Hitchhiker’s Nightmare Stephen Benz
It’s the hitchhiker’s worst nightmare: waiting on the shoulder for a ride when the Law comes skidding. Get a move on pal, your kind ain’t wanted here. So on you go, trudging toward the outskirts. But the cop comes back before you get a mile down the road. Guess you didn’t get the message, pal. You hard of hearing or just thick in the head? If it’s one thing you’ve learned, there’s nothing a hitcher can do when the Law wants to bust your ass. Next thing you know you’re spread-eagled against the cold metal of the cruiser, teeth smashed into the hood. One swift kick sends you down into a snow-filled ditch. Middle of the night and you’re still walking the lost highway, too cold to bed down. Stupor and chill, stupor and chill— you feel it in brain and bones. When headlamps crop up, you crouch in tallgrass, you slink behind signposts. Night owls watch from darkened trees. But in Hassle County you can only get so far. You know what’s coming over the horizon: Can’t evade it, pal, can’t dodge it, can’t get away, not this time, not ever. Sure enough, here’s the wailing siren, the spinning blue and red lights, the highway patrol on the prowl for someone answering your description. The searchlight flares, and he’s got you dead to rights.
The Wayne Literary Review: Escapism
52
