He said his name was Grady.
An older man in his 50's, with a long, matted beard and bloodshot eyes. His face bore the mark of many years; long grooves at the corner of his mouth, wind dried skin in deep wrinkles. His teeth were worn down, like he had been chewing on some bit of gristle for the last 40 years. His voice was gravelly; smoke deepened rasp.
He entered my car on the way to Austin. Said he had to get to 12th street by noon. From where we were, it was a good hour to go to get there.
He talked about his life on the road. He had been hitching most of his life. There were stories about when he was shot and almost bled to death in Arizona. Another time, he used to beat up drivers and take their money when they let him off.
Should I have felt some fear?
Eventually, he told me about his father who used to beat him when he was young. He was a preacher's kid. And his dad would "beat the sin" from his son. What words of anger and rage came out when he spoke about his dad.
There was a guitar in my back seat, with a large, golden cross painted on it. Did Grady see the guitar? Was there a 2 + 2 that had already made some unspeakable 4 in his mind? Did it spell trouble.
Grady talked about his one companion, his knife. He had carried it from the time he was just a boy. He said that it had protected his life more than once. Never did he pull it out, but the leather sheath was there at his belt, with a metal handle sticking out.
The road flowed past, faster than it should have. His history has melted the miles, and focused the attention. 12th street was already in front of us.
He left with my 40 dollars in his pocket. Not some payoff for safe passage, but because he was who he was, and taught a little of that to me.
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