THE PICKUP

Dan recovered from being assaulted by an airborne Pringles can and continued to wait. Waiting was a part of the journey all hitchhikers are bound to accept. Being attacked by closed-minded assholes with junk food containers was not. He often wondered why people had to be such jerks to people unlike themselves. Nonetheless, Dan Jones's waiting paid off as he noticed a light blue pickup truck pull to the side of the road. He saw written in white letters on the old tailgate as he tossed his ragged backpack in the words: "Alaska or BUST". Smiling he knew this could be his ticket to an easy completion of his Trans-continental journey.

Getting into the old truck and shutting the door with a rattle and metallic clank, he settled in. The first thing he noticed was a scent. He was not sure of what, but something mixed between the old musty smell of his grandma’s house and the kitchen of a coffee shop. The dashboard in front of him, which was gray and cluttered with odds and ends, including a digital clock glued straight onto the gray paneling. Below this and above the locked glove box was a single sticker from Dawson Creek, BC, Mile One of the Alaskan Highway.

The driver was concentrating on the oncoming traffic preparing to pull out and rejoin the journey NW. Dan took this moment to observe his host. This man was about his same age, mid-twenty’s. He had sandy brown hair hanging about his collar pulled back with the help of a black and green baseball cap. It was a cool morning and his attire of a tee shirt and fleece vest matched it well. The vest was black and had a small American Flag pin attached to it. He was wearing tan hiking pants and had a maroon Dunkin Donuts coffee mug between his legs.

Dan observed how the driver amazingly watched traffic, operated the clutch and gas simultaneously while steering with one hand and shifting with the other without spilling the coffee. This man has obviously been driving for some time now. He wondered where he was coming from. This and much more detail was to come as they began to talk.

"What’s your name?" Dan asked know the custom of being polite to the ship’s captain.

"Some call me Woodstock and my truck Babe."

"How long have you been on the road," asked Dan.

"Oh", responded Woodstock, "I’m from New York, but I originally left from Georgia, stopping in North Carolina for a festival and New York to visit family along the way. Oh man, it was a great festival. I met this wonderful vegetarian girl there too! Let me tell you about it…"