Status: Active. . .
Freeway
Ethan
This is bull shit. It’s been two hours since I started walking along this highway with my thumb stuck out to the side, and no one has even acknowledged my hitchhiking.
And my feet hurt.
This is worse then soccer practice, legit. For starters I’m walking on gravel not grass, another thing is that I’m dodging cars that come a little too close and the garbage that some inconsiderate drivers are throwing out the window, as if to say, “Here’s some food buddy, I can’t give you a lift to the nearest motel.”
Why did I even do this? I should have taken the car; but, then license plates are easily trackable.
The sun was bursting, and it was hitting my head with the heat of a blow torch. I could feel the sweat rolling down my forehead, my arms shone from the liquid and my hair was sticking out in weird and not wonderful angles. This, was uncomfortable.
Like a god send there was a weak honk, and the dust around me twisted through the air in some ballet, “Need a lift, dude.”
“Hell yes,” hitch hiking was not a hobby of mine, it was dangerous, you could end up driving with some physcopath. I think the risk is worth while.
“Where you heading?” a thick Australian accent made me look up to the passenger seat. He kind of looked like that Christofer Drew dude my ex-girlfriend was always going on about. Style wise anyways.
“Dunno,” the air conditioning was such a relief, it made me feel like I had died and gone to heaven. The sweat cooled and dried on my skin instead of just leaving it soaking, it made me sticky, but sticky is better then wet, “Where are you headed?” There were two of them, sitting in the front, the one guy looked intent on the road. So intent, it made me feel unsafe that he needed to concentrate that much.
“Road-trip, destination, unknown,” the other guy -- the driver, who I’d thought was too absorbed in his driving to pay attention to much else -- answered. He looked back to the road hunching up over the steering wheel once again.
“I’m Seth,” Australian boy-toy look alike boy grinned, “That’s Atticus,” he slapped the other guy on the shoulder.
“Ethan,” the two of them looked ok. They were probably around my age, maybe a little older. Either way, we’d all graduated, “Do you have room for one more?”
“‘Course man,” Atticus laughed and sent me a smile using a mirror. Glancing around once more I couldn’t help but comment.
“You do realize, that this,” this could come out rude, maybe it’s best left unsaid, “is a chicks car.”
Seth barked out a laugh, Atticus punched his shoulder, “Shut up, it’s my moms.”
And my feet hurt.
This is worse then soccer practice, legit. For starters I’m walking on gravel not grass, another thing is that I’m dodging cars that come a little too close and the garbage that some inconsiderate drivers are throwing out the window, as if to say, “Here’s some food buddy, I can’t give you a lift to the nearest motel.”
Why did I even do this? I should have taken the car; but, then license plates are easily trackable.
The sun was bursting, and it was hitting my head with the heat of a blow torch. I could feel the sweat rolling down my forehead, my arms shone from the liquid and my hair was sticking out in weird and not wonderful angles. This, was uncomfortable.
Like a god send there was a weak honk, and the dust around me twisted through the air in some ballet, “Need a lift, dude.”
“Hell yes,” hitch hiking was not a hobby of mine, it was dangerous, you could end up driving with some physcopath. I think the risk is worth while.
“Where you heading?” a thick Australian accent made me look up to the passenger seat. He kind of looked like that Christofer Drew dude my ex-girlfriend was always going on about. Style wise anyways.
“Dunno,” the air conditioning was such a relief, it made me feel like I had died and gone to heaven. The sweat cooled and dried on my skin instead of just leaving it soaking, it made me sticky, but sticky is better then wet, “Where are you headed?” There were two of them, sitting in the front, the one guy looked intent on the road. So intent, it made me feel unsafe that he needed to concentrate that much.
“Road-trip, destination, unknown,” the other guy -- the driver, who I’d thought was too absorbed in his driving to pay attention to much else -- answered. He looked back to the road hunching up over the steering wheel once again.
“I’m Seth,” Australian boy-toy look alike boy grinned, “That’s Atticus,” he slapped the other guy on the shoulder.
“Ethan,” the two of them looked ok. They were probably around my age, maybe a little older. Either way, we’d all graduated, “Do you have room for one more?”
“‘Course man,” Atticus laughed and sent me a smile using a mirror. Glancing around once more I couldn’t help but comment.
“You do realize, that this,” this could come out rude, maybe it’s best left unsaid, “is a chicks car.”
Seth barked out a laugh, Atticus punched his shoulder, “Shut up, it’s my moms.”