I knew that Highway 41 was a great place to start my journey. I had hitchhiked the road many times going back and forth to Bloomington. Back in those days, it was a numbers game. The more traffic there was, the better chance that someone would pick me up. Friday was a high-traffic day and as I stood on the side of the road with my thumb out and my suitcase sitting next to me, I felt at peace. 

Sure enough, within the first five minutes a car pulled over. I picked up my suitcase and jogged toward a nondescript white sedan. When I arrived, I saw that the driver was my sometime friend Dave Pstrok. “Harpie, what in the hell are you doing?” he said as I hopped into the front seat, tossing my suitcase in the back. 

I had to be careful. He was one of those people who could be very friendly to your face and then betray you with no compunction. He had done that to me before.

“Heading to Bloomington,” I said, which was only a partial lie. 

He gunned the car and got back on the highway. His driving always frightened me. 

“It’s summer,” he replied, “Why go there?”

“Seeing my girlfriend. What are you doing?” I asked, changing the subject. 

“There’s a party in Princeton tonight. I’m picking up Quirky (an appropriate nickname for a common friend of ours). We were going to swim in the stripper pits and then go to the party. You should come.”

I knew what was in the plans. Quirky was the guy who always had pot. They were going to try and get some beer, go to the stripper pits, get stoned and go swimming. My mind wandered. Maybe New England didn’t need my presence on the 200th birthday of the country. But thoughts of Angela won. I had to keep moving. 

“Naa, that’s alright,” I said. Just drop me off when you turn to go to his house.”

Just a few miles later, he pulled over and dropped me off.

“Later, Harps,” he said, screeching away as I barely pulled my suitcase out of the back seat. I was happy to be alone. 

Now, outside of town, traffic slowed a bit. There were still semis and cars going by but I was out of reach of any stoplights. I looked at my watch. I still had several hours of daylight. For the first time, I thought about the fact that I would probably need to sleep at some point along the way. I thought about what I had packed and figured a pair of rolled up jeans would make a good pillow. Once again at peace, I set down my suitcase and raised my thumb. 

Like a fisherman who throws his line into the water and waits, I was pleasantly surprised when once again I got a bite in a few minutes. This time it was a dark blue Nova. Looking in the window, I saw a young woman who, for at least a few minutes, made me forget about Angela. 

Tomorrow: The Crazy Blue Nova