It was 2:30 a.m. on a winter night in the early 60s and I was heading back to Stuart, Fl. on U.S. 1 from my job in West Palm Beach. Development was scant north of Riviera Beach in those days and the road was virtually deserted.
Somewhere north of Jupiter I saw a man trying to thumb a ride. At 60 mph I got only a glimpse of him, but what I saw seemed harmless enough -- average size, average height, maybe in his late 20s, dressed in dark clothes -- but I wasn't about to stop.
As soon as I roared past him, however, my conscience started nagging. A year earlier I had been the one standing on that road trying to hitch a ride. I had been job hunting and my last ride had let me off a couple of miles south of Jupiter at 7 in the evening.
I had started walking north, sticking out my thumb at every single car that passed. By 10 p.m. I was roundly cursing every car that ignored me. By the time I reached home at 4 a.m., my feet were blistered, my legs were trembling and my voice was hoarse from the unkind things I kept yelling at the indifferent cars.
Under the circumstances, the memory was embarrassing. I slowed my ancient Pontiac and made a U-turn. I saw the hitchhiker trudging forlornly north as I passed in the south-bound lane. I made another U-turn, pulled up beside him and threw open the door.
Up close I could see he was a bit older than I had first thought, perhaps 35. He had a three-day growth of beard and his navy-blue cotton work clothes were stained and dirty. There was a faint aroma of whiskey but he wasn't obviously drunk, even if he did stare at me blankly for a moment as if I were a mirage. Then he nodded and climbed in.
I stated up again, basking in the glow of my own charity. He was silent until I was up to speed and then asked casually,
"Are you insured for theft?"
Stunned, I swung my head toward him. He was looking at me with a mildly inquisitive stare, as if he had just asked me for the time. One arm was propped up in the window and the other was lying innocently in his lap. I saw no sign of a weapon.
Despite his calm, the implications of the question couldn't be ignored. Macho strategies tumbled through my mind -- speed up to the point that it would be dangerous for him to try to hurt me or take control of the car, smash him in the throat and shove him out onto the highway. All were ridiculous, of course. I had about as much chance of pulling off something like that as the Pontiac had of sprouting wings.
Well, if heroics were out, guile would have to do.
No, I hastily told him, I wasn't insured for theft; I wasn't even carrying liability insurance (a lie) and if we had an accident he was on his own. I began talking about how broke I was, how poorly paid, what bad shape the Pontiac was in. On these points I was probably convincing because they were the simple truth.
He listened noncommittally. When at last I hesitantly began questioning him, he turned my questions aside.
"Where are you heading?"
"North."
"Looking for work?"
"Maybe."
"What do you do?"
"This and that."
Neither of us made any further mention of his peculiar question as we drove the next half hour in uncomfortable silence, uncomfortable for me at least. As we neared Stuart, I told him that I thought his best bet for another ride would be at the foot of the Roosevelt Bridge at the north end of town. It was quite a ways from where I was heading but I wanted him to be completely satisfied with the arrangement. He nodded in agreement.
When I stopped, my mouth was dry and my heart pounding. If he made any sudden moves for his pocket I was prepared to roll out the door and run like hell.
But all he did was climb out, thank me briefly and plod wearily toward the bridge.
During that unnerving encounter I had been convinced that there was only one possible interpretation of his question. Later I wasn't so sure.
Perhaps he was an insurance salesman by trade and simply making idle conversation. Maybe he was just into mind games and that was his idea of a practical joke. Perhaps exhaustion and booze made his mind wander. Maybe, as a friend later suggested, he was a writer and just wanted to see what my reaction would be to a subtle threat.
Whatever, it was a long time before I picked up another hitch-hiker.