Hitchhiking Karma

Hitchhiking Karma

Noel Laflin

12-3-17

I could see the plumes of frosty breath as I came around the curve.

The young man shivering by the side of the road, the one in a thin flannel shirt and dingy sweat pants had his thumb out.

It was the very early morning of Christmas Eve, 1970. Richard Nixon was president, Vietnam was still sending home body bags, and I would be turning eighteen in two days. My name would soon be added to next year’s Selective Service lottery. I was looking for all the good karma I could gather on that particular early morning drive home from chilly Lake Elsinore.

Pulling over, I rolled down the window and told the kid to hop in.

As he slid into the passenger seat, I noticed that he was not wearing any shoes. His sweat socks were caked in mud and grime. He saw me looking at his feet and immediately apologized for the mess oozing onto the floor mat.

“I had to leave in a hurry,” he said by way of explanation. “They take our shoes away from us at night so we won’t run away. I ran anyway.”

Turning up the heater and sliding the lever to foot level, I saw the kid move his feet to the lower vent where the warm air flowed. He leaned back in the seat and shivered.

Once we had cleared a few miles down the lonely tree-lined road, he opened up some more about his current shoe-less, jacket-less circumstances. He had just escaped a juvenile detention center and was heading home for Christmas, he told me matter-of-factually. As home was an uncle’s house, and me being of an age that admired both initiative and defiance, as well as being in need of good future karma (especially being Christmas Eve and all), well, I was happy to be the getaway guy.

We made it into town about seven that morning, passing the time in silence mostly. He had thawed out pretty well by then.

We pulled through a Mac Donald’s and I ordered him a couple of cheeseburgers, an order of fries and a hot coffee. You could get all that for less than a buck back then, which was good, as that was about all the money I had on me. I knew that I had a warm meal waiting for me once I got home.

The last I saw of the young shoe-less escapee, he was heading down the street, balancing a hot cup of coffee and a Mac Donald’s bag in one hand, and greedily chowing down on a cheeseburger. His thumb was out between bites.

I trust he made it to his uncle's house for Christmas. I hope there would be new socks, shoes, and a warm jacket waiting for him under the tree.

As luck would have it later, my lottery number turned out being a safe one.

And, twice later in my life, I’d be rescued by good Samaritans offering me lifts as I stood by the side of desolate roads, thumb extended, no questions asked, just a nod to get in.

I was fortunate enough, both times, to be wearing shoes.