I was sorry about that, but I knew she understood. This might be the last time in a long time I get to see him.

So I hit the road and was soon pulling into the parking lot. I expected to see a U-Haul or something. No his car and his wife's car. As I'd find out in a few minutes, everything they own is in those two cars. We exchanged hugs and I learned more. They're homeless now. Nowhere to live, but they have three tents. Having sold the house in Nashville and everything in it -- including two of his guns -- they were out for an adventure.

In the end, it sounded a lot like my impending trip to Detroit. Another parallel.

Soon, our time was over. They were going to continue South until they reached Lake City and had to get a move on. He showed me the upgrades he made on his Nine, they cracked a joke at my expense and I left them with a flip of the birdie finger. Good times.

The Establishment was Mr. Stability even when all hell'd broken loose in his own life. He kept my head above water and now, he's going to be living in a tent. A trend is developing. He isn't alone and neither am I.

Used to be I thought all my friends had grown up and left me with the childish learning-to-live endeavors that have marked me since I was 22. I wanted parts of their lives but they hit the road or moved on.

The happiest, luckiest and most laid back guy I know became the first of my college buddies to get a divorce and the whole thing has torn him a new one. Of the closest of my pals -- who had "all" his "shit" together -- one who is just simply a great guy, I found out he has a difficult but manageable disease that has almost completely leveled him.

School never lets out. The lesson is simple, too. Like Mammaw says, "Everyone's got their bag of rocks." Word, Mammaw, word.

I got back on the road to Juliet's. She had major surgery over a year and a half ago but still hasn't fully recovered from it and that on top of personal issues that have only complicated her recovery. Again, a bag of rocks.

It was too late for the movie but maybe we'd rent something or get a bite to eat. After I caught her up on the events with The Establishment and Rainbow, we snuck into the New China Buffet again. The food, as always, was edible.

Our conversation was far better though. Now sometimes, I feel like I'm doing her a favor hanging out with her. Then we get to talking and I realize how much I need to have her in my life. No one, and I mean this, no one knows me as I am now as well as she does. She's seen the good, bad and very ugly. And still, she's one of my most ardent supporters. When I could do nothing but tell her "you just wait until I'm back to being the kind of man I used to be, you'll just be blown away, just wait, I'll be great again" she was already a big fan.

Yeah, shit didn't work out for us like we figured it would initially but I'm glad she's in my corner. We've had and will probably have our problems, but she's a good friend. I know you won't read this, C-Spice, but if you do, Thank You.

We sat on the front steps and covered everything. It was nice and big relief. Sometimes, the right thing happens at the right time. If nothing else, it helped alot.

Friday, I'm heading away to get away. I can't get to Detroit yet and I can't stick around Macon another day without a break so I'm taking a little road trip to clear my head. I might see some friends, I might bury my head in a book and stain my teeth with that coffee/cigarette combo of which I'm so fond. Who knows? All I know to be factual is that I'll be firmly seated before a TV watching UGA take on the Volunteers of Tennessee. Go Dawgs!

Ha! Memory:

When I first got to Macon, most of my time was actually spent in Athens visiting my little sister. She'd jumped on the Bulldog bandwagon with my beloved Cousin P (if you're friends with P, then you're friends with me). They, as roommates, held the most elegant tailgates this side of the moon. We'd get stone drunk and rowdy-rowdy. Sometimes we'd harrass the passersby if they were for the visiting team, heading for the game -- if we had enough beer and liquor, they could be pulling for Jesus Christ and we'd heckle them. Sometimes we'd see who could throw charcoal the farthest. And sometimes we'd get to go to the game ourselves.

On the occassion of my first UGA football game, I -- in the company of three interesting fellas, my cousin and sister (I think, I was drunk so....) -- found as many ways to cheer on the Dawgs as my little brain could muster. I mounted many cheers for the crowd and not as others cheered, but in that relative quiet among the fifty thousand other attendees:

Play some fuckin' defense!

I love recreational sports -- WOOOOO!

Hunker Down, You Dirty Dawgs! (This being the popular favorite, screamed until my voice strained under the straping wounds inflicted by hurricane force wind blowing out through my throat.)

Well, I'll probably refrain from that sort of behavior, but I'll still have fun.

Oh shit, I still have whisky in my car. Nevermind, I'll probably do a lot of screaming actually.