A man and a dog, on the road home

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I picked up a hitchhiker on my way home from the writer’s conference a week ago.

The way it happened was, I left the highway to buy gas, and on my way back to the highway I saw a dog lying just off the on-ramp. As my foot shifted to the brake I saw that someone was already there, so I thought, “Okay, not my problem.”

Bubba on the onramp

A dog, a backpack, and a highway.

I was halfway up the ramp before I heard that still, small voice that speaks to all of us, if only we listen. “Go back,” it said.

“What? I can’t reverse down an on-ramp!” I argued indignantly, but I was already braking. I know that voice. I don’t always like what it says, but I’ve learned to pay attention. I reversed down the on-ramp, and I didn’t hit anyone or go off the road or get fined.

When I was close to the dog, I stopped and honked my horn. The man kneeling next to it looked up, and jogged over to my car. In my rear view mirror I saw the dog raise its head, and then move to a more upright position. I realized it wasn’t hurt – it had just been sleeping … but I was there and the man was leaning to peer through my side window so I rolled it down.

“Is that dog with you?” I asked him. “Is it okay?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, and smiled. I glanced at my rear-view mirror. The dog – it looked like a pit bull – was watching us. It looked healthy, well-fed. I looked back at the man. He was dark, and had gray hair in a long braid down his back, and wore a red bandanna. Even with him outside the car I could tell he needed a shower, yet he looked … well, not clean, exactly, but put together, as though he’d taken some trouble. The air billowing in through the open window was hot and heavy, and I turned up the fan on my air conditioner.

That voice wasn’t saying anything. It didn’t need to; I knew what I had to do. I sighed. “You need a ride?” I asked.

His face split in a huge grin. “Yes ma’am!” he replied. “Are you going near Ellensburg?” I was going 100 miles beyond Ellensburg – further than he’d hoped to get that day. We stashed his backpack in the trunk, and the dog, Bubba, jumped into the back seat and settled down with a sigh.

He introduced himself – I’ll call him Cajun.ย I’ll pick up hitchhikers when the voice says it’s okay, but I don’t feel obligated to entertain them, so I told him I was in the middle of listening to the final book in the “Wayward Pines” trilogy and didn’t want to stop. I brought him up to speed on the story and we listened together, but every now and again he’d drop a comment, and I’d switch off the CD and we’d chat. That’s how I heard his story – in bits and pieces interspersed with the bloody destruction of the last humans on earth – until I decided his story was more interesting than the book.

He told me he was part Cajun, part Mexican, part African, and two parts Native American. He’s been a mechanic for Boeing and a Marine, and a street preacher to the poor. Now, he does construction work and roofing, and picks up odd jobs here and there when he needs to. He’s a musician and songwriter and has supported himself and Bubba more than once by playing on sidewalks and street corners. At the moment his guitar is in Idaho,ย but he played me one of his songs that he’d recorded on his tablet. The recording wasn’t good, and I really wished it was. That song sounded worth hearing.

His regular-people life fell apart around 2001.ย The Man kicked him in the ass, so he gave The Man the finger, acquired a backpack, and hit the road. Since then he’s lived on the streets and wandered the highways of the USA, trusting God to provide, which He does mainly through the kindness of strangers. A few years ago he picked up a job in Sedona, Arizona, and within a few weeks he’d saved enough to rent a home. That job was followed by a couple of others. Life was good. He celebrated Valentine’s Day in 2015 by visiting the local animal shelter, where he found Bubba, and since then they’ve been inseparable.

But things fell apart in Sedona too, and soon Cajun and Bubba were back on the road. I was puzzled that he gave up on a place where it seemed he’d been content. This is not a lazy or stupid or unskilled man. He likes a cold beer at each end of a hot day, but he seemed sober to me. I asked him what had happened and he didn’t want to go into detail, but he said, “I don’t define my work as who I am. My purpose is to live in poverty and share God’s love with the discarded people in this earth.”

He has a grown daughter whom he hasn’t seen for years. He had planned to connect with her when he passed through Seattle a couple days before I met him, but something went wrong and a payment he was counting on was delayed. He didn’t want to face her with empty pockets so he canceled, and now Seattle was behind him and she was pissed.

“You think she’d have cared that you were broke?” I asked.

“I wanted to at least take her to lunch,” he replied.

“You’re an idiot,” I informed him. “You should go back, or at least apologize.” (I am so good at telling other people how to run their lives!) I don’t know that he cared much what I thought – why should he? – but a bit later he was texting with her. He didn’t want to go back, though – he was focused on his next destination.

Dream home

When Cajun is surfing the net, imagining his dream home, this is the kind of picture he’s likely to save.

Before Seattle, on their way up the west coast, he and Bubba got a ride with a long-haul trucker, who told him all about the trucking life. So he was on his way to Salt Lake City, where he’s signed up for a training course with a trucking company. Not too far down the road he reckons he’ll be able to buy his own truck – apparently trucking companies contract with drivers and help them do that. He was excited at the prospect of having a real home, but one that wouldn’t involve staying put in the same place.

“Do you think of yourself as homeless?” I asked. I was trying to puzzle him out. He’d told me he could not “live the American life”. Some of the things he says sound as though he’s on the road by choice – a hobo rather than homeless. He says he has no regrets. But then he’ll say something else that aches with hurts and disappointments, both suffered and dealt out, and I wonder what he’d change, if he could.

“I can’t afford a home,” he said, and he sounded sad.

“So you’re not like Reacher – just choosing to live on your own terms?” I asked.

“Jack Reacher? Like in the movie?” He laughed. He liked that idea. He said he personally didn’t want a home, but he thought Bubba would like one, and that’s what mattered most.

Just east of the Cascades he asked for a restroom break, so I pulled over in Cle Elum. While he was taking care of himself and Bubba, I texted the Hubbit to let him know I might be bringing someone home for dinner. The way things work with the Hubbit and me is, we each make our own plans and the other accommodates, but each of us has veto power. So I waited an hour or so, until we were near the Tri-Cities, before I said, “Okay, you have three options. I can take the next exit and drop you in town – there’s a McDonald’s, Walmart, etc. Or I can take the exit after that one and drop you there; there’s nothing there but you say you do better getting rides from country people. Or you can come on home with me, and tomorrow morning I’ll drop you at the truck stop.”

His eyes lit up, then he looked worried. “But won’t your husband mind?” he asked.

“I texted him hours ago and he hasn’t said no. And he’s used to me picking up strays,” I said. Plus, if the Hubbit won’t remember to keep his phone with him and check for texts from his loving wife who is driving along a lonely highway through the barren wastes of Eastern Washington, that’s on him, right? “You’ll be welcome, so it’s up to you. It looks as though you could use a shower and a washing machine,” I added, ever tactful.

So he came home, and the dogs weren’t assholes when I introduced them to Bubba, and the Hubbit was surprised but welcoming. Well, resigned, anyway – and once Cajun had showered and dinner was on the table, the Hubbit discovered for himself that the company was good, as promised.

Cajun's feet

Cajun prefers his tent to a bedroom indoors.

Cajun didn’t want the spare bedroom. He pitched his tent under a tree in the back yard. The next day we offered him the option of staying on for a few days, helping out a little on the farm in return for his keep, and giving himself and Bubba a rest – but he was in a hurry to continue his journey. He repacked his backpack – traded me some cheap dog food that the chickens like for the better stuff we feed our dogs, and left a small blanket and an umbrella on the washing machine. I guess when you have to carry everything you own, you don’t hang onto an umbrella during the dry season.

It turned out that the truck stop near us, that I’d planned to take him to, was on the wrong route, so we drove into Oregon, and he kept studying Google Maps on his tablet and saying, “It’s pretty soon … I think the next turn-off … Or maybe the next one.”

“I’m not taking you all the way to Salt Lake City, you know!” I groused – not because I minded so much as I was worried about running out of gas, and it was nearly the end of the month so I’d already run out of money. The truck stop was at the next turnoff after that, and he put $30 in my tank, because he may be homeless but he’s not a bum.

I texted with him while writing this story. I had to ask his permission to use photographs off his Facebook page, and I wanted to check in with him anyway. He’s in Utah, just outside Salt Lake City, feeling down in the dumps. It seems people there don’t respond to a “Hungry” sign, and no one is stopping to give him a ride. He’s hoping a trucker will come by soon, because they usually stop when they see Bubba. He’s moving on, going to Laramie, Wyoming, where he reckons he has a better chance of finding work. His course is in September and it lasts a month, and he can’t have Bubba with him while he’s training, so he needs to save up for a boarding kennel.

I hope they get a ride soon. I hope they make it home.

Do you pick up hitchhikers? What about hitchhikers with dogs? And … what do you think, when you see a homeless person?

 

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About Belladonna Took

Into my second half-century and still trying to figure out what to be when I grow up. Born South African, naturalized American, at constant risk of losing my balance and landing ass-first in the Atlantic. A wife, a mom, a daughter and sister, kind of a grandma. Until recently a full-time dog rescuer, now more concerned with rescuing myself. User of dog hair as accessory, decor and garnish. Technical writer, strategic thinker, occasional entrepreneur. Voiceless poet and storyteller. Born again Christ-follower and former missionary schoolteacher chewing on some uncomfortable questions. Ignorer of rules, challenger of assumptions, believer in miracles. Skeptical libertarian, equal opportunity despiser of politicians and assholes. Gonnabe gardener, wannabe beekeeper, Monsanto-hating tree-hugger. Morbidly obese chocaholic, with a horse I don't ride because I might break him, and if not he would probably break me.

21 responses »

  1. You do know how to tell a story. I am filled with an assortment of feelings – anxiety (a hitchhiker!), curiosity (what’s his story?), amusement (husband and wife dynamics, oh yeah!), and finally, more than a little sad for Cajun.

    Will there be a sequel? Well, one thing’s for certain, yes, there will be more like Cajun, but we many never know his particular outcome. Which leaves me feeling… a want.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I don’t know whether there will be a sequel to this particular story. He knows there’s a place for him to pitch his tent here, and he won’t have too work to hard to earn his dinner and a shower. I’ve friended him on FB and hope to keep in touch with him. He’s an interesting man … and Bubba is a total sweetheart.

      Thank you for the kind words, Maggie… ๐Ÿ™‚ This story pretty much wrote itself.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Oy! I am a hard Saffie now, especially after 7 years working with street kids in Hillbrow. It is very hard to turn one’s back when they won’t go to the shelter, and that is the advice. I picked up a hitchhiker – once. In my very first car – a yellow Renault 5 (otherwise known as “The Yellow Peril”). I was driving from Cape Town to Joburg – alone. He was somewhere near the Du Toits Kloof Pass and had blond hair and a pony tail (we’re talking 1990). Turned out he was an Aussie carpenter, hiking his way through SA. I had company all the way and dropped him off at the YMCA in Braamfontein before heading home.

    Oh and there was one other occasion – also en route to Joburg. This time from Queenstown and a couple were heading to somewhere like Kroonstadt. I was glad to have them in the car when my tire burst. They and a friendly trucker changed the wheel. Don’t remember much more than that, except that in both cases I was bollocked on after the fact. Notwithstanding that all ended well…

    Wishing Cajun and Bubba well….

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    • Re street kids, etc – You do have to respect their right to make choices … and then leave them to handle the consequences of those choices. As long as they know there’s an option available. I didn’t know you’d worked with street kids. Blog, please?

      Liked by 1 person

      • Oh, I have just seen this, Val – sorry. Been a little pre-occupied…. And yes, your point about their right to make choices was one that was never well received, nor the fact that many had made a very responsible choice taking to the streets – to earn money to support their families. And often at enormous personal cost. Um, and as for a blog on that…well, we’ll see. It’s a part of my life I’ve not written about – for lots of reasons. Some a bit like what you’ve alluded to with your animal shelter experience.

        Liked by 1 person

  3. I picked up a few when I was younger. One was a teenager walking on a cold day. He was nowhere near as talkative as Cajun. I have always wondered why he was out in such bad weather, so poorly dressed with such a long walk. Now that I’m a mom of a teenage boy, I’m just surprised he wasn’t starving to boot!

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    • Sadly, he might have been, but not trusted you enough to ask for help. I generally prefer not to make random chit-chat, but I do find people’s personal stories interesting so if they’re not talkative I try to draw them out. Why did you stop picking them up? (I presume you did, since you say “when I was younger” as though you’re now older … and wiser?}

      Liked by 1 person

      • Well, I have an autistic child in the car with me now. That, and a drunk man tried to force his way into the car my husband and I were driving when we stopped to offer aid at the scene of his accident. This made me leery after that.

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    • Good for you! I hitchhiked a few times, in my student years, and narrowly avoided a nasty situation on two occasions that I remember. That’s one reason I’m inclined to pick people up, especially young people; I don’t want them to get into trouble. (And I’ll always stop for a dog, of course, unless Argos The Asshole is guarding the backseat.) But I listen to that voice … Sometimes I want to stop but I just know not to. Maybe I’m wrong on those occasions, but at least I’m still around to make the decision, so there’s that… ๐Ÿ™‚

      Liked by 1 person

  4. I hope he continues to find his way. You’ve got a big heart. I remember my dad picked up a guy when I was a little girl. It was pouring out, terrible storm. We drove him a few miles that day and I remember my dad’s compassion to this day. My mom freaked out, as is her way. I’ve never picked anyone up, but I have considered it. I guess I’ll need to listen for a voice. ๐Ÿ˜€

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    • Thanks for stopping by, ABM … I was afraid you might be mad at me for my rant. (Wasn’t meant that way, but I guess it’s possible that’s how it looked.) I know it’s a risk, and sometimes I’ve regretted picking someone up – like the VERY drunk old man trying to find his way down a country road last time I was in South Africa, also in pouring rain … But I just don’t understand how one can drive past a fellow human being in such circumstances. So yeah, I’d encourage you to listen for the voice. Sometimes hitchhikers are actually angels… ๐Ÿ™‚ (Hebrews 13.2)

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      • Oh goodness no Bella! Not angry at you at all, never! I get you! ๐Ÿ˜‰ Just I have trouble keeping up with all the great writing in the blogisphere . Being laid up with the injury has given me a little time to catch up on all the great stories out there. Angels in disguise is an important parable about taking some risks and showing kindness. Much needed in this day and age.

        Liked by 1 person

  5. Oddly enough, I’ve never had the opportunity to pick up a hitchhiker. I’ve been an inadvertent one in the past…and the gentleman who offered me a spot in his car listened to me as I blubbered and wailed about the unfairness of life.

    Guess I needed an ear that night, and the fates provided one.

    I loved your story – and would enjoy more from your Cajun. I hope he keeps in touch with you!

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  6. You have a good heart Belladonna Took and a way with words too as I was drawn in right from the start. I hope Cajun and Bubba are doing ok.

    I don’t pick up hitchhikers. I travel alone a lot for my job and am just too suspicious of people. It’s pretty sad, because most I’m sure are harmless but that’s the world we live in today.

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