Hitching a Ride

Patrick packed the most precious of his possessions—his artwork—into plastic bins and loaded them into the storage unit. He could hear the planes overhead arriving and departing from Syracuse Hancock International Airport. He click the padlock shut and started hiking for the highway. He knew it would be easier to hitchhike the farther west he went. He, therefore, knew to be patient in Central New York where the long logical place to go was west.

His converse sneakers and the weight of his Kelty backpack were the only things pushing him up the hill to the I-81 entrance ramp. It only took twenty minutes before someone picked him up. A huge red diesel truck pulled onto the shoulder, its bright tail light illuminating a fire fighters license plate. Patrick looked to the stars and said a little thank you. Firemen were suckers for strays.

“Where ya’ goin’ son?” An older man called from the passenger window.

“Chicago, sir.”

“I’m headed to Cleveland. Hop on it, son.”

Patrick knocked the snow off his sneakers before climbing into the cab of the truck and threw the pack into the back. The cab was spotless save for a discarded fast food bag and wrappers. The smell of cold fries and burnt meat permeated and almost made Patrick wretch.

Photo: KVirtanen