I gave a ride to a drifter named Blue around 7:30 this morning. In his late forties or early fifties, long, thinning blond hair, pale eyes. He wore an army-green greatcoat and carried a vinyl guitar bag and a gym bag with a hard hat hanging on it. Said he was going to Seattle but I couldn't take him that far. He was standing by the on-ramp to Interstate 12 and told me he'd been at that same ramp for 11 hours waiting for a lift, through a night where we had a good hard frost. I think he'll appear in a story of mine somewhere down the line. Hell, if it had been last week when I was off maybe I would have just taken him to Seattle. I've never been.
Hitchhiking must be a hard way to travel these days, and I'm sure movies like The Hitcher, which has just been remade, don't help. I used to hitchhike home from school all the time as a teenager, until I got a motorcycle. We lived six miles outside of town and during football season practice would make me too late for the bus. The bike I had was a dirt bike, though, with big knobby tires. Try riding that on the highway at 50+. Talk about a jarring experience.
What's the point to this post? Don't really have one. I guess I'm still thinking about characters and about where they come from and how to develop them. Lot more thinking to do there.