“You don’t have any drugs on you do you?” 

The most common question I get asked before I enter the car of a random stranger.

It’s understandable. I mean, I could be hiding 8 kilos of nose candy in this large backpack. I bought it for its seven convenient zipper-lined pockets, its state-of-the-art “back pain be gone” shoulder straps, and form-fitting waist belt that basically jerks you off when you walk. I wouldn’t be surprised if this thing makes you pancakes in the morning and drives the kids to school. The fact that no one has taken advantage of the drug-mule type qualities of an internal-frame backpack is pretty, shall I say, astonishing.

Boomer quickly motioned me to get in the car. I was just outside Atlanta, standing on the median directly in front of a red light with a sign clutched in my right hand that read “CHATT,” short for Chattanooga. The light turned green, cars started to honk as I darted in between them and jumped in Boomer’s black Audi. He asked me a question that sounded like the usual one, but it was actually quite different. 

“Do you do any drugs?”

“No, not really man.”

“Oh okay…well, do you mind if I do drugs?”

“Haha…what are you gonna smoke some weed or something?” 

“No, I’m actually going to freebase this crack.” 

I tensed up and turned my head to the green grass just off the highway, gradually blurring from our accelerating speed.

Any hitchhiker knows this: that when you are standing on the side of the road for 3 plus hours in the hot Atlanta sun, you make exceptions. Allowances. A lot of what would matter to you usually, turns out to not matter at all. Hell, the driver could be asking you to rob a bank right off the next highway exit. He could be stowing two illegal immigrants, fresh out of Ciudad de Mexico with you in the passenger seat and your only concern would be: “Hey, how far can you get me?” 

These petty things don’t matter. Leave your concern at the Denny’s where you scarfed down your fucking grand slam. Concern is only a wedge between you and your destination.  So when you’re dead set on crossing the country using only your hitchhiker thumb, all that matters is that you’re in an air conditioned car headed in the direction you want to go. And that breeze feels fucking great.

“You’re cool with that right? I’m just gonna take a couple hits.”

“Oh, umm…okay, sure.”

Boomer readies a hollowed out glass pipe and turns it upright. 

He turns his head to me and laughs. 

“Oh don’t worry man, I’ll blow it out the window.”

Thanks Boomer.