The Correct Elevation 

By Thomas M. McDade

I’m hitchhiking on I-84 West. I made a ludicrous drunken twenty-dollar bet with my old friend Larry. We’d served together in the Navy on the USS Miller and often got together to reminisce. I wagered I’d beat him to Preston’s Bar in Middletown, NY, my thumb versus his vintage VW Karmann Ghia that’s suffering a slight engine knock. No wager if his KG dies. 

I hadn’t seen a hitchhiker in years and joked to myself that I might spearhead a new trend. I imagined writing a book about this experience: A Hitchhiker’s Guide to CT / NY, I-84? Ha! Maybe I’d scribble a paragraph on a piece of rest stop literature after a state trooper finished writing me up. Larry’s coming in from Scranton, fifteen more miles than my trip. I leave my on-its-last-legs Chevy Cavalier at the Blue Colony Diner parking lot in Newtown, CT. He’ll drive me back on his way to his uncle’s summer place in New Hampshire. We settled all this on the phone. He hopes a motorist crazed by “The Hitchhiker” episode on Twilight Zone doesn’t try to run my ass down. 

It’s as if the driver senses I’m competing against a classic car when a lipstick red ’66 Ford Thunderbird pulls over and fellow swings the door open. He wears his hair in a fifties duck’s ass pompadour that’s dyed too black to be true. I climb in back to join a skinny girl about eleven or twelve. A dark rooted blonde is driving, hair in a ponytail, big earrings are a design I can’t figure out, moonshine jugs close as I can get. Her elbow’s out the window. She drags deeply on her cigarette then flicks it onto the road, screw the fabled bear I reckon. Her husband or boyfriend rips the filter off a replacement, lights the wounded end. The girl is wearing what I think is a Scout jumper, light green. Her shoes are the brown saddle kind. I feel like her big hazel eyes are gathering all my wishes and intents. Her posture is as straight as a postcard fence picket. 

A clipboard sits on her lap. A plastic case of colored pencils and a black marble notebook rest against her thigh. I bet her merit badge sash is maxed. Is she one of those older and brighter than her years types, a prodigy freshman at MIT?

“I’m Rochelle,” she says, a blink of a smile. 

“Denny is my name.” We shake hands. She holds on too long as if she’s trying to transmit a message or sense my DNA. Her hair’s brown and short, teeth wired. A gold peace sign pendant hangs off a thin neck chain.  

No intro forthcoming from the captain and first mate, outside of: “Where ya headed?” Rochelle flips open her notebook, flashes a page, “MY AUNT FIONA AND HER THIRD COMMON LAW.” The driver knows an easy Middletown on and off. I tell Rochelle that my ship, the USS Miller made a port call in La Rochelle, France. 

“How interesting,” she says as if it’s not, eyes on her clipboard pad. I cut her some slack as a reserved and cautious child. She tilts a page toward me that holds a map outline of that country. She drew it in a flash. More than that, the ancient tower I recall when pulling in: uncanny. The part of the Scout sash over her back is full of honors too, I suspect.

From highway east, a battalion of passing motorcycles sounds like Judgment Day.

 “Two wheels is the life I should have chosen, Fiona, free and easy,” sighs Fiona’s mate.

“Reggie boy, you’d kill yourself, first 20 feet. Every time you see a 16-wheeler you claim you missed that brass ring too,” says Fiona. 

Ah, Reggie; I wonder if Fiona ever calls him Reginald.

“I can dream can’t I,” says Reggie.

“Share them with your pillow drool,” says Fiona harshly.

Reggie sticks a filter tip from his collection in each ear. They don’t hold. I picture Rochelle standing on a sidewalk pumping her arm hoping a passing trailer truck pilot will blast the horn.

Reggie is a chatterbox. Since I’m not part of the trip from the get-go, I’m in the dark as to why he’s reeling off a Wellsboro PA travelogue. Maybe he runs his mouth to compensate for the radio that probably doesn’t work given the age of the car. 

“That department store mannequin sure was something,” says Reggie, placing both hands on top of his head. “Man alive, half of her head and fingers missing and her raggedy clothes had to be from flapper days and by God didn’t cover her chest in a churchgoing way.” 

I figure he’s on some kind of upper, speed perhaps. Maybe Fiona’s dose backfired in a driving way. Man, her foot weighs on the accelerator like a tissue.

“That’s what you would notice,” says Fiona.

“I didn’t say knockers or jugs.”

Rochelle blushes. “Reggie, please. This isn’t skid row or the city dump,” she advises.

“Genuine world, kiddo,” he replies. Rochelle dramatically bites her tongue.

Fiona picks up the slack. “I loved the hotel and its big neon Penn-Wells sign – like the one on the Times Square Motor Hotel in Manhattan with a great vibrating bed, seven minutes for a quarter.” Reggie laughs in a dirty joke way.

“Swine,” says Fiona. “What a time we had at Mama Leone’s, huh?”

“No feed like that at the Penn-Wells,” says Reggie, “Sauerkraut and pork special.”

Fiona says she could have sat in that old-timey lobby all night, worn Oriental rug, comfy couch, easy and wing chairs that all reeked of smoke that wafted in from the lounge but who cared, saved her Marlboro money. She loved the fireplace with a painting of Pine Creek over it. 

“It loved you too but looked like paint-by-numbers,” says Reggie.

“One classless son-of-a-bitch,” growls Fiona. 

“Thin radiators,” says Rochelle, “Thin as greyhounds.”

“I heard one bark,” says Fiona, spinning a finger at her temple.

Reggie rates the tall Civil War monument on the Green as unforgettable. “I had a Confederate cap when I was a kid,” he says.

“Figures,” says Fiona, “Sided with the losers.” 

“I won your heart, sweetie.” He sings, “Love Me Tender.”

Fiona makes a sound from the barnyard of her soul.

Rochelle curls her lips against her teeth, flares her nostrils.

Is this a love/hate deal? I wonder how long they’ve been together. Is he a fellow hitchhiker under a spell? I remember Larry’s Twilight Zone comment. Larry, for sure, would reference a line from one of his songs claiming all our thumbs are out begging for something or other.

Rochelle slowly traces “U-G-H” in the air for me as Reggie’s song diminishes to a hum. She smiles. I’m afraid to. Fiona spots the pantomime in the mirror. “Everyone likes a piece of ass young lady but no one likes a smartass.” 

If there ever was an aunt training school, I have to believe Fiona flunked out.

“I couldn’t have put it any better,” compliments Reggie. 

“I give up,” says Rochelle tightening her jaw and squinting. Reggie relocates. 

“Remember that little Italian Restaurant outside of Scranton, folks? Sabastian’s I think it was. No pork and sauerkraut special, feature was manly stuff, ground elk with pasta. I loved the velvet Elvis art.” He runs his fingers through his hair. Fiona makes a finger V for another cigarette. Reggie provides then continues, “Ha, that gal at the next table, dunking a grilled cheese sandwich in her mother’s wine, described a friend of hers who spoke at her high school graduation. He said high school had passed as quickly as a lap dancer snatching a client’s cash. Those lamps hanging off the ceiling with RESTROOM in black, block letters were fit for a forties gangster movie.”

“As I recall,” says Fiona. “You had mac and cheese and some in your lap imagining that grad-u-ate propped on you.” 

Rochelle makes a finger/mouth vomit gesture.  

“They were out of elk,” claims Reggie. “At least I didn’t inhale the soggy salad bar like stick-girl in the back seat.”

Rochelle looks like she’s collecting spit, Reggie’s head the target, but instead she turns pages to show me a restaurant scene. A young woman is giving the finger to Reggie. Rochelle continues through her artist’s pad displaying drawings of every place mentioned as well as one of herself with long hair and straight teeth. She sure looked proud when she got to a Wellsboro statue of Wynkin’ Blynkin and Nod in their shoe boat. She softly sings a song about them in a voice that’s haunting. My skin tightens as if caught in a net, that’s not the silver and gold of the lyric. 

“Tweet, tweet,” teases Fiona. Rochelle picks up a pencil and on a blank page rapidly draws. Less than three minutes gone, she flashes my profile. I feel like I’m a fugitive and she’s a cop drawing a resemblance. There’s no need for any wild guessing here, once again, uncanny. Occasionally I think of Rochelle as drugged and kidnapped after Reggie and Fiona killed her parents. Is the radio functional? There might be a bulletin about the murder and abduction. Is that it? Nah, Rochelle would have found a way to escape these two characters. Was this all an act? Am I in a movie, camera hidden somewhere, at least a tape recorder? No, Rochelle is the camera. Wait a minute, with all those smarts and drawing talent could Rochelle work with them, spec out burglaries or worse? What is my role? I ought to go on the wagon. No, I need a drink. What a comedy it would be to see the cockpit duo sloshed. 

Reggie is on the move once more. He brings up a haunted mansion in Jim Thorpe, PA. “Would have been a good spot for a Twilight Zone filming,” he says.

“Holy shit,” I say to myself.

“Maybe sometime we could visit for one of those murder mystery weekends.”

“You could be the victim,” says Fiona. Rochelle giggles and makes hand claws.

“We should have left the backseat goblin there,” says Reggie.

“State hospital my choice,” says Fiona. Rochelle crosses her eyes for me, sticks her tongue out the side of her mouth. I’m feeling like we’re in cahoots and she’s the only one of the three that can see me. 

Reggie says he’s going to write down the highest elevation, never can remember it. “Look out for the sign please.” 

“For your information, the highest elevation on I-84 is 975 feet. I’m the eagle-eyed one in this gang. There’s more important shit to worry about, Reggie.”

Her language appalls Rochelle. Her choice of a gang over a group alarms me. Fiona is as hard as an Amtrak rail.

“Aunt Fiona, we have company,” she shouts over the road noise. Rochelle tips the marble notebook, pushes open a page, and pokes my ribs gently: ELEVATION IS 1275. 

Passing the Fishkill Correctional Facility I marvel at the way the sun sets the razor wire shining like strings of dazzle on a Christmas tree. I imagine Rochelle’s braces sparkling the same way. 

“Amazing deterrent but not perfect,” says Reggie. He learned recently that throwing a mattress on the barbed wire is the best escape method. Rochelle’s doing more work on my portrait. I’m flattered.

“You should know,” says Fiona. 

“Tsk, tsk,” reprimands Rochelle. Fiona comments on the Beacon, NY exit.  

“I remember getting off there once looking for a bar called The Iron Horse that was in the Paul Newman film, Nobody’s Angel. Pissed me off to find that it was nothing but a Goddamned set.” 

“Please be civil, Aunt Fiona,” suggests Rochelle.                                                                                                           

“They did a civil job in Good Will Hunting, L Street Tavern in South Boston, yum, yum on that Matt Damon boy.” 

“That’s one over-rated actor, “chides Reggie.

Fiona tosses her cig out the window. It blows back in, lands on Rochelle’s pad. She flips it to complete the play. Sparks land in Fiona’s hair and fizzle. Rochelle puts her hand over her mouth halting laughter as any child would. Approaching the Middletown exit, Reggie does a double-take on a state police barracks sign. Rochelle’s eyes are closed. Her lips move slightly as if she’s praying. She yawns. I direct them to Preston’s Bar. Fiona parks and focuses on a teen walking in the middle of the street. He’s wearing a turquoise hoodie, carrying a six-pack minus one by the empty plastic hoop. The Preston’s neon sign has Reggie’s attention. I almost offer to treat them to a drink but ask myself instead if I’m nuts. Rochelle silently rips handsome me off the top sheet of her pad, folds it palm-sized then quickly adds a note. She slips the “letter of transit” to me as we shake goodbye. We are spies. She adds a squeeze of my forearm. The gold of her peace symbol nestles in her eyes. The pendant has turned into a gray Masons logo. Reggie switches on the radio to nothing but static. He swings the door open, and I’m free and exaggerate I’ll never again be the same. Did a touch of this trio’s theater rub off on me? I take a last glance back. Reggie is handing a cigarette to Rochelle. I can’t determine if it has a filter. A boggle of wondering bounces around the padded walls of my noggin. A middle-aged panhandling man in a velvet blue blazer asks for spare change. A black cross, attached by the right-wing to a chain that looks like one on a bathroom sink plug rests on his dirty white turtleneck. His shoes don’t match. I give him my pocket change, well over a buck. He doesn’t follow me in to wet his whistle as I expected.

Inside the door, I read what she’d written on the picture, “Open in Presence of a Good Friend,” sounds like a fortune cookie message. I guess that would be Larry and I feel that I best obey. I sit at one of the two stools available at the bar. Stretch is tending bar. A photo of him shooting a jump shot is on the wall. He was an all-state center. George Jones is singing “He Stopped Loving Her Today.” I order a mug of draft beer. Stretch says the first brew is on him. By the way, your friend Larry called. He’ll be late. His VW broke down. 

He’s making use of his thumb and a Miss America candidate driving a Lamborghini or Ferrari will likely deliver him to my fine Pub.

 The bet’s off and I’m an adventure richer. 

“He’s a hot ticket,” says Stretch. “I’d make it a ‘Pub’ but costs too much. Wouldn’t think it would be a big deal, would you?” Harvey Lybolt walks in carrying his gym bag, called an AWOL bag by sailors. Harvey is of the WWII variety, destroyer escort service. He’s a retired NYC cop who pumps iron. Everyone clamors to buy him his glass of draft. 

That’s forever the extent of his visit. A disheveled soul in the corner dips potato chips in his beer and lets out an occasional sob. The next song on the jukebox is the one Rochelle sang about the shoe anglers. I shoot over to read song tabs, find “Wynkin, Blykin and Nod”: The Simon Sisters.  

“Stretch, how did this song get in with the country-western stuff?”

“That’s got us all scratching our heads. Believe it or not, it gets a lot of action.” I ask no more. The T-Bird world is closing in.

I concentrate on the monotony of the TV NASCAR to distract me from getting drunk before my time. Sometimes I see the T-Bird in the chase. 

I make a head call or two. Someone wrote on the urinal wall, “Dracula passed blood here.” A guy with dreadlocks approaches asking if I’d like to buy some Maine lobsters. Preston’s was like a marketplace that way. I declined that bargain as well as the next handgun offer. Hell, made me think of Naples but no hookers yet.

 I’d been at Preston’s two hours and ten minutes when Larry comes through the door. I thought he’d be cursing both the VW and Germany but he’s all smiles, backslaps, and lingering handshakes. When Stretch finishes his welcome, he serves Larry a Heineken. I switch to the same. 

“I’ll tell you what,” I say, “Since the $20 bet is defunct, we’ll each kick in $10, set up the bar.” He doesn’t argue. Gratitude abounds. Larry visits the jukebox. I wonder what weirdness will serenade him. He picks “Girl from the North Country,” Dylan and Cash duet and there are no surprises. 

“Let me tell you about my ride, man,” he says. “First showing of my thumb a classic T-Bird picks me up.”

“You gotta be shitting me! You talked to that panhandler.”

“What panhandler?”

“Come on, Larry, you are shitting me!”

“As Buddasky would say, “Wouldn’t shit you, you’re my favorite turd.” 

“He’s the signalman off the USS Constipation, right? 

“Shit, ahoy.” We hi-five on the exchange that gets some laughs.

“The car wasn’t bright red was it?”

“No, I’d call it midnight blue.”

“Thank goodness for that. Were the driver and shotgun creepy, foul-mouthed?”

“Not hardly; older couple, rarely talked at all, classical music on the radio. Their granddaughter sitting with me in the backseat said it was Pachelbel’s Canon.”

“What was the kid like?”

“Cute, about 12 or so, had on a Yale sweatshirt, jeans, and long black hair, wore glasses. Oh, she had on a bracelet that reminded me of the fancy knots the boatswain mates tied on railings, except it wasn’t made of bright red shot-line. It was fabric, reminded me of ticking, mattress material.”

“You don’t say. You didn’t catch her name did you?”

“Bordeaux. I told her about visiting Bordeaux on the Miller. She took a sketchpad out of a tote bag, drew the arch you can see pulling into the harbor. She said she’d have a portrait of me ready before Middletown arrival. Those were her last words. She moved against the door so I couldn’t see her progress. Her movements were jerky like a puppet or a mime act.”

“This is bizzaro! Did she finish?”

“I got it right here.”

“Let’s put up or shut up,” I say, placing my gift on the bar. Larry takes his from his shirt pocket and holds it up. The same size square as mine but his message is different, simply, “To Astonish.” We act as if we were revealing state secrets. Cautiously unfolding, we hold them up. There was no way he could have done a switcheroo. Bordeaux had drawn me, Rochelle, Larry. No Twilight Zone rerun takes over the NASCAR race. We order a couple of lanes of tequila shots, drink to buses, trains, and brand new cars.

“You didn’t acquire pickpocketing skills, did you, Larry?”

“I know what you mean and wish it were so. Where will all this lead?” 

“I’d say let’s put up some money on it and explore another time and space.”

As if that were the cue, lights flicker, the electricity fails. The jukebox sounds like sonar that has located an armada of enemy subs. When the power struggles back, the joint is empty except for Larry and me until Fiona appears behind the bar, arms akimbo, head tilted. She is smirking. A blast of pool balls breaking puts Reggie in view. All the balls drop but as the cue is about to drop, he grabs it, fixes his eyes on the TV. Rochelle is teaching art, a waterscape. The closed caption says Bordeaux’s Garonne River, not La Rochelle’s Bay of Biscay. Her hair is long and still brown; braces are gone. We aren’t rattled. Prepped well enough I reckon. Fiona sloppily fills our shot glasses. Reggie throws the cue ball at the TV screen. It stops a foot away and hangs. 

”Got some wicked backspin on that baby,” remarks Larry. “Want to bet a $20 on the elevation that sucker’s sitting at?” 

*

Thomas M. McDade is a resident of  Fredericksburg, VA, previously CT & RI.

He is a 1973 graduate of Fairfield University, Fairfield, CT.

McDade is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center, Dam Neck, Virginia Beach, VA and at sea, aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE/FF-1091).

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