Sweet Hitchhiker Ch. 01

Sweet Hitchhiker

Are you gonna go my way?

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It was 1975, and I was 22 years old. I had spent my time between 19 and 20 on a tropical vacation courtesy of my uncle. When you're that young, the things you see never leave you. It took me a year of mostly hiding out at my uncle's farm before I could stand to be around a large group of people. PTSD and counseling were almost unheard of back then, so you either dealt with the problems yourself or it consumed you. I freely admit part of my therapy included a lot of pot, that I grew on National Park land near my house. If you got caught growing on private property, that property could be seized, but if you grew it on federally owned land, who were they going to seize it from? Themselves? I sold what I didn't need and was making good money, until the Feds did a crackdown and raided seven plots up and down the river, my field included. They interviewed me, but had nothing to tie me to the field, so they left me alone and went after bigger fish.

It kind of left me at loose ends, and my uncle pushed me to go to school on the G.I. bill. He knew about my pot farm, but he was a retired moonshiner and his opinion was if the government didn't catch you, it was free money.

He even gave me his old 'shine runner, a 1965 Plymouth Fury Three. It was a unmarked state partol car and my uncle found it no end of funny what he used it for. It had a 383 interceptor engine, that he had rebuilt and 'modified slightly'. It was so quiet you almost couldn't hear it run, but if you put your foot in the four barrel it took off like a scalded cat. I used to make money of street races, 'dragging' from stoplight to stoplight, but stopped because I was getting a little too much attention.

I talked to my VA man, and he told me he agreed with my uncle. So I enrolled at the local community college first, just to see if I could handle it. I surprised everyone including myself with how well I did, and I was going to transfer to a four year school as soon as possible.

While I was In Country, I made a friend. Leroy Barnette was as country as they come, and he could play anything with strings, but his instrument of choice was his fiddle. We bonded because of our similar background, and he introduced me to bluegrass. Up until then I'd been a straight rock and roller, but I learned to love the music. Right after I got out I started going to fiddler's conventions, the forerunner to festivals like Merlefest. I still had Leroy's bow.

Three weeks before we were to go home, we got caught in a pretty intense firefight. It was one of those night fights, lit up with tracers, flares, and grenades going off. One particular Charley would have made a fine pitcher, because he threw a grenade that curved around the tree and went off while it was still head level. We had to identify Leroy by the dogtag in his boot. A few days later the sargeant and I packed up his stuff to go home, and found his beloved fiddle missing. We were really pissed, but it was long gone, and Sarge gave me the bow to remember him by.

Six months after I got home, I drove a state over and met his folks. I gave them a few photos I had, and after they fed me some of the best smoked chicken I'd ever eaten, and we sat on the porch for hours, remembering. Just before I drove away I gave his momma the bow, and it set her to crying like she'd just found out he was gone. I got a lot of hugs and vows to keep in touch, but we all knew it would be too painful. I never saw them again.

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There was a Fiddler's Convention, as they were called back then, at Union Grove. It was probably the oldest event in the state, and was always sold out. I didn't bother trying to get tickets because I was scheduled to work that week, but there had been a death in the owner's family, and they were going out of state for the funeral, so they gave the rest of the guys four days off. The job was only temporary, to cover for my 'tax free' money, so I thought about it and decided I'd go down to the convention, and try to get in.

The place was packed, congestion bringing traffic to a standstill on every road into the venue. I hung around for a while, but it was obvious they weren't going to let anyone else in, so I sighed and decided to go home. There weren't a lot of interstates in the area, so it was mostly country roads all the way home.

I was driving along on a road I'd never been on, enjoying the scenery. I did that a lot when I got stressed, just jump into the car and go, always taking roads I wasn't familiar with. In less than two hours I'd be relaxed and ready to go home. I found a lot of neat stuff like that, and saw some pretty disgusting things. I came around a curve once and a man was beating his dog with a strap, as well as kicking her. I damn near hit him sliding to a stop, and he was so surprised he just stood there. I yanked the strap out of his hand and whomped on him pretty good, and when he went down I gave him a boot to the ribs. Then I yanked him up by his tee shirt. "Hurts like a motherfucker, don't it? At least you had the option to fight back."

I threw him down and looked at the cowering animal, then I opened the back door. "Well, get in if you're coming."

The dog dove in and we left the asshole lying in the road, cussin' a blue streak. When I got home the dog took off like I'd lit her tail on fire, and I didn't see her for two days. I left food out for her, just in case. On the third day I was dozing on the porch when I felt a cold nose on my arm, and looked up. She looked ready to bolt and I talked to her in a calm, quiet voice, and eventually she relaxed and started licking my arm. Three weeks later if I moved, she moved, and she'd whine like crazy if I got in the car and left. I took to leaving a quilt on the backseat, and if I was just going to ride she came along.

As near as I could tell she was part hound, part bulldog, and maybe a little retriever. I know she had a hell of a nose, and when my brothers' kids were around one of them would take off running. I'd give them about a half hour head start, wave something of theirs under her nose, and say "Belle, find." She'd take off like she was shot from a gun, and a little while later she'd stroll back, tail wagging, while the kid she'd went looking for came along behind her. I never told anybody about her talent, because I damn sure didn't want the law borryin' her.

Thinking how unusual it was that I hadn't seen a single car in almost an hour, I rounded a curve and there she was, thumb out.

She was tall, wearing a crocheted halter top, a pair of jean shorts that barely covered the bottom of her ass, and flipflops. The sun glinted off her midlength Afro, her cream colored skin almost glowing. I couldn't stop fast enough.

She sauntered, the only way I could describe it, over to the car, leaning in the passenger side, putting her impressive rack on display. There was a glint in her eye and a smile flitting across her lips.

The first thing I thought to say was "How in the world did you end up here?"

She shrugged as she showed her bright teeth. "Caught a ride with a guy, as the farther we got the more insistent he was I pay, with my body. I objected and he slowed long enough for me to jump out. You're the first person who's been by in an hour. Can I hook a ride?"

"Sure, and just so you know, all I'll ask for is your company. Conversation would be nice, but not necessary. Where you headed?"

"Charlotte."

"I can get you as close as Gastonia." That was another town about twenty miles away.

"That would be great. I can get a ride from there."

She slid in, and put her oversize bag in the floorboard. I rolled the windows up and cranked up the AC. It was hotter than hell outside.

"How come you didn't melt out there?"

"I stayed in the shade until I heard a car coming. You were the first, and I sure appreciate the ride."

We talked, mostly about music. It surprised her I liked a lot of the music she did, and she said as much. "There's not a lot out there I don't like."

"Me too, except hard core country and bluegrass. Not my culture."

"You should keep an open mind. I wasn't real keen at first, but now I listen to bluegrass as much as anything else."

"Different stroke for different folks, baby."

We'd traveled about another hour when she looked over at me. "I love your hair."

After I got out, I let it grow. It was probably a year before I even allowed it to be trimmed. It was shoulder length now, and my time in the sun lightened my blond hair even more.

"Thanks. I like yours too, the style looks good on you."

She patted her head. "It takes a lot more than I thought to keep it this way, but even I think I look damn good."

"Your opinion is dead on, I think."

She giggled and slid over. "Thanks sugar. Now, there's something you can do for me."

"What?"

I felt a sharp pain, and looked down to see a knife in her hand, pressed into my stomach just below my ribs. Her smile was still in place. "Pull over. I'll be taking your ride. Damn, you couldn't be driving a Mustang, or Camero? It seems to run good, so maybe I can get decent bucks for it. Go on now, sugar, and don't try getting cute. I'll gut you like a pig and leave you bleedin' out. You hear me, white boy?"

There was a pull off under some trees just ahead, so soon we were off the road. "Good boy," she purred, "now hop on out and I'll be on my way."

I opened the door, looking her in the eye. "You sure you want to do this?"

"You're a cutie, and were nice to me, but yeah. A girl's got to turn coin when she can."

I sighed. "Well, at least you didn't try to rob me."

"Did I forget to mention that? Hand it over, baby."

By now I was out of the car, so I reached into my pocket and jumped back. It pissed her off and she came out of the car. "Motherfucker, I'm gonna..."

At that particular time she noticed the small pistol in my hand. It was a.32 Colt five shot revolver, and pointed right at her. My uncle gave it to me. "You gonna need this, boy, if you keep going with your growing plan. Sooner or later some asshole is going to figure out it easier to raid fields instead of growing them. Don't use it unless you have to. It's a throwaway, and can't be traced. Just make sure no one catches you with it."

Her eyes went wide and she started backing up. "Calm down now, brother. I made my play and missed. I wouldn't have hurt you. Why don't you just hop back in and leave me in the dust. It'll be a cool story to tell sometime down the line."

Then the bitch grinned. My side was hurting like hell and had I had a big red spot on my tee shirt. The grin flew all over me.

"Fuck you. If I was to pop you and toss you in that pond behind you, gut you and weigh you down with rocks, nobody would ever find you."

She went as pale as someone with that skin tone could, and tears started. For some reason, that pissed me off even worse, and I decided to fuck with her. "Know what calms me down, bitch? Tits. Why don't you drop that top?"

She started bawling in earnest, and I shot into the gravel at her feet, rocks pelted her as she screamed, and a big stain appeared on the front of her shorts. The top hit the ground.

"Nice jugs. I wouldn't mind playing with them, but that ain't gonna happen. Your shorts were gonna be next, but I think I'll let you keep them. I don't want the smell in my car."

She was crying hard, and I felt kind of bad for her, but I got over it.

"Gimme the flops. Try arguing with me over it and I'll go for a toe."

I picked them up after she kicked them towards me. "I'll be leaving now. If I were you I'd stay here in the shade and think about the poor life chioces you've made lately."

She was begging, her arms wrapped across her chest, when I pulled off. A hundred yards down the road I threw her top out the window, sitting there until I saw her stumbling towards it. I went another hundred yards, and tossed out a flop, then a little farther on, another. I grabbed the oversized bag to toss it, then decided to see what was in it. Damn, that was the biggest brick of weed I'd ever seen, and beside it was a roll of bills! I took the rubber band off and fast counted. Over five bills! I kept the smoke and all but fifty or so of the roll, and dropped it beside the car. Just as I topped the hill I looked back. She was holding her pocketbook and shaking her fist at me. I grinned all the way home.

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I had also kept her knife, a pretty expensive looking switchblade. They were illegal as shit but it became my knife of choice to carry. I told my uncle about my interesting interlude and he grinned, then turned serious. "Did she get your name?"

I shrugged. "It never went that far. She could probably trace me from my tag, but when you're standing there with your tits out and barefoot, I doubt she thought about writing it down."

"Well, you might want to think about skipping any trips to Charlotte for a while."

I snorted. "Been there twice since I got home, and I doubt we travel in the same circles. Still, I'll walk quiet and keep my eyes open if I find myself in that direction."

Another year went by. I was going to transfer to a four year university, and the area I wanted to study was best represented at, believe it or not, UNC Charlotte. I got in with no problem and was due to start in the fall. The school was eighty miles from home, so I knew I'd have to find a place to stay. I thought about a dorm room, but I was on average four years older than my classmates, and I had outgrown juvenile shit, so a small apartment on my agenda.

I was in pretty good shape financially, because I'd gone back to 'farming', three fields tucked back in stray meadows in the mountains. I never grew a plot too large, because I didn't want the attention. Not to brag, but I was damn good at growing pot. I'd picked up a little in Nam, and there was an informal group scattered across the country that shared information and techniques. I met a man from Michigan that grew in his basement, and he gave me a lot of tips.

"Never grow on something you own. All my houses have been rentals, so if I get busted, and I was once, all I lose are my plants. I took being in jail for six months to network, and when I got out I set up three guys, explaining the ins and outs of grow lights and drip irrigation. In return for setting them up, I got a fourth of everything they made for two years, then they were on their own and got to keep the equipment.

Another thing is to always have a job, so people won't wonder where you're getting your money. I have a pretty good job, work every overtime hour I can. My needs are minimal, and I'm actually saving money. My 'side business' nets me about 35 grand a year, and I been doing this for fifteen years. I figure in another five I'll have enough to 'retire' to somewhere that has a lot of sun and beaches, I'm getting damn tired of Michigan winters."

He was serious about his craft, and once every three years he would go to a convention in the Netherlands, where it was legal, and sample new strains. Then he would buy the seeds he wanted, they would be shipped to Mexico, where the supplier was an owner of a mail order seed company. He'd get packages of Mexican sunflowers, marigolds, and other flowers, and on average there would be five to ten marijuana seeds in them, small enough portions to not set off drug sniffing dogs. The man had amazing flower beds.

He would talk to me about the exciting new flowers he had found, and maybe a week or two later I'd get a few packets in the mail. My uncle laughed his ass off when he found out what we were doing.

My training kept up my level of 'situational awareness', and I had one ugly episode with a field. Some asshole had found it, and claimed it for himself. He'd even set booby traps. fishing line with hooks and razor blades, set face and chest high. I developed a pattern of floating by my plots, beaching my canoe maybe half a mile downstream and hiding it, walking into the woods and coming out on the backside of the field. Most assumed if anyone showed up, it would be from the river, and they'd beach in front of the field.

I made it a point to just sit and watch for awhile before going in. That day I took about four steps in when I noticed the fishing line. I walked backwards until I was clear, then scouted the perimeter. There was one guy, in a blind, watching. It was time to harvest and I knew time was short, so I consulted my uncle, and made a plan.

I had a few 'toys' I'd picked up on my rambles, an M16 and an AK47, and both were fully automatic if I choose that option. We were there before dawn, waiting. They showed up just before daylight, and started cutting down plants immediately. I noted one had a shotgun and another had a pistol shoved in his waistband. I'd come in the day before and rerouted all the booby traps, and added a few little surprises of my own. We let them cut a few of the plants, saving us a little labor, then my uncle Buck opened up with the AK, making sure that while he was in the general area, he was nowhere close to hitting them.

One screamed "FUCK!", dropped his plants, and took off in my direction. The other guy, the one with the shotgun, shot a few times before Buck opened up again. Then he started running. I rose up when the first was about twenty feet away, dropping a whole mag right at his feet, before flipping it over and jamming the other one in.

They did a ninety and took off through the patch, running full tilt into the booby traps. Besides the lines with hooks and razor blades, I'd buried a few pungie sticks, they barely stuck out of the ground, but they were all sharp. I almost rubbed them in cowshit, an old Cong trick to increase infection, but made myself not do it. The screaming got louder when they hit the pungies, and I thougth they better be glad I didn't dig pits. Finally they faded into the woods, the bullets cutting leaves above their head.

I stood guard while Buck policed his brass, then he did the same for me. They had thoughtfully left their canoe, so we packed the plants into them, floating a mile down the river to our takeout point. A creek ran into the river, and we turned into it, unloading the weed on the bank. Then Buck took off to get his truck, and I took their canoe about a mile farther downstream. The river was pretty wide there but still shallow, so I jumped out into the knee deep water and pushed it into the middle of the river, watching as it floated around a bend. We had worn gloves so there was no fingerprints, and I had thoughtfully put a few of the plants in the bottom. The game warden often went this far up, and I wondered how long it would take them to find it. I also dropped the 9mm that had fallen out of the guy's waistband in with the pot. Somebody was going to have a lot of explaining to do.

Buck and I put the plants in a drying shed and had a beer.

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A few days later I was in the local general store, when two guys came in looking like shit. One had a bad limp and both looked like they'd landed face first in a brair patch. Oh well, when the stitches healed they could make up some good stories about the scars.

Bob, the owner, knew a little about the farming done in the area, and I heard him talking to them. "I don't know what you boys did, but the county mounties are lookin' for ya. Something about a canoeload of pot and an unregistered weapon, so my suggestion to you would be to disappear for a few months and hope they forget about you. I ain't seen ya, talked to you, and if you weren't my cousins, I'd deny I ever heard of ya. Best get to steppin'."