The Rose

Autobiographical fiction by Michael Mohr

Photo by Marco Bicca on Unsplash

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.

When I got close he seemed to suddenly notice me. He twitched his head, eyes mean and serious, and didn’t budge an inch. If he were a dog he’d have been a Doberman or a Pitt Bull, one of the ones who fought for money.

“What do you want, boy? Why you closin’ in on me?”

I stopped moving. Swallowing, heart beginning to pump a note harder, I said, “I’m just trying to catch a ride. It’s tough.”

His thin blue lips were plastered together hard, as if he needed oil to pry them apart, as if it were a lot of work to get the lips to spread open. “Oh yeah?” His interest seemed to pique. “Where you headed, boy?”

Taking a breath I said, “California. Humboldt County.”

The man turned his head and looked behind us, eyeing Southeast Turner Road. He flipped back around. We were standing on the corner of Turner and the continuation of I-5.

“Tell you what, kid, I can get you all the way down to Humboldt, no problem.” His voice was this raspy, drawl-like machine that sounded like it also needed oil, like he was the tin man in Wizard of Oz.

“You have a car?” I asked.

He smiled then, and there was something unbelievable in the smile, something dishonest. A bell tolled deep down in my intuitive core but I swatted it away like a fly. “Sure I do. Follow me.”

The man turned on his heel and started down Southeast Turner Road, east, away from the freeway. I followed behind about ten feet, wary but curious, wondering where this would lead me. All the horror stories you hear in the news, my mother’s warnings about danger and hitchhiking, and my own fears, bloomed inside of my mind like an exploding atom bomb.

About three blocks down from the freeway entrance, on Turner, we landed at this building. It said, “Alano Club of Salem, Oregon: Welcome.” There were a few people lounging outside, on a deck, smoking cigarettes, a door open wide behind them. A little blue sign hung from the door, two “A’s” in white.  

“C’mon, boy,” the man said. “This way.”

“Hey,” I said, drawing closer, taking a risk. “What’s your name?”

He pulled his lips tight and said, “Just call me The Rose, son.”

Inside the building there was a round table with about 15 men sitting around it in an arc. Some had missing front teeth, most were over 50 and had the same wrinkles and meanness in the eyes as The Rose. The feeling of fear and uncomfortability snaked its way up my guts and I worked hard to also look tough and mean.

We took a seat but right after I sat The Rose stood and moved over to the opposite corner of the table. There were scrolls on the wall that said, “12 Steps” and “12 Traditions.” These pithy sayings and acronyms were on the wall, too, like “Let go and let God” and “GOD, Group of Drunks.” Jesus, What were we doing in an AA meeting?

Soon we were all saying the serenity prayer out loud in tandem and someone was reading the opening literature. Then people were sharing their horror stories: divorce, DUIs, jail, injuries, bar fights, relapse, and even prison stretches. I was out of my element. Middleclass as they come, Kerouac or no Kerouac, I was out of my comfort zone.

Before I knew it there was a brief recess. I walked with the others out to the deck and bummed a smoke off the youngest guy there, who was still at least in his mid-40s. He smiled and handed me a Winston 100. I stuck it between my lips and he lit it with his silver Zippo, clamping the top down with a similar click as my buckle. Ok, this was weird but I felt alive again. Hell, this was an adventure. I was out here on my own, experiencing Kerouac’s America god damn-it, and no one could tell me a damn thing. No job, no apartment, no girlfriend. Just the open road. Ultimate freedom. I had my writing journal—nearly filled—and a copy of “Into the Wild,” the Krakauer book about Chris McCandless, a tragic though beautiful tale of trying to find “it.”

I felt my arm being pinched and I was being dragged down the deck. It was The Rose. He looked like he was really in a hurry. On the way down, I snatched my backpack which had been resting against the wall outside of the meeting. He pulled me down the steps.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

Instead of answering me, he searched around frantically, scanning the parked cars in the dirt lot in front of the Alano Club. He spotted his mark and we walked over to a 1990 Chrysler LeBaron. It was gray and had the little silver Chrysler symbol popping up from the hood and it said, “Goodyear” in white on the tires, very faded.

The Rose popped the trunk and indicated for me to place my pack in. I did, and then I got in the passenger seat. Inside it smelled like Pall Mall cigarettes and the fetid stench, the reek of pot, OG Kush if I had my pot down pat. The seat was old and the cloth was torn badly, cream stuffing pouring out.

He got in, slammed his door, and hit the ignition. The car exploded to life. Then he backed it out, dust spraying everywhere, and hit the gas. I threw my seat belt on. As we drove down the lot, speed increasing, window down, I heard yelling. I looked back and about half the men from the meeting were screaming and wildly waving their hands, running behind us. I heard the statement, “That man stole my car!” And then it all clicked: Some of the men had their keys on the table in the meeting to indicate their place. The Rose must know these men and this meeting and whose car was whose.

He’d stolen the bastard. With me in it. Holy shit. Here was my story. If I lived.

As we moved faster and faster, away from the yelling, angry mob of supposedly sober men, a semi eighteen-wheeler truck was coming up the hill on Southeast Turner, toward us. We had a very small margin of error available to us. If we didn’t pump the gas, we’d smash right into this semi. I think I’d rather be beaten by the mob.

“Hey man,” I started. “Um…I think you should…Um…Oh my God…”

The Rose busted us out of the dirt lot and onto Turner. We barely missed the truck, who honked his balls out at us, by maybe half a foot, if that. My heart was thundering, mind in a frenzy. Ok, you made it past Gate #1. But what would be Gate #2? I didn’t want to know.

We hooked a sharp, hard, rubber-burning left onto Turner and then jumped onto I-5 south, toward California. I glanced at the speedometer; I didn’t like what I saw. We were approaching 100 miles an hour, and furthermore he was careening all over his lane, sloppy as hell. C’mon, man, I thought. Just stop the car, give me my pack, and let me out. This will be a great story someday if, you know, I lived through it.

He slowed down and pulled off on a major street called Kuebler Boulevard. Soon we were parked in front of a liquor store. He cut the engine.

“You got any money?” he said.

I hesitated. I thought, I could run. I could just get out right now and fucking book it. But what about my pack? No, I couldn’t, I wouldn’t leave my pack. Feeling around in my pockets, I discovered the ten dollar bill Jared had given me for “good luck on the road.” Thank God.

“Buy me two tall boys of Natural Ice. Be quick about it, boy.”

I walked into the store and found the tall boys. The Indian guy behind the counter looked at me and then glanced outside, at the waiting car. He looked suspicious. “You ok man?” he asked, in a cliché Indian accent.

A lump running up my constricted throat, I said, “Yeah. I’m fine.” Sweat beaded my brow. The guy took my money, handed over the tall boys in a brown bag, and gave me my change.

Back in the car, The Rose took one of the talls, popped it open, and took a massive slug. We backed up and jumped onto I-5 south once more. At first, he started doing 90 again, but then slowed down to a reasonable, law-abiding 75. He chugged a whole tall boy in about five minutes and then grabbed the second one. After about half an hour, I thought, “I can do this. Alright. Now, this will be a fantastic story someday.” I was young, free, on the road, and heading towards my home state and a close buddy’s house. What could possibly go wrong?

Right about the same time as I had that thought, I heard the sirens. The sirens cut across the highway and across my consciousness like a knife through jelly. I nearly pissed myself. Looking over at The Rose, I wondered, “What’s this guy going to do?”

As if hearing me, he slammed on his breaks and we fishtailed violently across our lane, skidding into the shoulder, a crazy jerking motion, my head bomping to the beat back and forth against the seat.

Four squad cars—Salem Police Department, To Protect and Serve scrawled on the sides—and a police van pulled up behind us. The first squad car jammed to a stop, the car shaking, and two uniformed patrol cops popped out instantly, black guns drawn.

My window was still slightly down. “Do not move and put your hands behind your head,” one of the cops yelled. This was surreal. I slowly placed my hands behind my head and was careful not to move an inch. Mechanically, as if he’d done this routinely, The Rose followed the same instructions.

The cops stepped over to us, their guns drawn in front of them. The cop who’d yelled aimed the gun right at my head. “Step out of the car and keep those hands where I can see ‘em.” I did as I was told, my throat dry, and the cop turned me around roughly, pushing me against the Chrysler. He placed cuffs around my wrists, that crunch noise popping from the hooks clicking into the lock.

The other cop got The Rose out and did the same. Facing the highway, I watched drivers rubbernecking. I was that guy on the side of the freeway getting arrested, the freak show.

The cop turned me around, lowering his gun. Several other cops approached, some wearing Kevlar. Through the windows of the police van I noticed one of the men from the meeting. He was speaking behind the glass and pointing at us.

The cop said, “What’s your name, kid?”

“Michael,” I said.

“You got any ID on you, Michael?”

I jerked my head down at my back pocket.

The cop reached his hand down and pulled my wallet out. He took out my California Driver’s license. Glancing at the ID and then handing it off to a younger cop who walked with it to a squad car, probably to do a quick background check, he stood near me and for a moment I thought he was going to beat my ass. I don’t know, I just had this feeling. But he didn’t. Instead, he spit on the ground and said, “This car belong to you, Michael?”

“No sir, officer. Sure doesn’t.”

He hitched his duty belt up an inch, the gun in its holster now, the taser and mace hanging off in their leather pouches. “Mind telling me what the hell you thought you were doing with it?”

Without missing a beat I said, “Sir, I’m just hitchhiking south to California. This guy,” I glanced over at The Rose, who was being read his Miranda rights, “Picked me up. Well, he put me in the car. I didn’t realize…”

The cop cut me off. “You didn’t realize it was stolen?”

“No sir. I swear to God. That’s the truth.”

“How old are you, son?”

“I’m twenty-three, sir.”

“Okay,” he said. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

The cop walked back to the squad car, The Rose now inside the back of it, behind the plastic screen. Shit. I was going to jail. There was no way out of this one. The cop kept looking at the younger cop, talking, and then looking back over at me. His mouth worked constantly.

Finally, the cop stopped talking, shook his head at the younger cop, the other squad cars and the police van all behind them, like a fucked-up suspense film, slammed his door and walked over to me.

“Alright, son, here you go.” He uncuffed me and handed back my ID. Feeling my wrists where the metal had been, I was grateful.

“Can I get my bag? It’s in the back.”

The cop walked around to the driver’s side, snatched the keys, and opened the trunk. I grabbed my gear and hoisted it onto my shoulders.

The cop placed his palm on my shoulder. “You should be more careful when you take rides.”

“I will, officer.”

“You know who that guy was?”

I shook my head, not sure I wanted to know.

“There are several prisons around Salem. That’s why I don’t recommend you hitch around here. It’s not safe. We just did a full background check on your man here. This guy, John Wheatley, just got out two days ago from Oregon State Penitentiary. He had served 25 years on a murder rap. Just now he told us his plan had been to get down to California where he has a connection selling guns on the black market. He’s in violation of his parole and he stole a car. He’s going back in.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said. It was all I could think of.

The cop shook his head. “Be more discerning. Stay away from the psychos and ex inmates. And if I catch you out here again, I won’t be as kind. There’s a very nice jail downtown. Understand me?”

“Clear as water,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, thank God you’re alive, kid.”

I nodded and turned around, heading along the shoulder going south, thumb out, wondering how the hell I had done something so stupid. Oh, right, for the story. It was that young, alive, free thing, right? But something inside of me had changed, had jogged loose. I felt more calm almost, more relaxed.

High stakes this hitchhiking can be, I thought, risky. That’s what my mother always said anyway.