I was a cute young guy and I knew it. Skinny, with cool little muscles. Punk-ass jeans, work boots, greasy long hair. Stick out my thumb anywhere, always get a ride. Gone ocean to ocean five times. And I’ve seen some weird shit. Hooked up with a Rasta called “Love” in California’s Napa Valley, which was about as incongruous as it gets. (He was a good partier, but I lost him in a bar in the Tenderloin.) Busted by the cops in Colorado, who stole my copy of “On the Road.” Checked out farmgirl strippers in Vancouver, Canada. Puked my guts out on New Orleans’ Bourbon Street, ate pancakes at 5 a.m. in Reno, Nev., while next door the chain-smokin’ zombies gave one-arm bandits perpetual hand jobs. On my way to Hickory, N.C., got picked up by a Jew-hating good ol’ boy who tried to scare me with his stars-and-bars license plate and his Klux rant. In Maine, I was looking for Stephen King’s house and went driving with a little kid who had stolen his mom’s Buick.
But the best ride of all was this black lady in a big fuckin’ Caddy on the turnpike outside New York. When I slid into the front, she tossed me a bag of grass and said, “We roll.” And I was hip. Two hours later, we’re sailing down a no-name country road in Pennsylvania — signs all over the place saying things like “Real Amish Homestyle Cooking” and “Dutch Antiques.” We found a dead road that snaked into a tangle of old woods and parked.
And she’s sucking my dick. Oh, did I forget to mention my dick? It’s not that long, only about 6 or so inches, but it’s got the dimensions of a Pepsi can. And I think width counts. At least, that’s what they tell me.
And me and this New York woman, I think she said she was from Yonkers, are stoned out and she’s trying to get her mouth over the head of my water rat. And then she says, “This is too good to pass up — fuck me, Mr. Ed.” Now, believe it or not, hitchhiking demon that I was, I was careful, and I told her, “I got no rubbers.”
And you know what she did? She just flopped onto her belly and said, “Then I guess you’ll just have poke me up the Hershey Highway.” Which was funny, since we weren’t that far from the real Hershey, where they make the chocolate. It was a squeeze, but she didn’t seem to mind at all. When I finished she just went kind of “Um-hmm” and rolled over onto her back. Her eyes were all glazed over. She mumbled, “Honey, can you drive, ’cause I’m gonna take a little nap.” And that’s what she did. She was snoring by the time we got to Gettysburg.
Read No. 21