Mitch in My Answer

A Prelude



I had spent a week of walking down long roads, talking up strangers and
sleeping when the moments came. I had left my home up in Moscow because
of boredom. I knew that for sure. I had expected an unforgettable
journey into the heart of humanity. I tended to romanticize pictures of
the future. I wasn't completely sure what I had gotten in my little
adventure. It seemed like I had gotten normal life--pretty much normal
people doing normal things. I knew that I could have gone deeper into
the "flesh", like when I asked a black, mini-skirt, red lip-stick
wearing prostitute in Las Vegas if she was a hooker. She turned around
and gave a "Mmmmhhhhmmm. Whatcha want baby?" I walked away from her and
her trailing inquires. I knew my fear of humanity kept the humanity
away as much as everyone else's fear did. But I didn't know what had
came to me during that week. All those cars and all those strangers
seemed like a cut cross section of society. So did all the roads I
walked down searching for a ride in all those cities and country sides.
Mitch and his stories had been an exposure into a complete stranger. He
had opened up to me-gave me a glimpse into something I probably
wouldn't have seen for years to come. He never told me he loved his
cousin, but he did talk about his mom and her life. I never told him
about my fear of women, but I had told him I didn't really worry about
death. Maybe I was just wrapped up in the banal view of "humanity"--the
dramatized shocking dimension that contains all our "inescapable" dark
secrets that I read in novels and see movies.



Mitch in My Answer





The Gas Station



I look around. Dessert. Brown-red dirt with brown-red sage. There are
two gas stations and a freeway. I'm sitting outside one. This is what I
wanted.

I don't even need to think about it. If I wanted to know the deepest
reason for hitchhiking from Moscow Idaho, down through Oregon and
California to L.A., up past Las Vegas to a gas station an hour away
from Provo Utah, I would just have to say boredom? and maybe the warm
California beaches.

I missed sleeping the last two nights. The first night in the quiet
peaceful town of Thousand Oaks right outside L.A and last night in Las
Vegas. But I'll be ok for the moment. I just downed three sodas: Ruby
Red Squirt, Regular Squirt and Coca-Cola. All three have caffeine. I've
been downing soda like a mad man crossing a dessert. But I am a mad
man. And I'm in the process of crossing a dessert, a big dessert. The
scorching, sweat sucking heat started when I stepped out into
Victorville California, a few hours drive northeast from L.A. The
dessert there has a name: Death Valley. Past Las Vegas, past miles and
miles of barren Utah waste land, in a drowsy daze I'm left at this gas
station near Provo. The heat wraps me in dry coarse itchy blankets of
air, like a cooked wiener wrap, red and swollen. The juice runs down my
hair.

I think I'm ready to leave this place and head to the
freeway.





The Truck



I close the door. Inside, hues of earthy greens, browns and purples
glow. A piece of woven cloth, musty green and brown, hangs off the
dashboard while a red wooden Buddha sits on top it, legs crossed,
smiling at me. A dream catcher dangles from the rear view mirror, beads
swaying from it. Blue and black cloth pouches sit in pockets between
the two seats and dried flowers and plant leaves are scattered about
the cab.

I had been in 22 different vehicles over the past six days, from a tiny
two door Geo-Metro to an 18 wheeler with a couch and two beds in the
cab. I had been in cars with trash piled up on the floor, dirty pop
cans falling out the open door. SUVs, mini-vans, sports cars, compacts,
luxury, clean, dirty-I had been in so many interiors and spent a lot of
time looking at them. Usually I'd stare at the dashboard in front of me
or at stereo knobs while my mouth would run with mindless chatter or my
ears would listen to someone else's. I had to keep the awkwardness from
creeping in. I felt obligated to sputter on for the sake of cordiality
and getting the ride.

I had so many preconceived ideas before I left home. When I envisioned
myself getting picked up by some stranger, the conversations we would
have led to my fear of women. They led to the time the driver made love
to his cousin and his hate for his mother. They led off into the dirty
pit stains of human life, the dark rank of human experience. They led
off into drug addiction, debilitating psychological conditions,
childhood sex memories, uninhibited rage for lives lived emptily. I
envisioned people releasing their lives to me with the embarrassing
honesty one can release to a stranger. And I wanted it. I wanted to be
their emotional release.

But in reality the conversations led to what the driver did for a
living, what he did that day, how he thought he was like at my age,
where I was headed, politics, family sizes, unmemorable facts about the
area, how crazy I was to be hitchhiking. So I'd stare at the dash and
soak up the chatter with practiced interest.

But now the dash holds a Buddha and the earthy atmosphere tugs at my
imagination.

"Where you headed?" the driver says, gazing at me passively.

"Salt Lake City." I say with stressed enthusiasm. My final destination
was in the middle of Idaho.

"I'll see how far I can take you."

His name was Mitchell Gershner. He was a middle aged, curly haired,
granola eating astrologist who wore sun glasses well. I asked him how
far he was going. He told me he didn't know. Later he told me he was
actually going to Portland but didn't say because he wasn't sure how
long he could stand driving with some hitchhiking punk
kid.




Salt Lake City



"OH COME ON!" He finally broke the silence. He was apparently
addressing the halted traffic. We are in Salt Lake City rush hour and
the traffic has swelled to a stop. I hadn't said a word for at least
half an hour. Either had Mitch. After he picked me up we got to talking
about my religion. It started when he offered concern about what my
parents might feel if they found out I had left to travel down the
country without telling them or anyone else. He seemed surprised when I
told him I hardly ever talk to them; they probably wouldn't notice I
was gone. But if they did they would probably freak. That we didn't
have a lot in common. It had a lot to do with their religion, the
religion I don't believe anymore. After awhile asked me what I did
believe.

"I don't believe anything." I tried to keep myself from sounding
arrogant.

"Why?"

"Why not?"

He took my comment in with a smile. "I use to think the same
way."
We went into the reasons why one should seek to believe in something,
or why one shouldn't. We discussed the consequences of belief on the
quality of one's life, the purpose one could derive from his existence.
He went into personal thoughts about his life and why he thinks the way
he does. I went into the affect I thought my childhood religion has
caused in me and my attitude. He said everybody has their own truths.
He said all anybody can offer is a different perspective.

The conversation eventually came to an end and I held myself back from
initiating a new discussion. He seemed pretty content gazing out the
window.

"Oh this sucks. Why do I have to get suck in this mess?" His voice was
somewhere between disappointed and agitated. Frankly I was intimidated
by this man. I was intimidated by the attitude he possessed. It was
cool, nonchalant, but sarcastically aggressive. His speech was clean
and confident. His opinions were thorough and well made. I knew he
didn't need to cover up silence with mindless chatter. He was
comfortable with my presence. He distained from pointless conversation,
something I found tricky to get use to. And this is what I wanted. I
wanted to be shaken. I wanted myself to be rattled about violently so
I'd get knocked through this shell of living into something bigger. I
wanted to see something I haven't seen. I wanted to put myself on the
chopping block and give the axe to the whims of mankind. I wanted to
know there was something more out there, something worth exploring.





The South Idaho Horizon



"What made you change your beliefs about life?" The sun is setting down
into the flat south Idaho horizon. The blurred indigo circle of the sun
sets off red rays in the lower sky, giving the clouds soft red borders.
Above, deeper blue envelops the red sky leaving a glorious contrast,
blue to red.

"Look at the sky. What do you see?" he said.

I saw a plain Idaho sunset with clouds-A sunset I'd seen a thousand
times. "What am I supposed to find in a sunset? Everybody is always
looking to the sunset. The way it glares fiercely through the sky. The
way reds and oranges pop through blue." I stressed the sarcasm at the
end.

"You don't see the beauty there? It doesn't set off a quiet peaceful
feeling inside you?" He said it like a wise old man would to a
child.
"It's always older people who care for sunsets. I never hear young
people talking about them. Like the older you get the needier you are
for reason." I was getting defensive for being pandered.

Mitch got quieter. His voice got softer and more intent. He took off
his sun glasses. Where I saw cool confidence before, I saw caring and
respect. His eyes relaxed and the aggressive tone in his voice left. I
had already talked to him for hours. I felt I had a good grasp of who
he was, his personality. I got the feeling he was a drifter, a man who
was searching for something that he hasn't found. He might have thought
he found what he was searching for many times, but it never lasted. His
answers didn't hold to his questions tight enough. Camping gear was
always in the back of his truck ready to go anywhere, find anything.
His parents were Jewish but he was not. They had gotten a divorce when
he was twelve, the same age I had been when my parents had gotten
divorced. He lived with his step-father and worked for him growing up,
the same as I. He was deeply connected with the land and saw God as
Mother Earth.

"You change as you get older. You can't help it. You won't be the same
or think the same five years down the road. You get wiser. Life makes
you either progress or die, either physically or spiritually. I've
learned to love a sunset like that because life has taught me to. I was
like you at your age. There wasn't much purpose I saw in life. I didn't
believe in things spiritual because it didn't make sense to believe. I
wanted something, but didn't know what. Everything I thought I wanted,
I didn't when I finally got it."

The conversation went on into the night, after the sunset had been long
gone. I sat there listening to stories of his life. I listened to the
time he took his medical exam three times to become a licensed doctor,
finally passing the last one. He told me the time he was a dish washer
at a Chinese restaurant. One night while working there, he was tired
and just wanted to go home and sleep. He still had a sink full of
dishes left to rinse off. As he picked a white plate out of the sink he
saw it still had a dried up piece of food stuck to the side. There in
that kitchen, alone, he stared at it. Was it worth the hassle to
re-clean the plate? Nobody would notice. What difference was it to him?
What was at stake?





Home



We had woken up that morning and traveled northwest till we got on
I-84. The night before we pulled into some dusty south Idaho gas
station and Mitch asked for directions to the nearest camping ground. I
packed a tent and a sleeping bag when I left for California, intent on
spending the nights outside however far I had gotten during the day. We
found the sight next to a lake, set up camp and went to sleep.

It was afternoon now and from I-84 we passed Boise and got to Fruitland
Idaho, the town of my childhood. This is where I was going to get off
to see my parents and siblings. He pulled into a gas station off the
freeway and I got out and collected my stuff as he filled up the gas
tank. We stood there for a second, said our goodbyes. Then Mitch
stepped forward and gave me a hug; it was the ride that I had left home
for. He had taken the hitchhiking punk kid as far as he was going. I
threw my bag over my shoulder and started off for my old house.

The land that I grew up with seemed just a tinge different than what I
had remembered. I couldn't help but think of the clich? scene of the
young man walking home with the duffle bag on his back and dirt on his
face, but knowledge in his eyes. It had been a long week. My brothers
passed me in their truck driving back to the house. I kept my hat down
over my face and stuck my thumb out as they passed by. They didn't
recognize me as they drove by so I gave them my birds as they continued
down the road. As my middle fingers waved high in the hot air the truck
stopped and began to back up. When they stopped in front of me I threw
my bag in the back and hopped into the familiar cab.