The HitchhikerA Story by Johkep A story from my childhood that as I grew older I came to discover its effect was greater than I ever realized at the time. Fall in the middle Mississippi valley comes in two flavors. The first is robust, colorful, warm days, and cool nights. This is the end of the Midwestern summer. The other comes later, early November or so, and is a markedly different clime, the landscape and days take on a gray pallor, the days turn sharp with a biting wind, the nights cold. Such was the time of this tome.
My father was a contractor and this was the season things were winding down. Soon the ground would be too wet or too frozen to work and most all outdoor construction projects would be shut down or finished off. He was closing down the Cyanamid project for the winter and had the pleasure of joining my father at work that day. There were a few meetings with the Cyanamid people but mostly making plans with his crew. Where to put the machines, making sure the antifreeze was in, and a host of other practicalities that my dad and his crew would mull around in their heads before discussing not only what needed doing but in what order and by when.
I learned a lot from my father on these jaunts, he talked a lot and gave a lot of orders but he also did something else, he listened, a lot to his men. He had definite ideas about what should be done and when and how but if someone else was doing it and another idea, he was open to it. They would discuss and sometimes cuss, but in the end it was normally settled in congenial fashion.
We were headed home on US 24 coming out of Taylor, MO and I was riding along with my head leaning against the window aimlessly watching the shoulder roll by. I was in a dream world at the moment, it had been a long day for a nine year old with more stuff floating around in my head than I could assimilate. The glass was cold against my forehead as my mind tried to bring some order to all that it had witnessed that day.
It was when I felt the car slowing down that I came out of my stupor, snapping up and looking towards my father. He had something in his eye, he always had that look when he saw something he was focused on. I asked what was going on and he told me to climb in the back seat, so I did. When I had righted myself I looked ahead as we slowed down onto the shoulder. Before us was a hitchhiker, a ragged hitchhiker. The man opened the car door and climbed in and dad took off.
He was definitely down on his luck. His clothes did not fit, did not match, and it had been awhile since they or he had been washed. Plus his shoes were coming apart and the only thing he had for a coat was a wool sport coat. Dad never asked him for his name, he asked him what he did for a living, where he was from, where he was going, and the other usual questions of that ilk. The man answered and to be honest, I do not remember a single thing he said in response but I do remember feeling bad for him. I know that none of his answers engendered in my father a chance to help him with his lot. He was cold, he was hungry, and he was on the road at the wrong time of the year.
As they talked, we crossed the bridge into Quincy and down Broadway, to 18th street. Dad pulled over and parked the car in front of the old Copper Kettle Tavern right next to the Prairie Farms Milk plant. I was thinking to myself the last thing this guy needed was a drink, but as we got out of the car, dad and the man walked across the street instead, to Merkel’s Sporting Goods.
We went in and he was greeted by John Merkel, a friend of his. Dad told John that the man was headed somewhere and he was hitchhiking and he had no decent winter coat or a worthy pair of shoes for his trek. John looked at the man and he looked at dad then he looked back at the man and asked him if he had any money, the man replied in the negative. Dad said he wanted to buy the man a good winter coat and a pair of decent walking boots so he would not freeze on his trip and he expected John to give him a good price. John assured dad that was no problem and went about finding the process of getting the man a good coat and boots.
The whole time this man was being tended to, John and dad were talking about whatever it was that interested them at the moment. John would ask the fellow the essential questions to get boots that fit properly and he gave him a pair of wool socks to replace the yellowed cotton socks he was wearing. The boots came from the lower level where they kept a lot of the old stuff and returns, but they fit and were definitely a step up from the worn out dress shoes he had on. Dad proudly declared that those boots were not only good enough for his trip but would suit most rugged jobs when he went about seeking work.
The coat was more of the same, finding something that came from a back rack and as John sized the man up, he got him something that had heavy fabric and was good and durable. I remember watching John help the man to get adjusted to the coat, pulling on the hem to straighten it up to improve the fit. The man stood silent, watching him attend to him, and I think what was to him, a very surreal experience. Dad stood by, hands on his hips, watching John work, talking about Quincy business with John, making the occasional comment about the coat. Complimentary of course, commending John on his choice and extolling to the man the virtues of his new coat and shoes.
John stood upright and said that he thought that should do it and dad asked him how much he owed him, John said he would split the costs with dad. Dad thanked him and declared with that deal to get him some gloves and a good hat and he would pay full price for them. John complied, dad looked the fellow up and down and asked him what he thought. The man was speechless and all he could do was mumble a thank you. He had trouble looking any of us in the eye.
The man left the store in his new shoes and coat and disappeared into the cold, dark evening. Dad paid John and we left. We crossed Broadway back to the car, got in it, and drove to Buck and Agnes’ tavern. It was on the way home. While we were there, dad argued politics, discussed the affairs of the day, and even talked to a couple of folks about some possible work he could do. But not a word to anyone about the man and what he and John Merkel did. I kept waiting for it but it never came, not a word. After a beer, Mountain Dew for me, we headed home.
When we got home, mom smelled tavern on dad’s clothes and beer on his breath, she was not happy. We were “late,” very late. She didn’t say anything but you could tell she was mad that he had stopped off at the tavern, she did not like him coming home so late. He never told her either. We were late because of the man and his coat and shoes and all the time we took at Merkel’s, nothing more. But dad never used it that I was aware of.
Years later I mentioned the story to John’s daughter, Jane. She remembered her father talking about dressing the hitchhiker as well. It warmed my heart that someone besides me knew about Monte and John’s moment of unpublicized charity. © 2012 JohkepFeatured Review
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6 Reviews  Last Updated on September 26, 2012 Author
JohkepHesston, KSAboutI am called to write and to teach. I have been an engineer, executive, and consultant for many years. In my work I have always had to write or teach in some form or capacity, peripheral activities t.. more..Writing
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