The Route 66 Hitchhiker

Noah and Biff, Cornell undergrads, sped along Route 66 in Noah’s jalopy to outrun the snowstorm, and reach Los Angeles in time for family Christmases.

‘Why didn’t you agree to fly?’ Biff said.

‘Lard-ass, we’re honouring ‘Go West, young man’, and that means by hoof, or wheel.’

‘I’m jumpy.’

‘Picking up on ghosts of ‘Dust Bowl’ migrants? Feel their scrawny hands around your chubby throat? Many died by this roadside.’

‘Dude in middle of the road!’ Biff yelled.

‘Harmless bum needing a lift.’

The man clambered in. A rag covered his mouth.

‘Allergy?’ Biff said.

‘To dust.’

‘What dust?’

‘Always dust.’

‘A motel nearby?’ Noah said.

‘Nope. Only an abandoned town with one fairly intact house.’

‘Point the way. I’m Noah Smith, and this here’s Biff Brown.’

‘Jay Smith.’

Jay directed them off the highway, and down an overgrown road. They reached a ghost town.

‘This here’s the house I squat in when stuck for a lift,’ Jay said.

‘Hitchhike for company?’ Noah said.

A land turtle was in the hallway.

‘How’s that surviving ?’ Biff said.

‘Perseverance,’ Noah said.

Noah peered inside a room.

‘We’ll hit the sack in here. Find somewhere-else, Jay. You stink,’ Noah said.

‘You’re rude,’ Biff said, and rummaged in his jacket.

‘Biltong, Jay?’

‘Dried shit? I like my meat glistening with fat,’ Jay said.

Noah woke to a streak of light under the door. He was shaking Biff awake when Jay entered.

‘Storm’s triggered electrical shit. Take a swig of this bourbon, Biff. Sure appreciated your offer of biltong,’ Jay said.

Biff swigged.

Noah pointed to a photograph of a boy, and a middle-aged couple outside a house.

‘That’s this house, and the boy’s you. Your family home?’

‘Yep. Anyways, come into the kitchen. Got lights there.’

A knife gleamed on the table.

‘Newly sharpened. You won’t feel anything. My family were ‘Okies’. They stopped here to rest, and stayed when word came how hostile California was to Okies,’ Jay said.

Jay paused.

‘Locals here strutted around like plump Thanksgiving turkeys while we starved.’

Biff sank to his knees.

‘Fucking bourbon’s spiked, Noah. Don’t drink it.’

‘Brought you a nice fat one, eh, pop?’ Noah said.

‘Sure did.’

‘Biff, we Okies were forced into cannibalism, and developed a taste. We blamed this town’s inhabitants’ disappearances on cougars. When local supplies depleted, we took to hitchhiking. Always picked a stormy night so folk couldn’t drive on to a motel,’ Noah said.

Noah paused.

‘Our turtle here enjoys titbits of human flesh. He deserves it. He’s endured stuff just like us. The truck that went off its way to hit his kin on the highway in ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ is a metaphor for folk who want to hurt migrant families. Still, me and Jay aren’t fond of eating Californians for obvious reasons. But, no worries, we can wash you down with some grapes of wrath.’

The End