The Last Ride

By: Carl Alves
September 8, 2008

“So where are you heading, partner?” Tim Meade asked from the driver’s side of his worn Dodge Durango.

“North,” the hitchhiker replied.

Meade picked the man up a mile down the road. He wore a red flannel shirt and dark blue Wrangler jeans.

“Don’t say much do you?” Tim asked.

“Not unless I have reason to,” the hitchhiker said.

Tim downshifted the Durango to pick up speed as he pulled onto the Northeast Extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. “That’s fine by me. Lots of people out there, they just talk and talk and talk. Most of them don’t even say shit.”

The hitchhiker nodded.

“Well lucky for you, I reckon, that I’m heading out towards Syracuse.” Tim picked up speed now that he was on the Turnpike. “You see I’m heading out to see my brother-in-law Ray. Lookin’ to buy a tractor and some other farm equipment from him. Ray’s well intentioned and all, but let me tell ya, he’s a dumbass. I don’t imagine you’ll be runnin’ into Ray any time soon, so I can’t see the harm in telling you.”

The hitchhiker was still expressionless.

“So anyway, Ray had himself a modest little farm out there near Syracuse. Had some chickens and cattle, grew potatoes, squash, and had an apple grove. Nothin’ great mind ya, but enough to keep a guy busy and earn a decent living, at least during the good times. But like I mentioned before, Ray ain’t very bright and to make matters worse, he’s a bit of a dreamer. So he decides that he’s gonna give up farming and take some course on computers. I told my sister Betty to dump him. You know what I’m saying, partner.”

The hitchhiker nodded, and put his brown leather travel bag on the floor by his feet.

“So old Ray decides to sell his farm. Now the farm, that’s something that you can have and build and do something with. It’s something you can call your own. Not these computers. He wasn’t a great farmer, but at least he could earn himself a living.”

Tim glanced at the hitchhiker, who looked stone-faced.

“So you never told me your name there, partner.”

“Ron. “Ron Cray.”

Tim smiled. “Now I got a name to attach to the face. Yeah, I could use myself some more farm equipment. I got some that’s about dying on me. Reckon I can get myself a good deal from Ray, seeing how’s were kin and all.”

They hardly spoke for the next hour. Tim crossed the New York State border, and saw an exit with signs for a gas station and a Wendy’s. “I need gas. If you want some grub, you can get some over there.”

“Sure,” Cray said.

“So what line of work are you involved with Ron?” Tim asked. “I still don’t know a lot about you, partner.”

“I’m a collector.” For the first time, Cray cracked a smile.