Stealing Cars

Autobiographical fiction by Michael Mohr

Photo by Marco Bicca on Unsplash

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3. Yes. This really happened. (Story below.)

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I hoisted my green REI Ridgeline 65 backpack over my shoulders, rested the thing squarely, and pulled the single belt connector across my chest, buckling it tight, that familiar click sound making me feel ready.

On the wide shoulder of U.S. Highway 5, the long vein that runs vertically from Los Angeles California all the way up to the border of Canada, I stood with my pack in Salem, Oregon, waiting for some mysterious driver to pull over and rescue me. Being twenty-three years old, it was my first time on “the adventure,” as I called it, referring to my “On the Road” life. Ever since I’d read the novel by Jack Kerouac, I’d decided to live my life differently, more on the edge. It was an existential, even spiritual quest. I knew, unconsciously, that I wanted good stories to write about later, and I knew I was chasing some young, naïve, desperate idea of “freedom.”

Sticking my thumb out for cars going my way, I began trudging on the shoulder in the direction I needed: south. My destination was California, where I was from. Specifically, I was trying to get to Arcata, in Humboldt County, where I had a buddy waiting for me. It was late June, I had no idea what day of the week or what time of day, and it was warm and humid. My trip two weeks ago via Amtrak up to Portland had been onerous, but adventurous, so it technically fit the bill.

Seeing Jared had been the usual experience: painful and yet wonderful at the same time. His vegan, anarchist friends who drank too much (but not like the way I drank), who were covered in tattoos, and who were about to hop freight trains across America in July to get to New York City, were a bunch of pretentious, pseudo-hipsters who lied to themselves almost as much as they lied to me. But it didn’t matter. My journey wasn’t about fitting in, and it wasn’t even so much about the physical journey as the inner one.

Cars whizzed by me on the freeway, the wind from their rushing tires whipping my clothes and face, almost cooling me down. At least there was that. My first time hitchhiking, it had been a frustrating experience so far, mostly little bump rides a mile or two here and there.

Somewhere around Southeast Turner Road, which I could see off the highway, and the “Willamette Humane Society, Spay & Neuter” building, right by this off-ramp, I spotted this interesting, albeit dangerous-looking man. Now, looking back, I don’t know if it was the inherent danger that lulled me in, or if it was just pure stupidity. Probably, it was both.

I approached the guy. He was tall, maybe 6’3, and must have been in his mid-50s. Wrinkled lines creased, almost burned into his face but he had these glowing blue eyes that I was afraid might see right through me. Broad-shouldered, tough-seeming, with gnarled workman hands that could break stuff easily. He wore a red plaid shirt, ripped on the side, and torn-up Levi’s blue jeans with black boots. And of course the rose. He had this ink-colored, fat, faded rose tattooed across his right cheek, giving him the appearance of some kind of death angel. Maybe he was Kerouac back from the dead, I thought. Perfect.