This is for those who pound pavement as if it will disappear by morning. A rucksack slung heavy over shoulder and a shirt opened loosely as the sun etches its red shadow into bare skin while soles march into the horizon. The smell of dew dissipating as they crest the next hill, yellow arrows on the side of the road directing them to go left or right with the buoyant curves through farmland; these are the tales told by legs long done walking and hands wrinkled from prolonged daylight.

Before hitchhiking was dangerous for both walkers and drivers, before hitchhiking was illegal in most states, one could taste the mission before it was started. One could leave with a Lincoln tucked away in a sock and not come home until he had washed dishes at every truck stop along Interstate 95, paying for room and board by drops of sweat spent over greasy stoves and soapy sinks. The sweat would make the apron stick until it had to be peeled off at the end of every shift. Fatigue would disappear at the rise of buried stench between shirt and smock and a lust for beer and women overtook.

That Lincoln would stretch for weeks, buying after-shift beers with other deviants picked up willingly along the way. A friendship kindled through hops and spent cigarettes would last until the next county line. Another would start with two drunkards yelling at the moon to give them a sign for the next route and they would jump into an empty train car, yelling drinking songs above the thunderous rumble of wheels on the track as they sped through the Adirondacks or the Ozarks. Their cologne of hay and straw could only be overlooked if one acknowledged the ease with which they smiled at having nothing, but not caring.

Back and forth, back and forth, exploring hillside after hillside from California to New York. They could make enough of a living to live for one night and they would stretch that night into forever as long as there were people willing to join them, and if there weren’t, the highway was right there calling to them. I don’t think the expatriates left for political reasons; I think they missed the easy adventure of the highways that have long gone rigid from misuse and from others failing to see the glow of something unexplainable coming from the other side of the horizon.

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