The Hitchhiker/Bob

So, the hitchhiker’s name was Bob. He was standing on the corner at the stoplight with his freakishly long, left thumb confidently extended toward the traffic. He also had long hair (like I’d imagine Osama Bin Laden’s would be without the turban) and wore Jesus sandals. The Jesus sandals sold me. Not only would I get my adventure, but I’d get to play Good Samaritan as well. The whole two birds with one stone thing.

I pulled up and attempted to innocuously honk the horn. However, Gilbert decided to let it rip instead, as if in protest of my invitation. A sign, perhaps. Or maybe a gassy indication that I shouldn’t try to save money by filling his tank with regular. At any rate, Bob flashed his pearly whites, combed his left hand through his Osama-Bin-Laden-minus-the-turban hair without getting the freakishly long thumb stuck, and started strolling toward us. To my surprise, he opened the rear door and plopped into the back seat, as though he were Miss Daisy. I quickly glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror to see if I looked like Morgan Freeman. I didn’t. Off we went.

After a few minutes of silent cruising, I became acutely aware of a malodorous fragrance assaulting my olfactory system and quietly rolled down the window. This apparently bothered Bob, as suggested by the first words he spoke—a polite request to roll up the window. Ever the Good Samaritan, I reluctantly obliged, deferring to the ninth beatitude:  Blessed are the Smelly. Or at least, so I thought at the time.

A couple of miles later, Bob made yet another request—this time to tune the radio to 93.1 FM. In spite of the fact that Bob was starting to seem a little high maintenance, I granted his wish. Within seconds, another sensory assault bore down upon me as the radio blared country music. Gross. I tried to distract my ears by engaging Bob in conversation, but all he wanted to talk about was sauerkraut. Of all things. Apparently, Bob’s family was “in the business”.  Whatever the hell that meant. My desire for adventure and eventual canonization was starting to wane.

Luckily, Bob didn’t want to go very far. After a little while, he asked me to pull over to drop him off at the local bowling alley. I didn’t make any inquiries. I just did as he asked, and then sped away toward the nearest car wash, wondering if they’d have an air freshener strong enough to battle the putrid aroma that Bob had left behind. Needless to say, that would be the first and last time I ever pick up a hitchhiker…assuming that Bob was actually a real hitchhiker.

So much for adventure.