Before I dropped out of the University of Michigan, I tried to see how many different ways I could make my way home from Ann Arbor to Glenview, Illinois. I carpooled, took the train, motorcycled, bicycled (without the gun my Uncle Mikey offered to lend me… just in case).

Then, one subzero December day, I made my way to the exit ramp and boldly stuck out my thumb.  It’s hard to look cool when you’re wearing mittens, but I got picked up within five minutes by a chatty divorcee. Her car was warm, her perfume strong, and she took me took me all the way to Gary, Indiana. This was too easy.

Then I waited on that stinking ramp for three hours. There had to be some kind of secret to getting picked up. So I tried on different expressions:  Joyful… Bitter cold…. Religious… Nothing worked.

Finally, a white Chevy pulls over, and a military dude says, “Git in.” Jimmy’s about 6’ 2”, wearing a tight black t-shirt, camouflage pants, army boots.  He has a pale, weathered face.  It’s about 100 degrees in the car.

            “Where ya heading?”

            “Glenview. See me parents.”

            “Where ya coming from?”

            “School.”  I try not to sound like a suburban kid. But I add,” I coach gymnastics there.”

            “Well then, you must have a nice body underneath all them clothes.” I had an inkling about where this might be heading.

            “Oh yeah.  We do a lot of still dips, handstand push-ups.  End of practice, we put on the boxing gloves.  Great arm work out.” The last part was a lie, but I was trying to sound formidable.

            “You wearing any underwear under all them clothes?” 

            “Yup.  Two pair of long johns.  It’s freezing out there.”

            “OK Why you think a 40 year old man’d pick up a boy like you?”

            Think…quickly.  “Um, for the company?”

            “Nah, it ain’t like that. You ever been with another man?”

            “Nope.  Don’t think my girlfriend’d go for that.” 

            “Hmmmm. You too straight to show me yer cock?”  Well there it was– right out there in the open. Not my penis. Just Jimmy’s desire. 

            “YES! I am too straight for that.” I start Wizard of Ozzing like crazy. “There’s no place like home! There’s no place like home!”

I thought about asking Jimmy to let me out, but I didn’t want to piss him off. I figured he couldn’t do too much harm while he was driving. If he tried, I’d yank the steering wheel and smash us into the concrete barrier. I tightened my seatbelt.

I look over and notice Jimmy’s sweating.  Every few minutes, he takes his right hand, wipes the sweat from his brow, and rubs it the length of his thigh.  He does this over and over again, and it’s really creeping me out. So I start hacking and scrocking, trying to be really unappealing. It didn’t seem to work.

Jimmy starts moving his right hand down his pant leg, like he’s going for something’s hidden in his boot, maybe a knife. So I pick up my LL Bean back pack, start opening with the zipper, as though I’m packing, as though I took Uncle Mikey up on his offer. I did have a number two pencil in there which I could use to stab Jimmy in the eyeball if push came to shove.  “Please, God. No pushing today. No shoving!”

And it worked. When I pick up my pack, Jimmy puts his hand back on the wheel.  So I set my pack down… until Jimmy’s hand starts drifting down his leg again.  We play this cat and mouse game for so many exits. I don’t like the game very much, but I feel compelled to keep playing.

We make our way, slow-motion, past the billboards in the South Side of Chicago, through the Loop in dead silence. I’m 20 miles from home.

            “Hey Jimmy, next exit’’ll be just fine.”

            “I thought you was going to Glenview, see yer parents.”

            “Nah, changed my mind. Gonna go hang with Uncle Mikey.”

            “Yuh sure?”

            “Oh, I’m sure.” Shockingly, Jimmy uses his turn signal and exits.  And there’s a stoplight ahead. And I tell Jimmy he can let me out there, but Jimmy keeps driving and says, “I’m sorry, I just can’t let you go.” I unclick my seatbelt, open the door, and tell Jimmy if he doesn’t pull over, “I’m fucking jumping.”  And Jimmy stops the car. I step out, slam the door, and the cold never felt so good. I look down in the gutter and see cigarette butts, and reach for an empty beer bottle. I look at Jimmy’s back windshield, raise the bottle above my head, then toss it in the trashcan beside me. 

            I walk over to a phone booth on wobbly legs and, and call Uncle Mikey.

            “Um, can you pick me up? …NOW. And bring me… a joint.  Please.”       

            And I realize, I never did get a chance to ask Jimmy where he was heading.

            And I wonder how this would story would be different if I weren’t a straight, white male from Glenview, Illinois.