Tag: hitchhiker

Migrant

He was walking slow. Sun beaten by another dog day on the highway. A scorcher. Torn and scattered clouds offering little shade comfort. I saw him from a distance as he sat down on the guardrail. Looking worn out. Scant possessions in a knotted garbage bag between his legs. Head down. Blue, long-sleeved shirt and dark pants. Black hair, slick and glistening. Dyed. I’ve seen the years carved into his tanned face. Small bright eyes staring straight ahead as he tells his story. Seen the hand with one crushed, one missing finger that he hides in a pocket.

He disappears come fall. Sits in a room somewhere in New Brunswick or Cape Breton waiting out the winter. Every year since we met, I watch for him. Hoping. Not quite sure what I’m hoping for.

Postcard from Kakabeka

Nineteen eighty nine I pulled over and picked him up a few miles out of Thunder Bay on my way home from work. He could have been one of our Finnish neighbours who had arrived decades ago to work in the lumber camps north of Lake Superior and now sat in small tidy kitchens that looked the same as they did forty years earlier drinking coffee speaking Finn. Not that he looked like a lumberjack on the contrary I mean his age clean simple well weathered appearance neatly combed hair one hand on the comb the other following to make sure every lightly oiled strand was in place. He wore a short sleeved polyester shirt with a stripe the type salesmen used to wear on hot summer days faded trousers adidas and carried a small cardboard suitcase. Smart casual well cared for fashion from secondhand bins the most unlikely looking hitchhiker I had ever seen.
He inquired after the local economic situation noting the probability of depression and high unemployment. Pardon? Having approached several homes without a cup of coffee or sandwich to spare the last woman peering anxiously through a window not even opening the door what other explanation could there be.
His journey began in Toronto where he lived on the street for years medicated dependent sick and dying until resigned he gave up on doctors and prescriptions and surprisingly began to feel better. As health returned his view of life and circumstances changed he decided now would be a good time to travel and see Canada. If you lived on the streets you could certainly live on the highway. He hitchhiked by day slept in ditches and under trees by night covering himself with whatever he could find. It was all matter of fact and so far working out.
I dropped him off at the grocery store in Kakabeka and gave him whatever was in my wallet. Unfolding the bills a momentary glow lingering smile he looked me directly in the eyes took my hand and said the oddest thing. God bless you in business.
I have always been grateful to him.

Everyone suffers from something

Ricky was sixty seven years old dyed his hair raven black told people he was fifty four packed his things in a green garbage bag stuck out his thumb and jobbed from northern New Brunswick to the far side of Cape Breton. All summer long back and forth year after year. There was always odd relief when he appeared on the shoulder somewhere between home and Halifax on his knees hunched over fussing tying doing something with his bag or bundle. His face gravel dust tanned creased deeply engraved one finger cut short another damaged but it was his left and he was right handed and one less finger didn’t slow him down. Try and tell the foreman that. It was not easy for a man his age which is why he dyed his hair and kept one hand in his pocket as he explained with the other the depth of his experience versatility desire and need to work. Everyone suffers from something. Catches me with a corner of his eye otherwise stares straight ahead neither shy nor talkative a slight well kept capable sort. There is always work somewhere it all comes back to that. In Halifax he goes from construction site to site the docks and shipyards but most luck these days comes cleaning up around the Irving Big Stops along the way. That barely pays a day at a time though. Sometimes he gets lucky a foreman gives him a break he lasts a bit but maybe he isn’t quite as quick or handy as the young guys when it comes down to it. Three times in three days I’ve seen him in Pictou County on the edge of something. The rotary. Highway. A parking lot. For me he is an omen. To him I am invisible and he would find my omen idea strange and foolish. This is my exit and thats all of his story I know.