On the Road Again

After leaving Jacksonville, where I'd spent a few days being emmasculated (I'd taken the girl to shoot a pistol for the first time and she out-shot me; according to my army service record I'm an "expert" with a pistol), on my way to visit friends in Louisiana, I decided that I needed to reassert my machismo. For those that don't know, "machismo," in my warped mind means "glaringly, stupidly, dangerous activity." As the interstate doesn't offer much by way of opportunities for machismo (other than flicking off a fleet of Hell's Angels), I jumped at the first that presented itself. So, yes, I picked up a hitcher.

I figured that I'd hedged my bets since he looked relatively old and he had a suitcase and a folding bag. Nonetheless, as he huffed to lug his gear the hundred yards to the car, I took the Desert Eagle out of the glovebox, locked and loaded it (though kept it on safe), set it down between my seat and the door, and covered it. It turned out he was a rather affable, if aromatic, Vietnam Veteran whose job in Orlando hadn't panned out. He'd had to go there because he was struggling to find work after the factory he'd worked at had been destroyed by Katrina. At any rate, that was what he said, though I'm not sure how much I believed him.

I am proud to say though that my mission to reassert my machismo was successful beyond my wildest dreams. Apparently, I'd scared the guy so much (I did my fair share of ranting during the four hours I had him in the car), that getting a ride wasn't worth it. Though he needed to get to Louisiana, and I told him I'd take him that far, he had me drop him off at a truck stop just past the AL/FL border because he said he had to use the bathroom and didn't want to hold me up.