“Get in here, fella!” was the first thing she said.

“That’s quite the suitcase,” she continued. I looked down at it. It was an old, light brown suitcase with leather trim and a dark brown handle. It seemed outdated, even in 1976, but it was the only one I had. I shrugged, tossed it into the back seat, and climbed in.

It was hard to take my eyes off her. She had raven black hair, the darkest hair I’d ever seen, parted in the middle and falling onto her shoulders. Her nose was tiny, her lips were large, and she had a faraway look in her dark eyes. I was both entranced and wary. I had been picked up by women hitchhiking before, but it was usually on the well-worn route to college, where it wasn’t unusual for a fellow student to give a lift to sometimes more than one traveler. This was not that. 

She pulled back onto the highway, reaching down and turning up the 8-track. She was playing Blood on the Tracks, Dylan’s epic album. “Idiot Wind” was the song.  

“It’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe,” she sang along loudly. The click of the 8-track mid-song interrupted. 

“So, where you headed, stranger?” She asked, not taking her eyes off the road. 

This was an important moment. Would I confess the ultimate goal of going to see Angela or would I tell a half-truth like I did with Pstrok?

“Going to see my girlfriend,” I said. 

“Ahh,” she replied, “How…romantic.”

She turned down the music, and looked me up and down. I felt self-conscious and combed my hair back with my fingers. 

“I’m an angel,” she said, locking eyes with me. 

“An angel?” I repeated.

Then, in a sing-songy, loud voice, she said, “I am an angel of destiny. I’m destiny’s angel. Whoo hoo!” She started to bounce up and down on the seat. 

“I’m going as far as Terre Haute,” she continued more quietly, turning her attention back to the road. “You can ride with me all the way. Got any pot?”

I looked out the window. I didn’t have any pot.

“Sorry, no. But I do love Dylan,” I said, hoping to draw her attention in a different direction. 

“Yeah, he’s the best!” she exclaimed, turning up the 8-track. 

“You’re Going to Make Me Lonesome When You Go,” blasted out. I sat quietly. 

The next hour was spent with her alternating between manic exclamations of her angelhood followed by silence, followed by musings about cows and cornfields. 

The only time she directed another question to me was when she asked, “Why you so quiet, boyyyyyyy?” She didn’t wait for an answer. 

She dropped me off at the entrance ramp to I-70. 

“Later, gator,” she said as I shut the door. 

“Thanks for the lift,” I answered. 

A few minutes later, I was at the top of the hill with my thumb out once again. I was on the road. 

Tomorrow: The Long Road to Wheeling