I stick out my thumb on a small road in Milbridge, and with this simple act I become a rebel. Every driver that passes by notices me, even those who avoid eye contact. Some feel guilty, others feel angry, a few lock their doors, most have other things on their mind and decide not to deal with me. I understand; I rarely pick up hitchhikers myself.
My first ride comes, an older woman in a hybrid. As I climb in, I check hybrids off the mental list of cars that never pick I up. Run-down cars are the best bet for rides, filled with people who have been without cars themselves. The more affluent the vehicle, the less likely it is to stop. But the list isn’t perfect. Earlier this summer, a semi-truck stopped traffic to pick me up.
The hybrid owner and I talk politics. Everyone likes to share their world views with hitchhikers. A liberal in a conservative county, she eagerly shares her hopes for November. Some drivers will tell me their treasured secrets before I’ve driven a mile; the car can end up feeling like a confessional.
I get dropped off at Route 1. The driver drove two miles out of her way to get me there, a moment’s kindness that saves a half-hour walk.
I walk backwards out of Milbridge. Drivers are turning off side streets; they think it’s too short of a ride for me. They hold out their thumb and pointer finger to indicate the short distance as they drive into the horizon.
A young man pulls up in a maroon minivan. He used to hitchhike when he used to drink. He remembers asking drivers to pull over so he could be sick. I understand why rides are hard to come by.
He’s cleaned up now. His teeth need work, but that doesn’t stop him from grinning like an excited child when he talks about cars. He commutes from Milbridge to Mount Desert Island five times a week for work; I can’t fathom how he would ever come out ahead.
He stops at a gas station near Steuben to give the mother of his children a ride home as she hops off the Jackson Lab bus. He has to go down to Hancock later; if he sees me on the road he’ll pick me up. I can’t imagine the chances.
I run after the Jackson Lab bus, but it’s going the wrong way.
Then I hit a long dead patch and walk across Steuben. I adjust my arm and thumb angle, but nothing works. I remind myself that I’m not entitled to a ride. I look up at the late afternoon sun, but try not to worry. No one picks up a hitchhiker in a hurry.
I discover a patch of blueberries next to the Steuben town office and I abandon my post. They taste so good that I almost don’t notice the Jackson Lab bus returning home. Just in time, I jump out and wave vigorously. The driver doesn’t slow down. The blueberries were worth it.
A few minutes later, a brown van pulls up. The driver has a small bed in the back and fishing gear. He doesn’t say much, so I don’t either. Suddenly, he flips on the CD player to play Amii Stewart’s “Knock on Wood” loudly. It seems weird for two men to listen to it in silence. He drops me off near Gouldsboro.
I walk past blueberry fields warning of pesticides; I feel like holding my breath. A familiar maroon minivan pulls up, and the young driver laughs with delight. He takes me to Hancock while good-naturedly grousing about his current girlfriend.
A minute after he drops me off, another minivan with “Support Our Troops” bumper stickers pulls up. I never would have guessed they’d have stopped.
A husband and wife are on their way to pick up their five children in Bangor. I think of how little time alone two parents with five children get, and I feel honored.
They ask me questions as their puppy chews on my bag; the husband peers at me through the rearview mirror to make sure I answer right. They are nice, but say the people in Massachusetts and California are not. I don’t contradict them; it’s not my place.
I have them let me off a mile from home because they have already gone six miles out of their way. I walk the rest of the way in twilight, happy that there are still people in the state willing to give a stranger a ride home.