January, 2000  The Story Behind the Pickup Truck

Adim and I had stayed in this homeless shelter in downtown Albuquerque. I won't go into how I remember to spell that just now. It wasn't the worst homeless shelter I'd ever been to, but it was haunted by the ghosts of Adim's last visit there. We had been dropped of in the middle of a bombed out inner city by  woman in a pickup. I was a bit disheartened. You see the inner city is one of the worst places for an urban adventurer, and this one looked mean. Adim, in contrast, seemed quite confident. He just headed off the exit and as we walked I got the story. He and Kurtiss had been here on their ill-fated road trip about two years before. That time they had been equipped with a red VW rabbit, and some of momma's cash. They had seeked out the salvation army, and come for their free dinner and bed, only to find a ruckus in the parking lot. The details, I am not sure Adim ever knew. Just that before the shelter had opened, that day, two years past, they had arrived to a bunch of our homeless comrades engaged in a rock throwing fight. From what Adim knew, remembered, and relayed I picture it to have been some form of brutal entertainment. Maybe just to pass the time. The three-days-unshaved half drunk equivalent of snowballs before the school bell rings.

It is with this image that we arrived. And it was this image that I could not shake the whole night. At any moment I expected to get hit by a large rock. As we walked across the parking lot I noted the unusually large stones with which it was paved. All much larger than your standard #2 gravel for loose fill, or crusher run for that nice pavement-like packing. This was serious stuff. Like railroad bed gravel.  And at any moment I was expecting that clunk, on the back of my head.

Dinner was much more organized than your normal homeless experience. Come to think of it, it was much like the middle school lunch. We all had little trays that had luckily faded a few shades in color over the years. I think mine was banana yellow. I can't imagine what hideous shade it might have been once. I have vague recollections of little milk cartons, and something peanuty, and of still being hungry afterward. I could be mistaking some of the details with a real middle school lunch or the fact that I am a bit peckish just now, as I write this. Of course I am still waiting for that clunk, or alternately, splot of mashed potatoes on the back of my head.

For some reason, homeless shelters never permit you to get a good nights sleep. It is understandable that you sleep in dorms with possible snorers. This can't be helped. With out fail they send you to bed after eleven and have you up by five. It's like some punishment. It's a sad nights sleep for someone trying to get back on his feet and hold down a job. Not to mention the distraction of waiting for the clunk. What really kept me up that night were the stinkiest feet I have ever sensed.

For various reasons I was glad to get out of there the next morning. I don't remember just what the routine was, but we were up and out and on the road.

What's worse than getting dropped off in the inner city? Well, it's trying to get a ride out of the inner city. My best technique in to track down the nearest bus and ride it to the edge of town. This area of Albuquerque was beyond busses, so back up on the expressway we went. It's a good way to get picked up by the police, or a nice man who wants to hold your knee, if you get a ride at all. So we walked. And walked. And walked. A few times we were walking faster than the morning traffic, which irony we enjoyed immensely. And we walked a whole lot more.

It might have been four hours later. The traffic had cleared some and was zipping by us. And up ahead, was it really? You never can tell for sure. It was, It was a pickup pulling off for us.

We get up close and if it wasn't our last ride from last night. It's just a good example of that good hitching Kharma I have always had.

I don't know when it has ever felt so good to settle into the bed of a pickup. Maybe it was the familiarity we felt with our driver. Maybe it was our great seats looking back toward the shelter, and the sigh I heaved knowing I would be well clear of the constant fear of the clunk of railroad bed gravel.

As we got away, I composed this poem, in my head. I must have written it down weeks later, only after Adim had gotten tired of hearing it and I was in danger of forgetting it. HIs favorite line was ìRain?!?î Did you know that it doesn't ever rain in the bed of a pickup truck, cruising at fifty five? Even in fairly heavy rain the windshield blocks what would have fallen on you. I can't think of a good experiment to illustrate the phenomenon, but here's a fun substitute that illustrates nothing. Throw a rather large rock from the back of a pickup while cruising at fifty five, as hard as you can, and watch it land and chase you.
 
 

                Link to the Poem