Nalia always tells me that hitchhiking is idiotic. "It's not the fifties anymore," she reminds me. So I wonder what she would think if she saw me here on I-98, unshaven, with my arm in the air and thumb extended. Of course the cars cruise by, but it doesn't matter because I'm standing here staring at my thumb and thinking about sixth grade.

You know sixth grade science class, when you learn about genetics? The teacher has you take time to see if you have a "hitchhiker's thumb" or a "widow's peak." I was left-handed and that was about as individualistic as I got. Then all the kids would fill in Punnett Squares with R's and T's and everyone was happy.

And of course there's the requisite lecture about AIDS in science class. You hear about how it originated in monkeys. The girl next to me would erupt in giggles and whisper to her friends about AIDS transferring to humans because some guy had sex with a monkey. That always bothered me.

Years later I realized that the monkey could have bitten the poor guy and he wasn't kinky at all, he just got a bad rap. But I still dwell on that giggling girl and imagine meeting her in New York City on some Thursday night. She would be wearing a revealing light blue dress and I would set her straight.

"You know, the guy didn't have sex with the monkey. The monkey bit him."

"Gee, thanks."

Then she'd raise her arm, and call for a cab. Kind of like what I'm doing now, except minus the cab part. I don't think cabs drive on I-98 too often.

Eventually a car does stop, or rather, a truck. In its heyday I'm sure it was a magnificent cherry-red beast. Now the red blurs into the requisite rust spots that populate east coast cars. The driver has a dirty burgundy ball cap on. I comment that his hat matches the color of his truck. The driver says his name is Jim and that I should jump in the bed. He doesn't ask where I'm going, which doesn't matter because I don't really know. His destination is good enough for me.

I throw my suitcase into the back of the truck and then hop in. That's when I notice I'm not the only one back there. It turns out I'm sharing the bed with an assortment of nails, some hay, a leftover 2x4, and a mid-sized Labrador Retriever. I sit myself next to the dog who promptly lies down, but keeps one eye on me. I check his nametag and discover that my bedmate is named Bucky.

Back home I had an acquaintance named Bucky. Well, he might be considered a friend. It was one of those tricky situations where you know the person well enough that you have to acknowledge them when you pass them on the sidewalk, but not quite well enough to really talk to them. At least not sober anyways.

But this Bucky was quite a bit different from the back-home Bucky. For one, this guy had more hair. Not that back-home Bucky was hairless, not by any means. Some people referred to him as the Yorktown Yeti. The funny thing is he didn't live in Yorktown. I guess they just needed an alliteration.

I rummage through my bag to look for food to give Bucky. It's going to be a long bumpy ride so I reckon I might as well make friends. He happily accepts half of a peanut butter sandwich. He then settles down and gets real quiet. I look at him and tell him that trips are always better if everyone tells stories. Unfortunately Bucky isn't too talkative, and apparently neither is Jim. I guess I'll manage.

My attention drifts to the scenery. Fields give way to forests, give way to Amoco's, give way to fields. It's one of those cycles. Life and death paralleled by nature and Amoco gas stations. Heaven would be one of those fields that have just been cut so you can sit in the middle and watch foxes hunt for mice. Hell would be one of those gas stations where petroleum is splattered over everything, including the crackers that you buy at the register.

The trees remind me of Nalia. Don't worry, I'm not going to keep on mentioning her every twenty seconds, but I do miss her. She has this natural hair that she can barely keep tamed, kind of like wild brush that squirrels and minks would hide in. She has threatened over and over to cut it all off, but I'd always beg her not to. It's not like hair in those Pantene commercials; it's not silky with layer falling upon layer. It's frizzy and untamed, it reminds me of human nature when it's not constrained by GAP sweaters and Martha Stewart toasters. But you don't have to be metaphorical to appreciate her hair; it's just gorgeous.

I'm constantly trying to keep myself from turning to metaphors. Otherwise I go around saying this truck is a mobile America and Bucky is the butler of life. Maybe the driver is the herald of the new millennium.

I find the best remedy for a metaphorical mood is a swift kick in the seat of the pants. And I seem to be getting one every thirty feet. I think this truck's shocks gave out quite some time ago. These bumps are a painful reminder of humanity's suffering.

The truck has an uneasy jitter as it hurtles down the highway. I'm sure Jim and Bucky have grown used to this, but it's slightly unnerving. It's not that I'm worried about turning over or anything; I'm just in no rush to get to his destination. I've found that the journey, no matter how arduous is almost always better than the destination.

The peak of a mountain is a fallen angel.

Honestly, I'll try and hold back the metaphors, even the lame ones, which are my favorites.

Jim soon pulls onto an exit. The sign on the ramp says, "Welcome to Murfreesboro." I begin to wonder if this will be an actual town or just a conglomeration of fast food restaurants, diners and gas stations.

It's the conglomeration. Jim pulls into a gas station and says I can take five minutes to stretch my legs, use the facilities, and grab some food. It's a tall order for a short stop, but Jim seems to be a man of high expectations.

Stretching legs comes first. Thirty seconds. On to the gas station bathroom. I walk inside and ask for the key. The lady tells me that someone's in it and I have to wait. I walk outside the bathroom door and stand next to it.

There are two other cars pumping gas. Both of the drivers are women, one black, the other white. The white lady has a kid crying in the car. She buys some Ritz crackers along with the gas. The black lady is driving a red sports car. I would go into car specifics except that I can't stand it when people do that. I look at my watch; two minutes have gone by. No sign of this bathroom door opening. Three minutes. I contemplate knocking but decide against it.

The door finally opens. Out steps a fifty-year-old man in leather. His beard reminds me of ZZ Top. Right behind him is a similarly aged woman. They hand me the key and tell me to have fun. I respond that they probably had more fun than I will. I don't garner any laughs.

Four and a half minutes, I'm back in the store and perusing the selection. I take out a dollar bill and buy a Snickers.

Five minutes and six seconds and I'm in the back of the truck again. Jim gives me a slight nod and then we hit the road. Bucky looks at me plaintively but I tell him the Snickers is for later. He seems to accept the answer and drifts back to sleep.

Here's where the joy of being a passenger sets in. You can gaze at the scenery as it whips by and soak it all up. There's no meditation or Buddhism involved really, you just relax your mind and absorb. Absorb the sounds of tractor-trailer trucks, absorb the sight of bumper stickers and dense forest, absorb the taste of exhaust pouring out from all the traffic. I'm not being an environmental critic, that's just what's out there. Trees, petroleum, and traffic jams. Some people dread traveling, but I revel in it. Of course, I'm not driving.

As dusk approaches, Jim pulls off the highway. The exit sign said there is a Shell Gas Station, a Dairy Queen, and a Big Red Inn. Jim pulls into the Big Red Inn and steps out of the truck. I just sit in the bed and watch the ritual. He slowly walks into the motel office, and comes back out six minutes later holding a key on a red chain. He takes Bucky out of the truck and walks him around the gravel parking lot for ten minutes. I watch the moon drift between darkened clouds. Jim then walks into the Big Red Inn, with Bucky. He leaves me to fend for myself.

The motel office door squeaks when I open it. A middle-aged lady sits all two hundred pounds of herself behind the desk, reading Vanity Fair. I glance at the red carpet permanently stained with coffee and crushed dreams. I smile at this metaphor and read the newspaper clippings on the wall. Of course they're old and yellow, and most of them deal with a local emu farm that apparently is some sort of tourist attraction. Nalia collects plush ostriches, which aren't emus, but I'm not counting.

I watch the lady lick her lips as she turns the pages of the magazine. Her nametag says her name is Linda, proudly serving me since 1998. I step back outside into the increasingly brisk night.

After vainly searching for constellations I decide to check out the interior of the Big Red Inn. Next to the office door is another door, which opens into a lounge/kitchen area. This room's carpet is red, stained simply with coffee. It's furnished with a loveseat and a sink with empty cupboards above it. The red carpet continues down a hallway dotted with locked doors. At the end of the hallway is another lounge, this time without a sink. In its place is a larger couch and a magazine rack. I pick up a Newsweek with a cover story about some murders. I glance at the date, October 1983.

I decide the couch will be where I crash for the night. It fits me just about right. I place my suitcase on the floor and lie down upon the orange sofa. It smells slightly of menthol cigarettes and bourbon. The pillows are scanty comfort due to years of use. I try to convert a few of the magazines into some sort of makeshift pillow, with little success. Eventually all the magazines slide onto the ground and I make do by resting my head on the wooden arm of the sofa.

After a few minutes of lying still, the dark splotches on the ceiling begin to intrigue me. I spend a good half hour trying to determine their origins. Some of the stains form Orion's Belt. I can't find Scorpio, but I still fall asleep satisfied.

The morning comes, just as it does every day. Except this morning I have the added pleasure of Linda awakening me with a smack from the broom. When she demands my room number I just grin and say my wife got angry with me and kicked me out of the room last night. Linda fixes me coffee and we sit down in the kitchen to a breakfast of fake fruit-filled pastries.

Linda talks about running the inn and the customers she sees. Most of them are truckers and locals. She has one regular who stays once a week. Apparently he just likes a change of scene. As the customers straggle in for their fill of pastries Linda engages each of them in conversation, asking about their destinations, their families and the age of their daughters. She flirts with most of the men who then laugh, pat her on the back and say she's a "fine gal." I wonder whether she had been similarly coy with me and I just hadn't noticed. Probably not.

Eventually the flow of breakfast-goers slows down and she resumes our conversation. What was she talking about? Ah yes, visitors. She swears a celebrity stayed here once, but she just can't remember whom. All she knows is that it wasn't Michael J. Fox. I nod my head in agreement.

I keep expecting her to tell me a sad story of a troubled childhood that forever wrecked her dreams of leaving this small town. Instead we talk about ice-cream flavors at the local parlor. She prefers praline, I tell her I'm a vanilla guy. She laughs and says she isn't surprised.

As Linda's laughter and chatter fills the room I begin looking at the sunrays as they reflect off our table. The sun highlights the table's imperfections and I start to trace my finger along some of the table's nicks. When I look up I notice Linda's quizzical glance and I realize she's waiting for me to answer her question.

"My wife?"

"Yes darlin', your wife. Why in the world did she kick out of your room last night?"

I give her a sheepish grin as I remember my early-morning excuse for sleeping on the motel couch, "My lack of focus in life got her a little riled up."

Linda laughs loudly and proclaims that focus is over-rated. I nod my head, but my thoughts drift back to Nalia. I remember her exact words back home. She was tired of waiting. I had told her I was tired of waiting too.

My focus returns when Jim walks in. He looks at Linda and tips his ball cap. She comments on the peacefulness of the weather and bats her eyelashes. He murmurs a response and then stares at me, blankly, as if he knows he has met me before. After a while he just nods his head at me and disappears out the front door with two cups of coffee. I hear his truck start its engine out in the parking lot and pull away. I smile, but Linda doesn't notice.

We talk for a few more minutes, but eventually Linda has to return to the front desk. She leaves the room and I sit at the table by myself. The cup of coffee Linda poured for me is untouched and I toss its contents down the sink. Then, after wrapping up a couple of pastries in a napkin and placing them in my bag, I leave the Big Red Inn.

The sun reflects harshly off of the gravel parking lot. I have to shield my eyes until my sight adjusts. The day sky isn't really that different from the night sky, is it? There's just one big star making up its own constellation instead of thousands of tiny stars. And yes, I remember sixth grade science…the sun is actually a very small star compared to most of them in the galaxy. Thanks for the tip.

I'm not familiar with Gainesville (apparently that's the name of the town) so I don't have a terribly good idea of where to go next. Not that it really matters. I take a left out of the Big Red parking lot. Next-door is the local middle school. An overweight balding man is painting the lines on the football field. A sign says they've been area football champions for three years in a row.

While walking down the road I like to either whistle or read the billboards. Sometimes both. My favorite billboards are the ones written by God himself. You know, the all black background with white writing that says something like, "Thou shalt not punch thy neighbor," and they're always signed simply, "God." I guess he has a lot of time on his hands if he's painting billboards, though I'd imagine after dealing with all the sinners he'd be rather exhausted. But if you think I'm getting overly preachy, please stop me. I tend to do that sometimes. I've had a few people call me an out-right heathen. It's not true, though. I just think the billboards are funny.

But Gainesville doesn't have any of God's billboards, in fact, there aren't really any billboards at all. The town seems mainly composed of a couple of inns, fast-food restaurants, a church, and a handful of small houses. Eventually I make my way back to the interstate. At this point hitching another ride is probably my best option.

I stand with my thumb extended and sweat trickling down my forehead, surveying the highway. It's mainly empty, except for a dead opossum a few yards away. There's forest on either side of the road and occasionally a car will whip by me. But it's only about fifteen minutes before a familiar red truck slows down and stops right next to me. Bucky's head rises from the bed of the truck, with his tongue hanging out, panting furiously. Jim leans over and rolls down the passenger side window. Then he just stares at me for a moment before saying anything.

"Where'd ya go? I just went down the road to find some decent coffee. That stuff in the Big Red was shit."

I tell him I thought he'd left and so I'd gone on. He sort of chuckles and then opens the passenger side door and beckons me to hop in. I get in the truck, place my bag by my feet and shut the door with a slam. There are no seatbelts, and without saying anything, Jim gets back on the highway.

The forests look different from inside the cab, and not just because the windows are streaked. The scenery doesn't remind me as much of Nalia as it did yesterday. I still think about her, I just don't connect her with the forest any more. I'm not really sure why.

Jim asks my name, and I tell him it's Anthony. I also tell him I don't have a particular destination, since I know that'll be his next question. But he just looks straight ahead and says he doesn't really care; that where I'm going is my own business. I smile and drum my fingers on the dashboard.

He drives in silence for at least two and a half hours. I alternatively gaze out the passenger window and try to come up with metaphors, but my muse apparently isn't with me. I can hear Bucky scratching around in the bed, trying to make himself comfortable. But he's mainly silent too, apparently used to long trips in this truck.

Jim drives with his hands clenched on the steering wheel. I would call it white knuckling except I know him better than that. Then, just as I'm becoming used to the silence in the cab and the hum of the engine, Jim looks over at me and begins talking.

"Not much traffic today."

"No, not really."

He pauses for a moment, and stares intently at the road.

"So, you really don't have a destination?"

"That's right."

"I see."

Jim is clenching his jaw now and I can see he's carefully choosing his words. For some reason, I start looking at his slightly graying hair that pokes out from under the dirty red baseball cap.

"I'm driving up north to visit my aunt. She's pretty sick."

I'm now looking at his face, but he's still staring straight ahead at the road.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Well, she's pretty old…getting up there, ya know?"

"Yeah."

Again, Jim falls quiet, pausing as if he's waiting for something.

"So, how long have ya been on the road?"

"About a week."

"A week, really? Hitch-hiking the whole time?"

"Yeah."

Jim nods and continues driving, but now he's glancing at me occasionally, looking for something. I continue with my quest for metaphors…the highway is an awakening, Jim is an element of faith, Nalia is a portent of awareness. Those aren't so swift; I think I might be losing my touch.