Ellen Dymit

4/16/14
Short Story #2, Revised Draft
The Hitchhiker
Charlie was soaking wet, hair stuck to his forehead by a thick paste of dirt and rain and
sweat and slush that tires had sprayed up from their turning in the gray mid-February street
muck. His white thumb jutted out from beneath a ragged sleeve, wet and wrinkled like a prune
that had never seen the light of day. He leaned across the curb into oncoming traffic.
Fourteen days was too long to go without a shower or a full night of sleep. Anything less
than six days and you could kind of hide it under a hat and baggy clothes, pretend you were just
sick. Any longer and everyone could smell the shit and grime like you had a cheap garbagescented air freshener stapled to your forehead.
Charlie stood now in the rain with about one hundred garbage-scented air fresheners
stapled all over his body, swaying with exhaustion until he finally saw a pair of headlights
decelerate through the icy rain. A tan conversion van with a rusted radiator grill growled up the
road, windshield wipers working furiously to maintain some visibility. Charlie shuffled his feet
and adjusted his backpack, staring hungrily into the approaching stark white beams. The vans
wheels hissed, sending rough waves through the gutter muck as it pulled up the curb beside him.
Charlie fell sideways into the passenger seat, right food dragging through the rapids of
slop that roared down a storm drain on the curb near him. The man driving was smoking a cheap
cigarette and staring at the center of his steering wheel. Charlie slammed the door shut. Rain
hammered on the hood of the van. Creedence Clearwaters Bad Moon Rising blasted through
the stereo, accompanied by a warbling whine of static interference. I see the bad moon arisin, I
see trouble on the way.
The driver had a mop of wiry black hair that spilled over his shoulders in uneven sheets
like a stray dog. Charlie thought it might be a wig until he saw the mans face, which was tan and
chiseled with a thick black beard, eyebrows, and a broad nose to match. Where to? The man
asked around his cigarette.
Charlie shrugged. Anywhere but here is fine.
The driver laughed. Okay, then. Tulsa is where Im headed. Have you ate?
No, man.
The driver nodded and began rummaging through the pockets of his large coat for
something. Course you havent. Do you have a name?
Yes, I do.
The driver grunted and kept turning out his pockets. He made Charlie nervous.
and you?
What?
A name?
The driver laughed and tossed what he had been rummaging for, a squashed granola bar,
into Charlies lap. Outside, another car sped by through the rain. Charlie smoothed out his jeans
nervously as the van sloshed away from the curve and accelerated down the road. Whats
funny?
Oh, nothing. This is just my favorite part?
What, sharing your snack bars with hitchhikers?
No, no. Introductions.

Im sorry, man. If youre trying to joke I dont get it.

Im Jesus.
Charlie smiled knowingly. Oh, I see. Thats one burden of a name.
This made the driver laugh even harder. No, no, you dont get it. I am Jesus. Son of God.
Messiah. Lamb. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. All that jazz. Jesus spun his hands in little circles by
his head, and the car veered slightly across the center line.
Charlie laughed nervously and glanced at the window, considering how bad it would hurt
if he jumped out of the van right now and barrel rolled into the flooded drainage ditch.
Im Jesus, and youre Charlie.
What?
What, what?
I didnt tell you that.
What?
My name. I didnt tell you my name.
Jesus shrugged. True, you did not.
I didnt tell you what the hell, man. How the hell do you know my name?
Jesus raised his eyebrows and shrugged again. Charlie sat in shocked silence, staring at
the sheets of rain as they danced down the windshield. The wipers squeaked furiously and
Creedence kept on singing. I fear rivers overflowin, I hear the voice of rage and ruin.
You dont have to believe me. Theres no hard feelings if you dont. Im used to it by
now.
Charlie swallowed hard. Why should I believe you?
I never said you should. I just said you dont have to, man
You could have guessed my name!
Jesus furrowed his brow. Mmm. Charlie Sternman. You arent a college man, never was.
You dont have a mom anymore. You call Detroit home, and when you were seven and your
sister was twelve, you
What the hell, man!
Jesus smiled. Lucky guesses.
Okay, okay, okay. I believe you. Its just, I dont know what? Youre real? You
youre alive? Charlie pressed his forehead into the dashboard and squeezed his eyes shut. This
is too fucked, man. Jesus Christ, this is fucked.