Childhood found me the author & illustrator of stapled-together books, some of which ran backwards because I confused right & left. Later I penned magazines & newspapers, all fictional. By the time I reached 7th grade, an English teacher trotted out that old chestnut ‘Write what you know.’ My life at that juncture consisted of reading, watching tv, & dreading school– dreary topics lacking inspiration. So at 14 I began taking public transportation to get out of my lackluster suburb & find some adventure worthy of words.

Since the dawn of conveyances there have also been ride mooches. I wonder how people flagged down horses, buggies, stagecoaches, etc. before the ridesharing service you called with a thumb? In the mid-70s it was common to see hitchhikers at the side of the road. Though it crossed my mind whenever I missed the infrequent buses on Pacific Highway South, I held off. If my peers were any indication of how I’d be received by the driving public, perhaps I should abstain.

After a year of Metro drudgery my resolve weakened. I had exhausted chronicling transit rides & brief forays to the city in my journals. An epiphany hit: just because someone pulled over didn’t mean I had to accept a ride.

& another thing: My woodshop instructor told my folks in a parent-teacher conference “Your son is doing excellent class work.” It was halfway through the semester! This wasn’t a one-off either. Usually once I speak people alter their assumptions. In my wake are countless clerks, waiters, banktellers, etc. having to back-pedal their “sir” when addressing me. This made me think I might have an edge. Historically women have traveled safely under the guise of being male. According to Shakespeare anyway, granted as a plot device.

Two separate rides I took with couples in their 50s or 60s. One thought I’d been traveling the country this way, eager to know what all I’d seen. To their disappointment I admitted this was more like commuting. The other couple wanted to know what ‘the kids were saying these days’ [do I look like a compendium of slang?] & what music I listened to. They hadn’t heard of any of the bands I liked. I should’ve just made stuff up.

There was one ride with a church group concerned with the state of my soul. I didn’t want to appear ungrateful so I let them tell me about Jesus. They stressed how people have lost their way, the sinful decadence of the age, the ‘banality of evil’ [what? Why are they using a phrase written specifically about Nazi war criminals? Someone is confused & I don’t think it’s me]. I wished I’d been picked up by Buddhists or Hindus, something more interesting. Since I came from a Pentecostal household this was not The Good News, but the old news. Where’s an animist when you need one?

I preferred the rides with women drivers. One came with a lecture about the dangers of a female hitchhiking alone– upon my ‘gender reveal.’ One assumed I was a runaway. Others asked if I knew where to get drugs. A few offered me drugs. I didn’t indulge while hitching as a rule. I don’t know why a solo woman driver would pick up what she thought was a teenage boy, but it happened more often than I would’ve thought. I wonder now if these women were akin to Mary Kay Letourneau?

The term ‘serial killer’ was just entering the vernacular. Seattle news had been reporting on a string of rapes & murders of young women in 1974, the year before I started thumbing rides. The perpetrator’s activity had mysteriously stopped, only to resume some states away. Authorities hadn’t yet put a name to this killer; Ted Bundy wouldn’t be caught until ’86. But he wasn’t to be the only predator prowling around the PNW. One would soon begin trolling the very strip I was hitchhiking.

Because this was the highway that went past SeaTac airport it was dotted with the occasional sex worker. Every once in a while a guy would pull over & ask if I ‘liked to party.’ I knew the only party they referred to was in their pants, so I scowled a ‘No!’ back. Yet it perplexed me. If we were in The Castro it would’ve made sense. How did these sleazy guys know I wasn’t a dude? It’s like they had a sixth sense, & it pissed me off. How dare they assume I’m a girl!

Eventually I got cocky & accepted rides with young, non-party guys. They came across as lonely mostly, wanting bro-bonding talk about cars or sports or whatever, only to be shocked that 1) I’m not a guy & 2) I dislike sports & know nothing about cars. We could’ve talked about girls I suppose, but locker room talk was not my thing.

Probability being what it is, I knew I was pushing it. The odds were not stacking in my favor. Though these experiences made for slightly better story fodder than public transit, they weren’t as fascinating as I’d imagined.

My final hitch was in ’76. I got into a pickup truck with a male driver in his 20s. He appeared bland I guess, a crucial point. He showed me some photos of his wife & baby boy, but his demeanor wasn’t family pride. It insinuated ‘I’m harmless.’ I told him I changed my mind & to let me out here. He abruptly turned off the highway saying “I have to fill the tank & you can get out then.” As I gathered moxie to leap from the moving vehicle, he goes “How much for a hand job?” I growled “Stop.Right.Now!” & a traffic light heard, turning conveniently red. I jumped out.

A break from this youthful idiocy to read the writing on the wall: Horror stories were not the kind of material I sought. Clearly how I presented to the average person didn’t hold with the creepy. To detect a gender purposely blurred must take a predatory instinct. However, I was well-versed in predators. My gratitude to all the bullies that put me in their crosshairs.