Carsick: John Waters Hitchhikes Across America (30 page)

He not only gives me a ride, he offers to take me all the way to Junction City, twenty miles past Manhattan, where he’s going to attend his brother’s wedding, because he knows I’ll have better luck hitchhiking there. Chris is a sweetheart. A student from Lawrence, Kansas, who is also a manager in the local Walmart. I tell him I’ve never been in a Walmart in my entire life, but that doesn’t seem to surprise him. Suddenly he says, “Oh my God, you were in
The Creep
!” “Yes, I was,” I tell him proudly, referring to the hip-hop Lonely Island video starring Nicki Minaj, which has 72 million (!) hits on YouTube. Ah, the power of the Internet. To hell with movies. Only old people see them.

Chris tells me that Junction City is a huge military base, and as we pull near, I see the gigantic Fort Riley. Amazing, I think, I bet
this
is where Bobby Garcia, the marine-porn guy I wrote about in
Role Models
, must be hiding out now! Chris is a cool guy, but I don’t share this thought with him. He tells me “it’s a rough town” and people he knows have been in fights a lot here.

We pull into Junction City Travel Plaza, and the nearest motel to the entrance ramp back on I-70W is the damned Holiday Inn. I go for it. I’d check in anywhere after this day! I fill up Chris’s gas tank even though, like all nice guys, he at first protests. Since this is the second driver today who, I feel, saved my life, I insist. Another kind guy. Another happy fella. And I stupidly forget to give him my hitchhiking thank-you card. The only ride so far where I’ve forgotten. What a fool I am! I will feel guilty forever. Chris, if you ever read these words, contact me through Atomic Books in Baltimore and I promise I will send you yours!

REAL RIDE NUMBER SEVENTEEN

KANSAS COUPLE

In the dark Holiday Inn room I collapse. Was this maybe the worst day yet? It’s Friday night—no usual guzzling, no usual fun in the works for me. The Corvette Kid calls and says he wants to come get me. I don’t know what to think. I see online he has given an interview to his hometown paper where he tells our hitchhiking story but claims he was on his way to Joplin, Missouri, to help tornado victims when he took me to Ohio, which wasn’t exactly true. He was planning on doing that the
next
week. He doesn’t mention this article now and neither do I. He did say his mother had admonished him to “never pick up another hitchhiker,” yet here he is telling me he wants to come get me
again
. When I’m standing on the side of the road with no one picking me up, I want him to come, but when I get a ride and I’m in somebody else’s car, I’m not so sure—will that be cheating again? Would it make for a better or a worse book? He could be sitting in his Maryland bedroom just egging me along when he has no real plans to leave. He could be grounded by his parents, for all I know.

I go through my e-mails and see Susan has written earlier, “I spoke to your mom and told her ‘all is well in Kansas.’ She said she’s gotten so many calls and she just keeps saying ‘no comment.’” My mother also mentioned to Susan how my uncle’s son had just bicycled across the United States from Chevy Chase. See? I think my mom
still
doesn’t think hitchhiking is so bad.

How will it feel to reenter my real life when this is over? I wonder. Walk out the front door in the morning and not have to start scoping out entrance ramps? It’s hard to imagine that here in Junction City, Kansas. Susan and Trish e-mail me from their homes, relieved I have arrived safely at a motel for the night. “You have about 300 miles to get out of Kansas and into Colorado,” they inform me. “Inch by mother fucking inch,” I respond, quoting Oliver Stone’s great line about what moviemaking is like.

I’m going out—to Walmart! It’s a long walk through the giant travel plaza, but besides snacks and water, I definitely need those cuticle scissors—my mustache is starting to look bushy like that of Bob Turk, Baltimore’s longest-running TV weatherman. Good God, everybody is a soldier in this town! It’s Bobby Garcia heaven! Ten thousand cute military men in uniforms! I keep trying to think of the porno title for the movie I’m suddenly an extra in—
Function in My Junction
? Imagine me here under the influence of two martinis! I could get in real trouble.

Inside Walmart I feel like a complete trespasser. Is this how normal people shop? It’s too fucking big. Where are the salespeople? God, it’s got a supermarket, too? I wander around trying not to stare at the soldiers, who all look handsome. None know who I am. I even
try
to be recognized by standing in one place for a while pretending to study signs about special sales, but no dice.

Yay! They
do
have cuticle scissors. Candy and newspapers, too! What’s this? Oh God, John Travolta’s masseur scandal is on the cover of
People
magazine?! I guiltily buy it even though I know the copy I get by subscription is awaiting me in Baltimore. Maybe soldiers’ wives have at least seen the Hollywood remake of
Hairspray
with him in it. When they see me clutching the mag in the checkout line, maybe they’ll put two and two together. But they don’t.

Back in the dingy Holiday Inn, I eat peanuts, gobble Jujyfruits, and guzzle Evian water, catching up on the media and having my own pathetic version of a Friday night. I think of all those soldiers out there. I try to imagine that gay bar Susan had found me, Xcalibur. Could I have pulled off being a Bobby Jr. there? Or would it have been filled with twinks? I try to fantasize about that hillbilly trucker who offered me a place to sleep in the back of the cab of his truck. Would I have gotten the upper or the lower bunk? Is sex at my age even remotely possible on the road? I fall asleep. Alone. And probably a lot safer.

I wake up way late for me, 7:00 a.m., take a bath, then bravely throw away another pair of underpants. Bravado or stupidity? Today will answer that. I make a new sign on the back of the
WRITING HITCHHIKE BOOK
one. I set a modest goal:
70 WEST THROUGH KANSAS
—and once again add
I’M SAFE
. I guess I mean sexually, too. I look in the mirror at my freshly groomed and trimmed mustache and hope it does its job for me today—getting me a ride! As always, I leave a tip for the maid.

I should know better but I go down and check out the free-breakfast room. Per usual, no one makes eye contact. I approach a guy who looks like a possible ride and show him my sign, but he looks appalled I’d even ask. I never thought it could be possible, but the food is even worse than at the last hotel. The chipped-beef dish looks like liquefied mucus mixed with Dinty Moore canned stew. I sit at a table and drink tea and text The Corvette Kid that I made it to Junction City, Kansas.

I go outside and walk the short distance to the I-70W entrance ramp, which seems like the most central one in this hub of traveler facilities. There’s plenty of room for cars to pull over here, too. It’s a nice day. I’m starting a little later but obviously not late enough. Still no rides. Oh well, I’ve got all day, I think. It only takes one car—blah, blah, blah. Damn, it’s windy! My sign keeps ripping. Some goddamned tumbleweed might come out of nowhere and blindside me!

It’s still always a shock, but a car stops and I grab my bag. Inside is a laborer-type father with his young son, and I can tell by Dad’s expression he thinks I’m homeless. The kid doesn’t look scared, like maybe they’ve picked up hitchhikers before, maybe even taken a bum home for a good hot meal. “I’m only going to the next exit,” Dad says, shrugging with apology. I thank him politely but reply, “This is such a good spot to hitchhike, I’m going to stay here.” He understands. The son looks at me with actual kindness. Some people just
are
decent. They pull off and already all three of us are better people.

But I’m still here. I see cops go by. They don’t stop to harass me. Good. I see military tanks go by, too. I wish I could get a ride in one of them, but I look like a don’t-ask-but-I’m-telling insane military deserter who’s lost his mind and is running away to meet his meth-head AWOL boyfriend. I stick out my thumb at every approaching army vehicle anyway and during traffic lulls look at my BlackBerry. I am totally shocked to see that The Corvette Kid has texted again: “I’m almost in Missouri. Should I come get you or go to Joplin?”

Before I can answer, I get a ride. The back door opens and I see a pretty middle-aged woman on the floor on a mat with a three-legged little white poodle in her lap. Her husband, a nice-looking man, is in the front seat behind the wheel. They’re going all the way to Denver and they tell me they’ll take me! Thank you, God! He’s Mike, a circuit-court judge in a “very rural” town in Southern Illinois, and he’s a fan of Barbra Streisand and Liza Minnelli (the only straight guy in the world with that taste?). And she’s Laura, a Democratic Party chair and an animal rescuer (!) who so reminds me of Linda Grippi, my friend and fellow strong supporter of the parole of Leslie Van Houten. I feel so guilty remembering the horrifying animal rescuer I imagined in a “bad ride” chapter of this book. Here, next to me, is a rarity (from what I’ve seen)—a woman who militantly loves animals but
also
loves people. Even the three-legged poodle is well behaved after initially freaking me out by jumping in my lap and kissing me on the lips the moment I got in the car. I guess he is grateful he’s on an adventure, too!

They are headed to some Colorado state park for a vacation and admit passing me by once standing on the ramp in Junction City, Kansas (where they had stayed the night in the same hotel, but slept later), and debating if it was me for eight miles before turning back to come see. And yes, it was me. I try to be a good rider and tell them stories about meeting Liz Taylor and Kathleen Turner, and they in turn fill me in on their lives and how the animal-rescue deal works. The judge and I even talk about our shared opinion that mandatory life sentences without parole for minors are wrong.

I text The Corvette Kid, “Oh my God, I just got a ride to Colorado.” He answers, “You headed to Denver?” I respond, “Yep. Will let you know when I land.” We drive for hours. Kansas is an amazing state—both beautiful in its minimalist geography and horrifying in its brutal weather extremes. We see lots of little dust tornadoes on each side of the highway. Kansas is so-o-o-o-o-o long. So boring. Yet so awe-inspiring in its horizontal, hypnotic dullness and threatening lack of population.

After more hours of traveling together and bonding, Laura admits she wouldn’t have recognized me or have known who I was if it weren’t for her gay son, who has been a fan of mine forever. “Let’s call him,” I offer, and she dials his number and I hear her ask him about me without revealing anything. He starts telling his mom how he’s been reading online that I am hitchhiking across the country. Unbelievable! He already knows! “Guess who we picked up?” she says with, yes, glee. “John Waters.” And she hands me the phone and her son is speechless as first. No wonder. What are the chances of this happening? He’s a great guy and even starts quoting lines from
Female Trouble
, but in a cool way, not like that other scary fan I imagined earlier in this book.

We pull off in Bunker Hill, Kansas, to get gas and I offer to fill it up, but they won’t hear of it. Instead I buy the snacks, but only because I grab the bill before they can pay. While Mike is using the men’s room, I take Laura out back of this big rest-area convenience store to look for cardboard. After all, my
70 WEST THROUGH KANSAS
sign will be obsolete when they drop me off in Denver. We actually Dumpster-dive together to get the right-size box and take it around front, back to the car, where Laura thinks Mike has a pocketknife to break down the box. But as we walk through the giant gas-station parking lot, the ever-present howling wind blows open the box, and thousands of Styrofoam “peanuts” pour out and accidentally scatter all across the rest area and into the Kansas plains themselves. Oh well. Not much us litterbuggers can do. Except step on it! Mike does. See ya later, Bunker Hill.

The Corvette Kid has texted back, “Sounds good. I’m in Kansas right now.” You gotta be kidding me! That means he has been driving for forty-eight hours straight at eighty miles an hour with no sleep,
not
stopping to help tornado victims in Joplin, Missouri, where his parents think he is going. He’s actually coming to get me?! “Don’t get arrested for speeding!” I text. “Hey,” he writes back, “I’m on Mission Impossible here. LOL. There’s no stopping The Corvette Kid, my friend.” “Evel Knievel,” I answer. “If you leave Denver I may have to smack you by the way. LOL,” he adds. I’m starting to really get impressed by this guy.
If
he’s telling the truth. Suppose he’s still in his bedroom in Maryland playing a game? Well, I’ll see soon enough.

An incredibly ferocious rainstorm is approaching as we plow our way across Kansas past signs promising ahead
RATTLESNAKES, PRAIRIE DOGS AND A SIX LEGGED CAT
. I guess this
is
show business here in Kansas. I offer to get in the back on the floor with the dog but Laura wants to stay there, she promises she’s comfortable. The black clouds are getting ominous. Naturally we talk about Dorothy, then discuss storm cellars, but never mention there’s nowhere for us to go now if there is a tornado. Torrential rain hits. It’s actually scary, but Mike is a great driver and we make it through without flying off to some freaky local Oz. I see a junkyard that is exactly like the one I imagined in the “good ride” rave chapter. So perfect. So isolated. Right smack-dab in the middle of nowhere with a trailer on the edge of the property where the owner must live. Wonder if he’s cute.

Suddenly the sun is out but it’s still raining. Surely there must be a rainbow in these weather conditions, the three of us agree, but after searching the horizon on both sides of the interstate, we come up visually empty-handed. Maybe Kansas is fed up with all this
Wizard of Oz
bullshit. Maybe the state lawmakers have outlawed rainbows. I text The Corvette Kid back that I will wait for him in Denver and “will call from the hotel. If you haven’t stopped to sleep, do so.” I know he couldn’t still be in his Corvette because that was his mother’s car, so I add, “I will wait for The Corvette Kid no matter what you are driving,” “Will do,” he answers, “Kansas is scary long.” Good God, he’s gaining on us! I tell Mike and Laura about The Corvette Kid, how he picked me up and how now he is coming back, and I see they are too polite to ask, “What the hell’s going on here?” I don’t know the answer myself. All I know is I’m glad he’s coming. It’s not cheating—he’s still a stranger giving me a ride, he’s just picking me up for the second time.