A Trilogy:
The Father, Son & Brother's Ghost

Up the Road a Piece
an embellished recollection
©1993 John Wayne Samples

The clock on the dashboard reads 5:55. The country station agrees with that just before I hit the seek button in search of the baseball game that's supposed to be about to start. It's a warm April afternoon on Interstate 80 in the middle of Iowa. A sudden illness in the family has caused me to cut short a business trip in Nebraska and head for Cincinnati where I'll meet up with my wife and kids and relatives and friends. I'm already tired and wishing I had someone to ride with me, but right now I'd settle for a cup of caffeine. The billboard claims there's free coffee at the next exit -- eight more miles. I'm wondering how much "free" will cost when I'm struck by the sight of a happy-go-lucky low-risk-looking hitchhiker.

Ask and ye shall receive, I think to myself as I slow down to look for signs of drugs or accomplices. He's carrying nothing and I can see for three states in all directions so I figure he's safe. As I pull to a stop, I'm wondering where his car is and how he got out here.

"Where ya headed?"

As I listen for his response, I'm thinking that I haven't heard that line in a long time, at least not through the passenger-side window of a car driven by a pity-taking good Samaritan.

But there was a day when "Where ya headed?" was the calling card of the fortunate who were willing to share some of their success with poor travelers trying to make their way on worn-out soles and an outstretched thumb. Soldiers. Sailors. Students. All getting rolling glimpses of people and vehicles as they evaluated the behavior and attitude of each--the drivers and the cars. You can learn a lot between here and the next town about a worn-out soul trying to make way on four new tires and an outstretched hand. Businessmen. Farmers. Lonely Women.

I always got the businessmen and farmers. But it was the stories of the Lonely Women, the tales told and the hopes of fantasies fulfilled, that gave strength to the thumb and comfort to the feet. That is what made hitching worth all those risks: the crazed, gun-toting mass-murderer; the old guy with a Sears and Roebuck drivers license; or Rod Serling in the back seat saying something about, "... two people unaware of what lies ahead, on the road to the Twilight Zone."

I always thought Lonely Women caused more guys to hitch than all the flat tires and empty gas tanks combined.

 

"Just up the road a piece," he drawls back in perfect time.

 

It was like the coded exchange between secret agents.

"... up the road a piece" meant there was no crisis, nothing to fix or fill-up, and that you were an experienced rider who would probably even make good conversation for as long as you were in the car. It might mean a mile, or it might mean 30 miles. It might mean 'till it's just time to get out.

My brother and I were teenage thumb travelers. He would hitch the 20 miles between our rural home and his high school. It was the only way he could participate in those well-rounding types of extra-curricular activities which help a person get a better education which helps a person get a better job which helps a person afford a car so he can be the driver instead of the rider.

I, on the other hand, would just go up the road a piece to Wesley Johnson's place for a game of kill-or-be-kilt wiffleball. But I might stop at Jeff Barnes' for basketball--if I didn't see Mike Roberts there first. Or I might get out at Sid Martin's store at the crossroads for an RC Cola and a Moon Pie if the feeling so struck. The driver had to be flexible.

The only variable my brother had in his travel itinerary was he would sometimes stop off at the old folks home and read to Aunt Hassie (she wasn't really his aunt), or listen to her stories of conquering teachers and teaching conquerors. I'm sure he never used the up the road a piece line because he always knew where he was going and wanted everyone to know he knew. Even if he might change his mind after he got in, he always stated his plans up front because everyone knowing where they're going has always been important to him.

 

"Well, jump on in here. That's exactly where I'm headed," I chuckled back knowing that riders would always trust a guy with a sense of humor -- especially if they were going to exactly the same place. He glides into the front seat.

"So, did your car break down or something?" I'm watching an approaching semi in the side mirror wishing he would move to the left lane so I can pull back on to the highway. "I mean, you don't see many hitchhikers on the Interstate anymore unless there's a dysfunctional vehicle around." I pull back on the highway.

"That's a fact." He says it with a grin that I can see without looking. I'm not sure if it is a fact that his car broke down or he is just agreeing about the highway hikers.

Through the static of a radio station not yet ready to be received, Marty Brenneman welcomes us to the pregame show and begins setting-up tonight's game between the Reds and somebody they're expected to beat but probably won't. My guest is amazed that I can pick-up the Cincinnati station way out here. Good. He knows the rules. The rider should always find something to compliment about the car. Even a good AM radio. I start to explain that the signal will come in better once the sun has been down a while. "I used to live in Ohio," he volunteers. I realize he isn't impressed with the radio after all, just the station's origination location. "Seems like a lifetime ago that I was there, but it was real good while it lasted."

He still hasn't answered my first question. I decide to be more direct. "So what are you doing out here?"

"Just been travelin' around, looking for questions and answers, not necessarily in that order." Straight face. Ok, so I picked-up an intellectual hippy. That's not dangerous. Is it?

"By the way. I really appreciate you picking me up. Today has been a really hard day. But I'm over it now. Thanks a lot."

He doesn't look like he's had a hard day. I'm not really all that interested in his problems anyway.

But, I am courteous. "What was so tough about it?" I'm just waiting my turn to lay my tough break up against anything he can throw out.

"Kind of odd," he muses. "The last ride I had didn't want to let me out. I've never seen anything like it. I asked them to stop maybe five or six hours ago, but they just kept on going."

OK, so now I'm curious. "You mean they didn't let you out at your stop?"

"Well, there really wasn't a specific stop. Sometimes it's just time to get out, if you know what I mean. It was just time, but they wouldn't stop." He looks like he's half-way between a smirk and a cry. I don't think I believe him. I'll try a new approach.

"So, where you headed now?"

"To tell you the truth, I have a hunch my traveling days are over. Maybe one more stop--just up the road a piece--and I can rest for a while." I understood the "just up the road" line so I back-off. For now.

Marty finishes the expected starting line-ups and begins interviewing some guest with a southern twang about his days in Triple A as a Louisville Red Bird.

I think about a joke my dad used to tell about the Kentucky hitchhiker who only had one shoe. "No, sir," he replied to the driver who asked if he had lost one. "I found one!"

That makes me think about Shoeless Joe Jackson and that makes me wonder if they really did film that Field of Dreams movie here in Iowa. That makes me smile out loud; I usually do when I think of that movie. I recall that the last time I saw it I was with my brother. That may have been the first time we ever cried together.

"Ease his pain."

Just for a moment I'm afraid to respond; afraid the voice hadn't come from my passenger. I take the chance. "Did you say something?" That should be safe.

"You know, the place where they filmed that baseball movie. It's just up the road here."

"Is that right?" I try to act calm as I glance in the rear-view mirror to see if a Mr. Serling is in the back seat.

This guy is acting real kool, like he really hadn't just read my mind. "Yep. About sixty miles straight ahead, then left when you see that long line of cars." His smile is bigger than his little joke is funny.

"Is that where you're headed?" I expect I'm on to something, finally.

"Heavens no," he puns back. "I've been afraid of cornfields ever since I saw that movie." His smile is genuine but he doesn't milk it. As he turns to look out his window at what will soon be miles upon miles of cornfields, he kind of mumbles. "Always wanted to be a shortstop myself."

Our thoughts drift separately for a few minutes. The radio comes in real clear just long enough to reminded us that the home team blew another big lead last night. "Stupid Reds." I don't think he hears me.

"Did you find your answers?" He heard that. "You know, the ones you've been traveling around looking for?"

"Some, but I think I'm about to find a lot more where I'm headed today."

"Oh, yeah? Where's that?" Somehow, I don't expect a straight answer.

"Just up the road a piece." I was right.

The reception is getting worse again, not better, so I turn off the radio during the commercial. Answering the question that he may never have asked, I explain that I'll turn it back on when I get a little closer.

"To Cincinnati?"

I tell him what has happened and that I'm trying to get there in another ten hours or so. He doesn't really respond.

For the next couple of miles the only sound is the predictable click of the tires marking time and distance by the newly patched cracks running across the highway. Nice beat, but I don't think I could dance to it. I turn the radio back on and punch in the tape; Paul Simon's Graceland. My rider wants to know if he can ask me a question. I turn the music down.

"What will you do when you get to the hospital in Cincinnati?"

I tell him that I don't really know. He tells me that he doesn't really know either. So much for traveling around looking for answers.

I turn the music back up.

We both join in on You Can Call Me Al. I'm doing the Chevy Chase part from the music video and he's acting like Paul Simon. I'm feeling pretty good by the time the song ends and he says thanks for the ride and it's time to get out.

"But we're fifteen miles between exits," I protest. He says something about taking a side road or two. I turn the stereo off and pull over. More thanks. I offer him money to ride all the way back to Ohio with me. "Nah," he says. "We've both gotta do what we've gotta do. No since putting it off." He wishes me luck and I return the sentiment, even though I still don't know where he's headed or why he might need luck.

As I'm pulling back onto the highway, watching for semis in the side mirror, I notice he's ... I never asked his name ... I notice he's crossing the median to the west-bound side and sticking his thumb out even before he gets there. I quickly get up to speed and set the cruise control on 72 just as my car phone rings. It's my wife. She's tried calling a half-dozen times. No need to hurry; he's gone. When? About 30 minutes ago; just before six o'clock. The doctors fought hard to keep him alive for the last five or six hours, but when they removed the life support after the surgery, well, there was just too much damage to my brother's heart.

Professor Alan Dain Samples was 41. Survivors include his wife and fourteen month old twin sons... 

In an instant I'm flooded with questions that need immediate answers: Who's going to write the obit? Why should parents ever have to bury their children? Who's going to teach his class tomorrow? Why should children ever have to grow-up without their dad? When did we last talk and what was it about?

For no rational reason I quickly look up at the rear-view mirror. Nobody there; just a hot highway melting into the last few strands of daylight. Didn't really expect anyone to be there.

I don't think.

I put the cruise on 65 and turn on the headlights. Thankful that the rest of the family can be together during such a tough time, I wonder if I can stay awake for another nine-plus hours. I decide to stop for a cup of coffee, just up the road a piece.

JSam

The Father, Son & Brother's Ghost Trilogy: