Hitchhiking home during spring break of my senior year in college sounded like a fertile idea when I began planning the trip. By the time I actually reached home, fertilizer was about all my experience produced.

My plan for travel began with the most grandiose of delusions. People of my generation were backpacking all over Europe for the sheer intoxication of experience. Of course, my trip would be on a much smaller scale, but my little odyssey would be an adventure. This pilgrimage would be the self-defining moment in my search for true identity. It would be my metaphorical road trip into full maturity. I dreamed of teaching literature at a major university some day. There, from the security of my office, nestled in an ivy covered tower, I would write about my trek, and my students would know I truly had lived.

As I walked along Downing Street on my way out of Tahlequah, I could envision the miles to St. Louis speeding away as I absorbed the cultural tapestry of farm and factory. Stories from truck drivers and fellow travelers would fill my journal. Although my beard was not gray like Walt Whitman’s, I would stand on his shoulders and see a pure vision of America.

After an hour of walking without even a hint of a ride, I began questioning the romance of my quest. My fellow travelers all had cars, and they weren’t in the mood to pick up a college student regardless of his poetic soul. Walt Whitman made more sense from the comfort of the classroom. Stepping over broken beer bottles and dead opossums littering the roadside ruined the rhythm of epic poems. Silly limericks began to work their way into my psyche: There was a young man with a possum, whose eyes were so close he could cross’em. I was stumped because I couldn’t decide if the eyes belonged to the young man or the possum. The crude and mundane use of possum, rather than the proper opossum galled me. How could I compose legitimate verse if I remained shackled to schemes of rhythm? I laughed at myself for letting a pronoun throw me, but I couldn’t work out the grammar problem without ruining the limerick. The rest of the day would offer more opportunities to laugh at myself, but at the moment, I struggled to finish a line about a bottle of beer which would rhyme with something to complete the image of the objects along my path. If I ever taught literature, I would withhold this experience from my students.

Finally, Ira Cohen-Salesman picked me up. He introduced himself, as he opened the car door. "Ira Cohen-Salesman," he said as he handed me a business card revealing the same message. "Where you headed today, Guy?"

"St. Louis," I said as I situated myself in his car. As we pulled back onto the highway, I asked, "What do you sell?"

"Well, I’ll tell you a little secret. It doesn’t matter. If people buy it, I sell it. I’ve worked for about 10 different companies, but didn’t like it. Nosiree. Now I’m independent. In-de-pen-dent! That’s what I like. That’s what I do: sell to the public what the public wants."

His words came out like bursts of machine gun fire. The toothpick in his mouth danced to the rhythm of his speech. I thought about how I could use that in a limerick. I asked him, "How far are you going?"

"Well, I thought I’d try Siloam Springs. Got a contact there. A lot’s happening in Siloam Springs, if you know what I mean. Siloam would be a good place for you to catch a ride. I don’t know why you’re out there on Highway 10. You can’t catch a good ride on 10. It’s all scenery - tourists. You need to cut across Arkansas. That’s what I’d do, yes sir. Cut right across Arkansas. You’ll be in Missouri in no time."

I had to catch my breath from listening so fast. "You don’t think I’d have trouble hitchhiking through Arkansas? I mean, with the way I look?" During college, I wanted to fit a certain image, so I spurned the barber until my hair reached shoulder length. A full beard completed the package. I worked to cultivate the literary mystique of a vagabond and minstrel. However, I also understood the liabilities I incurred for enjoying activities such as hitchhiking or mere existence in places like Arkansas.

Ira Cohen-Salesman chimed, "No way, man. You’ll do fine. Just keep a positive attitude. People can sense your mood. Take me for instance. When I meet a customer, the first thing I do is sense their mood. Really. Now I can tell you..."

His words spilled out faster than I could catch them, so I just nodded as if I were comprehending. By the time we arrived in Siloam Springs, I was grateful he wasn’t going all the way to St. Louis. A headache and auditory fatigue made me wish for the open road. When we reached the junction of Highway 412 east and 59 north, he stopped the car. "This is a good place. You can go east a long way and angle up to Missouri, or you can also take 59 north to Missouri through Gravette. I got some contacts there. A lot’s going on in Gravette, Arkansas the way I see it. I’d try for a ride with a trucker. Cars are okay, too. It’s all just a matter of choice. Well, see you, bye."

Ira Cohen-Salesman sped away and almost sideswiped a truck as he reentered traffic. I didn’t know if he waved to me as he left or returned the gesture of the truck driver, but in an instant he was gone. Suddenly I stood alone at the crossroads. That was a good line for my journal, so I opened my backpack to dig for my notebook when a car slowed as it approached. I thought I was going to get another ride. I thought opportunity smiled on me; my quest to meet some real people was back on track. But instead of stopping, a contorted face in the passenger seat screamed, "Get a job," as the car sped by me.

Since I was alone and stranded, a stronger in a strange land, I should have felt apprehension. However, I considered I did have a job. My task was to record my experience for personal growth and insight. On the other hand, My little adventure was turning out to be quite different from the trip I planned. As I stood at the crossroads of 59 and 412, there was ample time to wonder what I did to make Ira Cohen-Salesman hate me. I must have said or done something offensive for him to advise me to hitchhike through Arkansas. As a Twinkie sailed out of a passing school bus and splattered on my jeans, it occurred to me Mr. Cohen probably harbored some secret, suppressed psychological desire to hitchhike across the country. People who are fettered by the bonds of materialism have always resented the freedom of vagabonds and gypsies. I began to look for my journal once more to record these thoughts as a gentle rain began to fall.

By the time I got my poncho, the rain soaked me. Once I donned the plastic tent, designed as a coat, it only succeeded in holding every molecule of dampness next to my skin. My hair began to kink and curl. The pages of my journal also received a permanent wave as people glared at me through the fogged windows of their comfortable cars. A car full of teenagers negotiated the shoulder well enough to hit a mud puddle forming at the edge of the road and splash me. "Bull’s eye," they yelled proudly.

I needed an new plan. A little suffering is supposed to be good for the soul, but the morning of abuse convinced me to take highway 59 north and flee Arkansas as fast as I could. I was totally daunted in my search for adventure. The next time I planned a growth experience, I would arrange my own transportation.

As I headed north, I soon found a sign telling me Gravette, Arkansas was 15 miles ahead and the Missouri state line was only 22 miles away. If I could catch one good ride, I could make my way to a town and ride a bus the rest of the way home. The thought of a dry seat inside a vehicle traveling faster than my snail’s pace soothed the pain of losing the vision of my quest. I rationalized that I could see America through a window, and I could write much better notes in a bus.

However, after two hours of walking, I reached another crossroads. Highway 102 crossed 59 in the middle of rolling hills and empty roads. The bucolic scene might have inspired Thoreau, but I was ready to cry in frustration. Even the limericks were escaping me. This trip was turning into a metaphor of something, but it was certainly not a journey into full maturity. Sunshine followed the rain and began to bake me. Steam rose from the blacktop and wisped away in delicate eddies. I could discern some poetic value in the observation, But I no longer cared. No vehicles of any kind passed to disturb this idyllic display until a flat bed truck with a dog in the back pulled over. Before I could open the door the driver said, "Get in the back if you want. I’m going as far as Gravette. The dog won’t bite if you leave him alone."

The driver gave me no time to say thank you. He gunned the engine, and I noticed the dog cowering as if he were looking for something to grab. I threw myself onto the bed of the truck an instant before we shot back on the road. A few bone-shattering minutes later we arrived in Gravette, Arkansas. During the trip I learned nothing about America, but quite a bit about the instinct for self-preservation. The dog was a good tutor. He showed me how to wedge myself into a corner and how to inch back every time a pot hole or sharp curve tried to jettison us.

When we arrived in Gravette, I learned Mr. Cohen lied. Nothing was going on in this town. My chauffeur pulled into the feed store parking lot at the south end of town, and I tumbled out. I thanked him as he hurried away to the store. "Is there a bus station here?" I asked. I was almost running to keep up with him.

"Phillips 66 station, 3 blocks up," was all he said. He entered the feed store before I could tell him I wanted a bus not gasoline.

However, I could see the sing for the Phillips station, so I trudged that way. Wet shoes and damp jeans chaffed my every step. I began to dream of the comfort of public transportation. I thought the workers at Phillips 66 might direct me to the bus station, but when I came closer, I was an old faded sign with a greyhound on it. Fate had finally smiled on my rite of passage.

When I walked into the gas station, a man with the name, Zeke, embroidered on a patch on his uniform, let out a low whistle and said, "Jesus Christ."

A voice from under a car in the bay yelled out, "Zeke, did you spill coffee on that girlie calendar again? Why don’t you just leave that on the wall where it belongs?"

Zeke answered in a mocking, serious tone, "No. It’s Jesus Christ; he’s here in our station."

After I grew long hair and a beard, people began to say I looked like Jesus. It was a ridiculous observation that appealed mostly to religious aunts who hoped for my reformation. I only remotely looked like an Anglo-Saxon version Christ because of the hair. But when the atmosphere was friendly, I would hold up 2 fingers and purse my lips into a little o. The pose brought my countenance closer to a Sunday school picture I had seen of the Savior, and my little act usually inspired a big laugh. However, the atmosphere in Phillips 66 was not so friendly, and I restrained myself.

The voice from under the car came in wearing the same kind of uniform Zeke had, only greasier. His name patch said, Irvin. "Well, I’ll be," he said as he wiped his hands with a shop rag. "I’d shake your hand, but as you can see I’m unclean," he laughed. Irvin’s laugh was an explosive wheeze. He strained every inch of air out of his lungs until his face turned red, and the veins stood out on his neck. I almost started laughing too, but Zeke was quiet, so I was afraid to take up their joke too quickly.

"I just wanted to know when the bus came through," I stammered.

"Here we thought we had a personal visitation from the Son of God, and it turns out he just wants a bus ride. I’m very disappointed. Aren’t you Irv?" The corners of Zeke’s mouth turned up a little, but they were still mostly on the frown side of a smile. Irvin headed back to the bay. "I am indeed. I guess I’ll just have to go back to work if it’s not the end of the world or something." He laughed again, "End of the world--that’s a good one."

Zeke returned to shuffling papers on his desk and asked without looking up, "Where you headed, Son?"

"Originally, I was going to St. Louis, but right now I’d take Joplin or anything in Missouri if you have a bus heading north. I’m trying to go home for spring break."

Suddenly, Zeke was half-way out of his chair. "You’re from Missouri?" he said with zeal.

I was surprised he was so interested, But I said hesitantly, "Yes, sir."

"Really," Zeke said. "Missouri?"

"Yes, from St. Louis."

"Boy howdy," he said with enthusiasm. "What’s the state motto?"

"The what?" I was ready for several question from this man, but Missouri state trivia was not on my list. I said, "Well, it’s the Show-Me State." I couldn’t imagine why anyone would know or want to know Missouri’s motto. Maybe it was a test question to allow entrance into the state. Arkansas would keep everyone who didn’t know fun facts from Missouri.

Irv spoke again from under the car, "See, Zeke, I said ‘Show Me’ and you just called me an old bucket-head. This here college boy ain’t any smarter than me. You ain’t never going to finish that puzzle, and that’s too bad too, as close as you got."

I was confused. "What’s going on? What puzzle is he talking about?"

Zeke held up a crossword puzzle from the newspaper and said with thinly veiled hostility, "I try to do these things everyday. You know, to improve my mind. I never get them more than half finished, if that much. But today, I’m really close, and I need to know the beginning of the Missouri motto. I thought since you’re some kind of a smart-aleck hippie from Missouri, you’d know the gol-dang motto. And another thing, it ain’t ‘The Show-Me State.’ I figure it’s got to be one of them Latin sayings to fit."

"Watch yourself now, Zeke," Irvin cackled from the other room. "You may be talking to the Christ child you know."

Irvin and Zeke began arguing about what constituted respectful language, and their debate fame me some time to think where I could find the motto. Sate trivia might be my only way out of Arkansas. I had an idea "Don’t you have maps here?" I asked Zeke.

"Of course we do," Zeke said in disgust. He pointed to a display hanging from the wall with maps from surrounding states. Then his countenance changed. "Oh, I see. bring me one of them Missouri maps."

When I pulled it out of the display, I could see the state seal right in the middle of the "o" in Missouri. "Here," I said with suppressed pride.

Zeke moved his head up and down and held the map at different distances and angles from his face. "I can’t get this in my bifocals. Read it for me."

The lettering was small, but I could make out the Latin, "Salus Populi Suprema..."

"That first word is all I need. Spell it for me."

I told him the letters, and his mouth finally turned into a complete smile. If I supplied a few more answers, I thought, he might actually show me the bus schedule.

"It fits, Irv," he called into the other room. "Now we’re cooking with gas. Maybe this boy can tell us the word for heavy rain storm."

Irvin piped up, "I already told you that was toad strangler." He wheezed so hard he started coughing.

"Yeah, and I already told you this ain’t no hillbilly, redneck puzzle from Podunk. Anyway, it starts with a G."

"Maybe it’s gully washer."

"How many letters do you need?" I asked. I had an idea what might fit.

Zeke looked quickly at the puzzle. "It’s only 4 letters, but it’s got the whole middle of this thing snagged up tight."

"Will gale work? G-A-L-E?"

Zeke whistled again. "That does work. Irv, I’m starting to like this boy."

I didn’t hear Irv’s response because a bus pulled up to the station. By the time I turned around, the front sign, showing its destination, was out of my sight, but it was headed north. Zeke studied the puzzle intensely and waved the driver on without looking up. The driver waved back as the diesel engine rattled back to a roar. The gears scratched, and the bus turned onto the road. "Where was he headed? Is that bus going to Missouri?" My brief visit with Zeke and Irv had been entertaining. Maybe our encounter would occupy a couple of pages in my journal, but I was ready to leave and take a long ride home.

Zeke kept his head buried in the crossword puzzle as he answered, "No, he makes a circuit here in northwest Arkansas. Let me ask you about this one word, and we just about got it sewed up."

I thought I heard Irvin’s laugh in the next room as the bus poked away from the station. It looked like a giant turtle with tail lights, but I doubted I could catch it. I feared I just missed the only bus traveling my way. Zeke was talking to me as I stared at the tail lights. They and my hope both faded northward. "I’m sorry, what did you say?" I asked with a sigh.

"I said, I don’t mean nothing by asking you this, but it seems like you might know about Nabokov heroine. I mean, that’s some kind of drug ain’t it?"

When he showed me the puzzle clue, I explained, without enthusiasm, "Heroine with an e is a female hero. The drug doesn’t have an e on the end."

Zeke shook his head. "The things they teach in college these days. Well, what about it; who is this Nabokov heroine?"

The reference teetered right on the edge of familiarity. I was certain I studied or read something from Nabokov, but I couldn’t dredge up the whole thought. The day had numbed my alertness to literature. "I can’t think who it is." My voice sounded more final than I intended, and Zeke acquired a disturbingly disappointed look. The corners of his mouth lowered to half-mast, so I quickly added, "Let’s look at some of the words that cross it. Maybe those will help."

"No," he said in a tired voice. "I already tried that. If you don’t know Nabokov, you probably don’t know what they call the Irish parliament either, or this guy, Earl Grey."

He was starting to make me feel guilty. Along with that emotion I was experiencing a definite sense of being stranded again. Then his words, Earl Grey registered. I said with excitement, "Earl Grey isn’t a guy, it’s tea."

Zeke rolled his eyes. "T? You can’t have a 1 letter answer; I need three letters."

He probably was wishing he put me on that bus wherever it went, but I explained, "No, tea like you drink: T-E-A."

Zeke’s mouth gaped open. He looked down and filled the letters in. "That fits. That really fits. Look here at this heroine now."

There were enough letters now to see the answer. "It’s Lolita," I cried out. I experienced a rush of success akin to what Nabokov must have felt upon completing his classic.

Zeke wrote it in. He grinned and called out, "Irvin J. McAlester, I want you to come in here, pronto."

Irvin came and took the paper in his grimy hands. He held the masterpiece daintily so he wouldn’t smudge it. "Mmm, mmm, mmm," he said as if he were tasting fine food. "That’s mighty good work, team work you might say. If course, I knew he could do it all the time."

Zeke shot Irvin a look, "You did not you old coot."

"I sure did. I mean, since he is Jesus, he’s omnivorous."

He wheezed so hard I was afraid he was going to pass out. I finally felt free enough to laugh out loud, but I’m not sure we were laughing at the same joke.

Zeke was more serious. "We have been truly blessed today," he said as he tacked the crossword puzzle on the bulletin board. "Irv, are you finished with Doc Brixy’s car yet."

"Yeah, it’s done. I just got to road test it. Why?"

"Why don’t you road test it up to Neosho and drop our young friend there at the bus station?" He turned to me. "You can catch the 6:30 bus in Neosho. That’ll put you in St. Louis tonight."

"Wow, you’d really be going the extra mile for me," I said, hoping he’d catch the allusion.

"Hel...um heck, I’d be going 20 extra miles, but who’s coming?" As Zeke sent us on our journey, he cautioned Irvin to get back before Doc came looking for his car.

Irv lead-footed the Brixy car all the way to Neosho. I don’t know what he was testing, but everything held together. He told the funniest stories he ever heard all the way to Neosho while I tried to wedge myself in the corner. When we arrived at the bus station, which was only slightly larger than Gravette’s, Irvin told me to stay in the car for a minute until he motioned for me.

"I want to tell them Jesus needs to go to St. Louis, then you come in. That’ll be a good one." He slapped his thigh, wheezed, and headed for the station.