American Life in Poetry

Thirty or 40 years ago, there were lots of hitchhikers – college students, bent old men and old women – and none of them seemed fearful of being out there on the highways at the mercy of strangers.

All that’s changed, and now nobody wants to get in a car with a stranger. Here Steven Huff of New York tells us about a memorable ride.

Safe

You used to be able to flag a ride in this country.

Impossible now; everyone is afraid

of strangers. Well, there was fear then too,

and it was mutual: drivers versus hitchhikers.

And we rode without seat belts,

insurance or beliefs. People

would see me far ahead on a hill like a seedling,

watch me grow in the windshield

and not know they were going to stop until

they got right up to me. Maybe they wanted

company or thought I’d give them

some excitement. It was the age

of impulse, of lonesome knee jerks. An old woman

stopped, blew smoke in my face

and after I was already in her car she asked me

if I wanted a ride. I’m telling you.

Late one night a construction boss pulled over.

One of his crew had been hit by the mob, he said as he drove, distraught

and needing to talk to someone.

We rode around for a long time.

He said, I never wore a gun to a funeral before,

but they’ve gotta be after me too.

Then he looked at me and patted the bulge

in his coat. Don’t worry, he said, you’re safe.