By ROGER SMALL
As I Recall
“The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.”
— Swedish proverb
It was the Saturday of Labor Day weekend. I was hitch-hiking back home to my house in Newport after spending a few days at a college friend’s home in Westerly, Rhode Island.
I was on the side of Route 128, south of Boston. A dusty, dark brown Plymouth — a couple of years old — pulled over to the side of the road as it approached my position. There two men in the vehicle.
I was grateful to have a car actually stop. Most traffic on 128 never slowed down for young men seeking a ride. In those days females never hitch-hiked. A woman hitch-hiker would get less respect than a low-paid prostitute.
In that era most American households shared what was referred to as the “Family Car.” Very few driveways had two cars in them. Taking the family car out of town for an extended trip was out of the question. Thus, my contemporaries and I stuck our thumbs out most often when we went on a trip.
I attended the University of Rhode Island and hitch-hiking was my standard mode of transportation. When my father was alive he always tried to help me get started on my return trips to URI. He would give me a ride to a point on my route which was between Concord and Manchester. Sometimes the most time-consuming leg of the journey was between Newport and Concord because there was sparse traffic on that highway. I stood next to the road with my suitcase in front of me. University of Rhode Island was painted on the side of the suitcase and Newport on the other side.
Many times I got rides from people who somehow identified with either people or places from Newport or URI. The sign also served the purpose of vehicles offering a lift when they perceived what a long distance I was traveling. Many times I got one ride which took me the entire distance of my trip.
It was early afternoon when the dusty Plymouth pulled over on 128. I had started my thumbing at about nine in the morning from the outskirts of Westerly, at the sound end of Rhode Island. Because I was not traveling to, or from, college, I did not have my suitcase with me. All I carried was a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes in my shirt pocket.
As soon as the car stopped next to me I began to have some misgivings. The two scruffy guys were in their mid 20s, unshaven and wearing rumpled clothes. Guys who are offered rides generally climbed into the back seat of the vehicle. This time, however, the man on the passenger side swung the door open and jumped out. He motioned for me to sit in the middle. I made a cursory glance toward the back seat as I complied with his offer.
There was a pile of crumpled slacks and shirts on the back seat. It was hard to tell if the pile was all clothes or there was something under the clothes. I did recognize the butt of a rifle.
The door closed and the driver kicked up pebbles as he floored the vehicle. I had not spoken a word to my hosts as we made our way back into the flow of traffic.
Suddenly, three Massachusetts State Police cars came out of nowhere, surrounded our vehicle and we were forced off the road. Within seconds six state troopers had guns drawn and pointed inside at us. “Alright-out! Hands where I can see ‘em!”
We were propped against the brown Plymouth. We were being frisked — me last. I had never been frisked. As the second guy’s wallet was being examined, a trooper on the other side of the car yelled out, “It’s here!” as he looked under the pile of clothes. The handcuffs made their appearance.
“Wait a minute. What’s going on here? I’m not with these guys!” I announced.
“Don’t listen to him. He’s a liar. He’s our buddy,” the guy who had been driving said.
At that point a trooper was looking at my New Hampshire driver’s license. “If I’m their buddy, ask them what my name is,” I demanded.
No one responded.
Within 15 minutes the excitement ended. A paddy wagon came and took the two men away, in cuffs.
“You’re lucky, young man. Those two guys had robbed a bank 20 minutes before they picked you up. They might have gone on and robbed another place while you were in their car. You could have ended up as an accessory to a crime,” one of the state policemen informed me as he left.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I stuck my thumb out.
“Thieves respect property; they merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it.”
— G.K. Chesterton
These columns were originally published in the Argus Champion over five years after 1996. Which is available through Amazon and in your local library.
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