greasy driver and sit on the greasy seat in his greasy truck.
Of course, I wondered about her since I’m judicious by nature. No woman with her appearance looks harmless, if you know what I mean. I’d never pick up a common hitchhiker. After all, if those people had managed their money properly they wouldn’t be without an adequate vehicle and out in the world bothering decent folks. They botch up their lives and then expect the rest of us to carry them along. It was different with this troubled woman. She was in distress with her car disabled through no fault of her own. I’d be giving her a courtesy lift for a few miles not even out of my way.
She neatly preempted my concern about her danger to me by saying she guessed I wouldn’t be a threat to her. That neat little reversal disarmed me. She took another step closer, brought those made-up eyes and all that curly hair uncomfortably close to my face, and flashed an enticing smile that had a thousand years of practice behind it. Cleo must have grinned at Tony that way. I said sure I’d give her a lift to her car, without thinking anything more about it.
We couldn’t have driven more than five miles from the service station and I was chatting away politely about the weather. She didn’t respond. I glanced over and she was asleep. She had immediately dozed off, settling against the door with her head hard on the window and her curly hair falling partially across her face.
I could now take an incautious look at her. She might have been twenty-five or thirty-five—who can tell. She’d made her face special with all that dark stuff around her eyes, making it difficult to realize that her face was in fact rather plain. Eyes too close together. A nose Modigliani would love, yet a bit too long for my way of thinking.
Not likely I could miss her disabled car along the shoulder at such a slow speed, but she’s the one who should have been looking out. I reached over and nudged her arm gently. “Miss, I don’t even know what kind of car you have. What are we looking for?”
She squinted over at me through one makeup-laden eye without moving her head. “You’ll see it.” She closed the eye.
“Would it be on the other side? Were you going north when your car stopped?”
Silence. Then without opening her eyes. “I guess I was going north.”
“Well, damn. I was watching on this side I might have missed it on the northbound side.”
“Then I was going south.”
Her nonchalance annoyed me. “Look, Miss, it’s your car. You’re the one who asked for a lift. You could’ve just waited and ridden out here with the tow truck.”
She opened both eyes to look at me and held her gaze right into my eyes for about five seconds. She glanced down and quickly back up at me. She did a little bat thing with her eyes and smiled. “I’m sorry, and you’re being so nice to me.”
I was sorry I’d been sharp with her. “Okay, no problem. I just hope I haven’t already passed it. I’d have to turn around and all that.”
“You haven’t passed it.”
I drove on another five miles or so. This was getting ridiculous. “I must have passed it. How did you get to the service station?”
Her eyes remained closed. “I walked.”
“No way you walked ten miles. A woman looking as you do, cars in both directions would have piled up before you took two steps.”
She opened one eye again just long enough to squint down at her skirt and make a perfunctory move to adjust it. She also reached down, touched her black shoulder handbag resting in front of her on the floor, and clamped it tightly with her feet.
She said, “Could you speed up? You’re really dragging.”
Then it finally sunk in. “There is no car, is there?”
After a moment. “No car,” she confirmed quietly.
I’d been had and felt foolish. I told her I was exiting at the next opportunity, and she could try her disabled car routine on the next sucker. That brought her up. She pleaded she was sorry, she was stranded back there, she was desperate. Did she think I was an idiot? She was a hitchhiker...or worse. She had no luggage or anything.
She gave me an explanation that sounded like the start of another fairy tale. She’d been ripped off. She’d answered a share-the-ride ad in the paper, and left Baltimore that morning with a woman she didn’t really know. She gave her fifty bucks for gas and the woman agreed to take her as far as Jacksonville, Florida.
“I went in to use the crummy restroom back there,” she said. “When I came out the bitch was gone. Can you beat that? Gone, along with my suitcase full of new Florida-style clothes and the very nice coat I was wearing. That woman better hope she never meets me again.”
I didn’t believe her. Her prevarication should have been a strong warning to me. “Sorry to hear that, but still....”
“I had plenty of chances for a ride. I didn’t like the looks of the guys. A woman has to be careful. Getting in a car with the wrong man and all that. I waited for someone decent looking like you. You seemed nice and I figured you’d go along with it. But I understand. Just let me out somewhere safe. I’ll wait for another gentleman.”
Notice how she shrewdly called me a gentleman? This was a clever woman. I said, “You shouldn’t be alone on the highway at all. When I exit, we’ll look for a place you can catch a bus. You’ve money for bus fare?”
“Hey! I’m not a homeless bag lady, mister. Don’t treat me like one. Of course, I have money however I never ride buses.”
This from the woman who had conned me into a ride. She was angry so I apologized. She settled down immediately and we rode on in silence until she said, “You know it’s a long way to Florida. I could be good company.”
She wanted to get back on my good side. She knew I had misgivings. Yet she could be a nice complement to the trip to pass the time. I supposed I could stand having her along. I’d have to watch her, though. She wasn’t above deceit considering that fictitious car and ripped off story. I could always put her out. I decided to relax. “I’m Freddy.”
“Betty Jo, nice to meet you.”
As I approached the next exit neither of us said anything. I cruised on by, so I supposed that was tacit acceptance of our travel arrangement. “Betty Jo and Freddy,” I said aloud making it sound friendly.
“I want to pay you something for the gas.”
“It’s nothing. I’m making the trip anyway.” I asked if she lived in Jacksonville. No, Fort Lauderdale. I didn’t tell her I was going almost that far. It might sound like a commitment. My Florida residence was an hour north of Fort Lauderdale in Jensen Beach. My wife, Ellen, was down there waiting to pull me knee-deep into nonstop holiday dinners, parties, and other boring affairs. None of which I cared a fig for. DC would be quiet. I’d prefer to spend the holidays in my office there on Capitol Hill working on the amendments to the energy legislation I’d be presenting to the committee in February.
There’s a simple explanation of how a shy introvert like me could succeed as a politician. My father had held the congressional seat I now hold for a quarter-century. I was barely out of law school when he died unexpectedly of a stroke. I ran for his seat and won easily with the sympathy vote. Half the voters thought they were still voting for my father. The name recognition factor has kept me in office without much campaigning ever since.
My wife would be surprised if she knew a young woman like Betty Jo was sitting beside me in the front seat of our car. Not because she’d think I was up to something, but because she knew I was the least likely man on earth to even speak to a strange woman. I could never walk up and say, “Hi.” I couldn’t survive whatever came next.
I started thinking back to her ‘good company’ remark. If she had indeed meant it to be suggestive, I’d have to decide if I had the daring to get involved with a woman of that sort. My imagination had taken over and I had to be certain. I said something very forward that I immediately regretted, “You say you’ll be very good company. What does that mean?”
That was nervy of me. I wished I hadn’t said it. Remember, I didn’t know what manner of woman she was, although I suppose it was obvious. Her out hitchhiking on the highway. An evocative answer wouldn’t change anything because I had no desire to get involved with her. It would just be amusing to learn of her intentions and limitations. I’d never contemplated such an encounter before. It’s risky when someone of importance starts mucking around with a questionable woman. Too late to take the words back.
“Correction, Freddy, I merely said good company. You sweetened it up with
