A Cripple on the Highway
By Martin Wageman

I crawled to my brother’s room and woke him up.
“What da ya want?” he said rubbing his eyes.
“You gotta take me to the hospital.”
“For what?”
I showed him my ankle. As soon as he saw it his face changed, his eyes popped, his mouth fell open, and then he looked me in the eyes.
“What the hell happened?”
*
Summer had finally arrived after my freshman year of college. The pressure of finals was behind me and I felt like I was starting to belong in La Crosse. I was growing up. Walking over to the brewery in the evening, I was happy to have a job, good friends, a girlfriend, and a future. The air was warm and pleasant and the day’s last light was still in the sky. In the course of the night I finished my homework in the front guard shack – I had enrolled in a summer computer science class – and then, while on outside rounds, I drank a few beers with one of the union workers in the Malt Plant break room. In the morning I walked home, content and tired, and went to bed.
I had the next night off and we partied. We partied on Third Street until the bars closed and then went to a house party. I remember Pickle J was with me. He always had a smile on his face and a beer in his hand. Towards morning, when we were leaving the house, a guy I worked with, Claw, decided it would be fun to tackle me. We were drunk. He was good and drunk. I thought it was funny too, until I couldn’t get up. Pickle J got me home. I must have passed out for a few hours because I remember waking up in my room. My ankle was the size of a cantaloupe.
*
They couldn’t put a cast on it right away because of the swelling, so I hobbled around on crutches. I went to work and sat in the back guard shack. I was shattered. Claw felt terrible. A few hours later, Les Johnson, the sergeant, comes into the guard shack and tells me that he can’t have me working with a broken ankle. It took me a while to crutch home. I remember the tears rolling down my cheek. I went from shattered to devastated. Water skiing was finished for the summer, and now work.
The next day my girlfriend calls and says she can’t see me anymore – something about reconciliation with her old boyfriend. Great. Later in the day, when I went to file for unemployment, the woman behind the desk tells me that I don’t qualify because I’m not physically able to work. She never said a word about filing for disability. Without income I couldn’t possibly pay my tuition, so I dropped out of school.
A few days earlier my brother had come home with this black puppy and I remember hobbling down to the neighborhood park with the little guy in tow. I never went to that park, but today I had nothing else to do. I couldn’t just sit in that house. Suddenly, everything was gone.
Several days later I was fitted with a walking cast. I remember being at the checkout counter at Quillin’s, the local grocery store, with my roommate Dino – there was a rack of maps there – so I took a map of the United States and put it with the groceries we were buying. Dino gave me a look, but didn’t say anything.
The next morning, after everyone was out of the house, I dumped the books out of my backpack and put in some cloths and other things I thought I might need, and the map, and my toothbrush. Then I wrote a note about going to see the sandpipers. I had read a story in a Reader’s Digest over at the brewery, before I got kicked out, about a kid who was sick, and all he wanted to do was to go and see the sandpipers running on the beach. I knew Dino had also read the story. I left the note on the desk in my room and then walked down to the Cass Street Bridge, the bridge that spans the Mississippi, and started hitchhiking.
I can’t even remember the first ride, but I know they got me out to La Crescent. Then another took me to the Winona turnoff. Then a trucker dropped me off in Austin, my hometown. I didn’t want my parents to know what was up so I called Peach, a high school buddy that I knew was home for the summer, to come and pick me up. We partied – or my friends partied – I just drank, the beers having no effect on my mood, at another friend’s, Bob, that night. I borrowed two-hundred dollars from Bob. In order to get the money I had to tell him my rough plan. I insisted that he keep it to himself.
My parents were leaving on a motorcycle trip that morning, but when I got to the house they were still there. I think my mom could tell that I was depressed. They probably just thought I was back in Austin to use their house for some parties. Why I even went to the house, I don’t know. I left a few hours after they did.
Walking the couple of blocks down to highway 218, I reminisced about delivering papers to the houses that I was passing by. Then, a few minutes after sticking my thumb out, two guys that I had gone to high school with pulled over. They were just driving around, so without anything better to do they drove me down to Lyle.
My destination was Iowa City, or West Branch to be more precise, to Uncle Willy’s house. Willy had hitchhiked around the US a few years back and I figured he could give me some good advice. I had several rides through Iowa. I remember a guy in a Cadillac, the car super clean and air conditioned, and then there was a young kid who produced a nice bag of weed from under the dash and got me stoned. Just after the kid dropped me off a State Trooper pulled up. Here we go, I thought. But he didn’t hassle me, rather, he gave me a ride about thirty miles to a better location. This was in 1980 mind you; I don’t think it would happen these days. Luckily, I was in Iowa City by supper time and called Willy.
I chilled out at his house for a few days. My cousin John was there helping Willy for the summer. John had gotten a finger in the table saw and his hand was bandaged up, but he still had a smile on his face. I remember sleeping under the stars on the back deck. When it was time to move on I got a few phone numbers and addresses of relatives from Willy and headed for St. Louis.
I had a bunch of rides. I was young and clean cut, with only a small pack, and I always faced traffic so that drivers could get a good look at me. I went at it aggressively, staying up close to the white line, arm straight out, thumb flying, with eyes focused on the target. I’ve always believed that if you want something in life you have to work for it.
The cast worked wonders too. I’d stick it out there, people would stop, I’d get in, and then on the way I’d explain how it happened. I’d end up telling the story dozens of times in the next few weeks. Everything was going good, I started to relax, I was riding with an older gentleman who was on his way to a cabin in Kentucky. I got out my map.
But then that night the old buzzard got weird. Luckily, we were stopped at a gas station when he made his move, so I just told him to f**k off and got out. It was around midnight. I tried to hitchhike, holding my flashlight up to my face so passersby could see me. I didn’t work. I was rattled. I slept under a bridge, or tried to anyway. I was uncomfortable, questioning myself again, and the traffic noise never ceased.
In the morning I gathered myself, found some breakfast, and got back on the road. That afternoon I was at Uncle Jim’s in St. Louis, a guy had dropped me right at his house. But when I knocked no one answered, so I wrote them a note, popped it in their mailbox, and continued on.
I wanted to see the ocean, the beach – those sandpipers the kid was talking about – so I set my sights on Galveston. But then somewhere south of St. Louis I got stuck, I couldn’t get a ride, and it was incredible hot, well over a hundred degrees I found out later. So I walked to a gas station and tried to cool off. I didn’t know what to do. I asked a friendly looking couple for a ride. At first the man hesitated, but then said, “Yeah sure, jump in.” So I did. They were heading north. I didn’t care.
I had been quietly riding with them for some time when the guy explained that up ahead they would be veering off to the east. I had no desire to head east, so, without thinking or consulting my map, I asked to be let out. I ended up getting dropped off were two freeways intersected in the middle of nowhere. I think it was 57 and 70, in Illinois. All of the on and off ramps were high speed. There were no frontage roads. I followed a long, sweeping transitional ramp to get to the westbound lanes of I-70. Exhausted and drenched with sweat, I finally arrived at a place where I could put out my thumb. Traffic flew by at top speed. It was hot as hell.
No one stopped. There was nowhere to walk to. I was crushed. I shouldn’t have gotten out where I did, I cursed myself. My thoughts drifted to La Crosse – the house, bare-ass beach, the bars – and I dreamed of being back there. I wished I could be anywhere except where I was. Then I got out my black electrical tape and wrote the word HELP vertically on my cast.
All of a sudden I noticed a big rig pulling off onto the shoulder. Is he stopping for me, I thought? It took him a long time to come to a stop. I stood dumbfounded. And then he was out of the cab waving the full length of his arm as if to say, “Come on, let’s go.” It took me an eternity to cover the distance to his truck. He was standing in the shade alongside the trailer, laughing.
“I couldn’t make it to church today, so I figured I pick up a cripple on the highway,” he said as I came closer. It was Sunday. I was spent and speechless. He was still laughing.
He opened the passenger door of the cab and helped me up. As he climbed in he asked, “So, where ya headed?”
“I don’t know,” I answered.
That sent him into hysterics. Then I heard the air brakes release and watched as he went through the gears. He was looking in the side mirror, checking oncoming traffic as he brought the truck up to merging speed.
“Well, you’re in luck kid,” he said as the laughter subsided, “I don’t know where I’m going either.” When he had the truck settled into traffic he introduced himself as Frank and asked, “Do you smoke?” He was holding up a joint.
I nodded and said, “Man, you saved my life.”
He tossed me the joint and a lighter. I can’t remember if there was AC or not, but it was cool in the cab of that truck. He was headed for Springfield, Missouri. After we finished the joint I got out my map and found Springfield. I smiled. I was alive again.
We sailed through St. Louis again. At least I did. My savior had me roll two more joints, one for him and one for me, so we wouldn’t have to pass one back and forth. I remember it took me a long time. He had given me a clipboard for deseeding the weed, but my seat, unlike his air-ride, was fixed to the chassis and I was bouncing all over the place. I remember trying to catch all the seeds, and when he saw me doing it he said, “Don’t worry about it. They can’t search my truck – this is my home – they need a warrant to search it.”
I told him my story and he told me many of his; and many hours later in Springfield he pulled off the freeway onto the shoulder. “See that building right there?” he said pointing, “You can get a good room there for ten bucks.”
I thanked him and was about to alight when he said, “Wait.” He took his bag of weed, and taking a healthy pinch, put it into an envelope. Then he added several rolling papers. “Here, take this,” he said.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Take it – for the road.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Good luck,” he said smiling.
Tears came to my eyes as I watched the truck pull away. I believed in God. I had been riding with him most of the day.
When the truck was out of sight I found a way around the freeway fence and walked to the motel. It was dusk and the air had cooled. He was right about the price of a room. I spent a long time in the shower and then went for something to eat.
*
When I woke up I didn’t know where I was. Then I remembered. It was dark in the room, and when I opened the door, the sunlight came flooding in. It was still early. Then, as I was walking across the parking lot, a man asked me, “Which way ya headed?”
“West,” I said.
“Get in.”
My recovery was well under way.
He took me to Joplin. Then I remember going through Ft. Scott, Kansas. A black man had picked me up and I had asked him how far he was going. “Ft. Scott,” he had said with a noticeable accent, “I’m going to Ft. Scott.”
I worked the two lane highways up to I-70 where a guy about my age picked me up. His vehicle was packed with stuff. “I’m moving to Hays,” he announced. He moved some of his belongings around to make room for me. An hour in, he produced a joint.
Early the next morning a big Plymouth towing a trailered Harley pulled over. The driver, RJ, was a rough looking guy, but he was friendly. A short distance later we stopped to pick up his buddy Steve. Another Harley was loaded as well as Satan, a big black Rottweiler. Satan rode on an old door that was positioned between the bikes. When we got up to speed on the freeway Satan’s mouth would open up in the strong wind. His cheeks and lips would flap all around. It was hilarious. Satan didn’t seem to mind.
The guys were roughnecks heading to Cheyenne, Wyoming. They had one of those big round metal water coolers in the back. I sat next to it. It was filled with cans of beer. We started cracking them around 9 AM. An hour or so later we stopped at Steve’s mom’s place. They visited, and Satan and I hung out. When they came back Steve had a plastic bread bag filled with sandwiches.
We roared across the flats of Colorado – drinking beer, smoking joints and listening to loud rock n’ roll – Satan’s cheeks fully inflated – and then slept in the car outside of Denver. In the morning we drove into the city and visited the Harley dealer. The boys bought a lot gear and parts. On the way up I-25 we stopped for gas. After taking a leak, I went in and bought a case of beer and a bag of ice. I got about a twelve pack in the cooler. As we drank the cold ones I replaced them with the warm ones. I could see the whole country just looking out the window.
I didn’t want it to end, but soon we were in Cheyenne and saying goodbye. They wouldn’t take any gas money. “Hitchhikers don’t pay gas money,” one of them laughingly scoffed. They were really good guys, decent guys, wild boys as free as the wind, willing to share what they had with whoever crossed their path. I was lonely the instant they drove away.
But not for long, a big rig had pulled over. I was on my way to Rock Springs. I checked the map. He was an older fella and we talked, or he talked mostly, and I listened. He had opinions about almost everything. I could tell he was kind of lonely. We stopped and washed his truck. He gave me a roll of quarters and I feed them into the machine when he told me to. He had an acreage outside of Rock Springs. We stopped to eat supper, he insisted on paying, and then went out to his place. He let me crash in the sleeper of his truck while he went into a little trailer for the night. It was dark when we got out there so I didn’t see the place until morning.
We had breakfast at a diner then he dropped me at the Interstate. I got a few short rides. Then, later that morning, a pickup with Oregon plates passed me. I tried to get his attention – I tried to get everyone’s attention – but I really tried to get his. I knew he saw me, but he cruised on by. I got a few more short rides. Then, low and behold, here he comes again. I jumped up and down. I jumped up and down as good as a guy with a cast on his leg could. I waved my arms. He pulled over.
Getting in, I said, “Thanks, I really appreciate it.” I didn’t ask right away, I contained myself for at least a minute. I introduced myself. He told me his name. “Are you going to Oregon?”
“Yeah, Portland. Where are you headed?”
“Portland.”
He gave me one of those what-have-I-gotten-myself-into looks and said, “Well, I’ll get you to Salt Lake, maybe farther, but no promises. I want to make a few stops along the way.”
“Salt Lake’s fine – whatever you can do for me.”
He was on his way home from a road trip in which he was looking for potential places to relocate. When I told him that I was from La Crosse he said that he had been there, and liked the area. He quizzed me for details and the miles rolled by. Salt Lake came and went. We camped somewhere in Idaho. In the morning I called my Aunt Mary. She lived in Portland.
“Mary, it’s Marty…hey I’m on a little road trip and I was wondering if I could stop by for a few days – I already have a ride to Portland….”
The guy gave me a ride right to their door. I remember it was super early, like six-thirty, we had driven all night – he wanted to get home. I didn’t want to knock on the door, but Mary was up already and opened the door before I had to. She made me breakfast and we chatted. I told her about my adventure. The kids were still in bed, so after the eggs and toast I went downstairs and slept for a while. I woke up in the presence of three very curious, rambunctious kids. Mary said they couldn’t wait for me to open my eyes.
I spent a couple of fun days with them, just relaxing and resting up, sleeping in a bed and taking a shower every day. It was hard with that stupid cast on. I had a shave. Danny, who was probably five or six then, ran into the guide wire of a telephone pole and cut his head. I accompanied Mary and Danny to the ER. On the way home Danny was already smiling and laughing, saying, “I have a hole in my head, I have a hole in my head.”
Mt. Saint Helens had blown her top that May and Julie, Janae, and Danny showed me their coffee cans of ash that they had harvested from their yard. That evening Stan, Mary’s husband, came home with a new station wagon. The kids went wild. The next morning I got to check out the new ride with Mary and the gang when they dropped me off at the freeway.
It was tough getting out of Portland – a few short hops – but then this bareback American Indian with long flowing black hair riding a Motto Guzzi stopped and offered me a ride. I remember his long hair whipping me in the face, and me, trying to keep that cast on the foot peg. He took me to the Tillamook cheese factory. We went on the tour. He told me about the time he had hitched around the US without a dime in his pocket and the generosity of the people he encountered. At the end of the tour he bought me several long strands of smoked beef. He insisted that I take them, and after wishing me good luck, rode off into the distance like a warrior on an iron horse.
After another short ride I was at the ocean. I smelt it first, then heard it, and then actually saw the waves rolling in. That ocean took me for a ride. I took my shoe off and walked on the beach. It was mostly deserted. I hobbled a ways, then sat down in the dry sand and cried. After the tears dried I got back up and walked. There were gulls and other birds, but no sandpipers. I learned later that they were migratory birds – they would be up in Alaska during the summer. It didn’t matter.
That night I slept on the sand under a little bridge. My leg was itching like crazy so I got out a screwdriver that I had in my pack for some unknown reason and punched air holes about four inches down from the top of the cast. It helped a little. In the morning I was alarmed to see the water right next to me. I had not considered the change in tide.
It was just after dawn and I found myself ravenous. I stumbled across a woman working in a restaurant – it wasn’t open yet – but she invited me inside and gave me a bowl of clam chowder. It was warm and delicious. When I finished I wanted to pay her but she said, “That’s yesterday’s chowder, you don’t have to pay for that. There’s more – would you like some more?” I couldn’t refuse.
Up on the coast road traffic was sparse. I started walking some. I had gotten the cast a little wet walking on the beach and the rubber footpad was starting to come loose, so I got out the black tape and wound it around a few times to tighten it up. It was pretty sorry looking. I walked some more. The skin under the cast was itching like crazy. I had a little piece of wire in my pack and I got it down in there to scratch. Then a Volkswagen Beetle came by. I jumped to my feet and waved my arms over my head and watched the car getting smaller. Then it slowed and pulled over.
“I usually don’t stop for hitchhikers,” the woman said, “but you seem to really need a ride.”
“Thanks – I do,” I said getting in.
She was a few years older than me, and beautiful, with long blonde hair and soft features. We talked a little, she was rather quiet, she told me that she had been visiting her sister and now she was on her way home. For awhile it seemed like we were the only souls around, driving through the trees on that small road. Then she asked if I liked to smoke. She pulled out her stash and handed it to me. It was sticky green bud, some of the first I had ever seen. Five minutes later I was comatose.
After sometime, she stopped and said that she was heading inland from here. I realized I needed to get out. I was still stoned to the bone. I don’t recall what happen next. I do remember that the going was slow, short rides, long waits, so I decided to make my way to I-5. I spent the night in Yreka, California.
In the morning I walked to the freeway. There I found three other people on the ramp waiting for rides. The girl in the Beetle had warned me not to hitch up on the freeway itself in California – “You’ll get a ticket,” she had said. So I waited, fourth in line. It was an hour before the first person caught a break. Another hour went by before I realized this wasn’t going to work. There was no way I would make it down the coast at this pace. Defeated, I walked back to the Greyhound station and bought a ticket for Reno. It cost thirty-three dollars, about as much money as I’d managed to spent thus far on the trip.
I remember seeing Mt. Shasta bathed in the last light of the setting sun as we cruised down I-5. There was a transfer in Sacramento during the wee hours of the morning. I entertained myself by watching the strange characters and other weirdness around the terminal, and then I slept, arriving in Reno at six in the morning. I walked to the freeway. The first guy that stopped had obviously been partying all night.
“Wanna party?” he said, “I’m into anything,” he added.
I asked him to drop me at the edge of town.
Then I got a fast ride to Winnemucca. That’s where I met Willard. I had gone over to a gas station on the opposite side of the road for something to drink and was only half way back, standing in the median, when a car pulls over. I wasn’t sure if it had pulled over for me because I hadn’t even stuck my thumb out yet.
“Are you looking for a ride?” the guy asks getting out of his car.
“Yeah.”
When I got over to his car, a little Nissan, he was cleaning off the front seat. He was pretty rough looking; unshaven, yellow teeth, dirty. The ashtray was overflowing. There was a carton of Winstons on the dash.
“I’m Willard,” he said getting back in, “Where ya headed?”
“Salt Lake,” I said. I’d gotten into the habit of just rattling off the next major city.
“I can get you there,” he said, “I’m on my way to Wisconsin Dells to see my brother.”
“Wisconsin Dells,” I said, “I’m on my way to La Crosse, Wisconsin.”
“Well hell, you can ride with me all the way if you want,” he said with enthusiasm and a smile.
Standing on the freeway that morning in Reno I figured it would take about a week to get back to the Midwest. Now, suddenly, I had a ride all the way.
“My name’s Marty,” I told Willard.
“Do you want a beer, Marty?”
“Sure, why not.”
“There’s a twelve pack on the back seat. Grab me one too.”
We fell into conversation as Willard tooled down I-80. I remember the beer being warm and not very enjoyable. He seemed a little edgy, distracted sort of, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Sometimes he’d gradually slow down, cars passing us up, and then he’d realize it and speed up again. After the next town he asked, “Can you drive?” He was looking at my cast. His Nissan had a manual transmission.
“Yeah, I think so,” I said.
So he pulled over and I got behind the wheel.
Then, as I am bringing the car up to speed and merging, he says, “Marty, I got something to tell you.” But he doesn’t tell me what he has to tell me. I’m busy looking in the side mirror and going through the gears. When I get the car into traffic I ask, “What is it Willard?”
“I’m dying.”
I looked over at him. He was trembling.
“I got cancer. I just found out last week. The doc says I got three months to live.”
I was speechless. A big knot welled up in my throat. I stared through the windshield. Then I swallowed and said, “Man, I’m sorry.”
“So I’m going to see my brother before I die. All I want to do is see my brother before I die. I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Does he know?” I heard myself ask.
“No. I just called him and said I was coming for a visit. I’ll have to tell him when I get there. How long do you think it will take us to get there?”
“If we drive straight through – maybe a day and a half.”
“I’ve never driven across the country before,” Willard explained, “In fact, I’ve never been out of California, Nevada and Oregon.”
Once he opened up it all came pouring out of him. He told me where he was from – Sacramento – that he worked as an auto mechanic – and that he had never married. When he found out that he had cancer he quit his job, loaded up his tools – there was this massive tool chest in the back of the Nissan, it was a hatchback – and called his brother. I listened and drove. Pretty soon he was sleeping.
I just kept driving and thinking, thinking about Willard, thinking about how fragile we humans can be, and how quickly things can change. I thought about how I had changed over the last couple of weeks. Sometimes it’s cruel what the world dishes out, things we have no control over. And then I thought about how we change ourselves, what we do to ourselves, how we treat out bodies, and how we treat our minds, how we make decisions and the things we teach ourselves, and the things we learn along the way. My problems were nothing compared to the man I was sitting next to.
Soon the Nissan’s gas gauge was reading empty. I pulled into a filling station. Willard woke up.
“I guess I dozed off. I get tired easy now. I used to be a strong man,” he said.
He allowed me to pump the gas but would let me pay for it. And he felt like driving again. I bought a bag of ice and fashioned a makeshift cooler.
“Doc says I have three month unless they cut on me. I don’t want them to cut on me. I don’t believe in all that,” Willard went on.
Salt Lake came and went. I reflected back on my westbound journey. Willard tired. Driving by Rock Springs I saw the restaurant where I had eaten breakfast with the trucker. Now I was on my way home. I was healed. Willard was dying. Then a crazy notion crossed my mind that he was dying so that I could live; that delivering me was to be his final act. I’d probably be there tomorrow. We switched off again. I got out my map.
“Which way do we go?” Willard asked almost cheerfully.
“Well, we could stay on 80 all the way to Des Moines and then head north – or we could go north from Cheyenne to the Black Hills and then take 90 across.”
“Isn’t that were that guy is carving that Indian out of a mountain?”
“Crazy Horse – yes, that’s in the Black Hills.”
“I’d like to see that,” Willard said, “I watched a show about it one time. They use dynamite to blast away the rock.”
“Okay, that’s the way we’ll go.”
Setting our sights on Crazy Horse renewed Willard’s energy. He talked for a while, reminiscing, and then slept again. I stopped somewhere north of Cheyenne and slept a few hours. We arrived at Crazy Horse early – the gate was still locked.
“Oh well, Willard said, “You can see it pretty good from here.”
He didn’t want to hang around so we carried on. Driving through South Dakota reminded me of a trip I had taken with the family when I was a kid – the Wall Drug signs, the Corn Palace in Mitchell.
As we crossed into Minnesota I told Willard that I had grown up in Austin and explained that my parents still lived there, and that I wanted to stop and see them. We got into town sometime after midnight. It was hard saying goodbye to him.
“I’ll be fine – go see your parents.”
“Take care of yourself Willard.”
The tears came as I walked up the driveway. I watched as the lights of the Nissan disappeared. The night air was cool and delicious. I slipped in the back door. I remember being down in the laundry room, trying to be quiet, rolling a joint, when my mom came in.
“I heard you took a little trip.”
“Yeah, it turned into quite a trip.”
‘What are you doing?”
“Rolling a joint.”
“Where’d you get that,” she asked looking super close at the weed I was deseeding because she didn’t have her contact lenses in.
“From a trucker in Missouri.”
“Oh,” she said.