Dangerous Compassions


Yesterday on our way back from Santa Barbara we picked up a hitchhiker at the beautiful Gaviota rest stop.  He was maybe a little younger than I am with a backpack, just him.  I had never picked up a hitchhiker before.

He was nice.  We both went to UCSB.  He had studied engineering.  Ming talked his ear off about Nevada Desert Experience and our events and Catholic Worker.  I said a little about zines.  He was very respectful and polite.  Seemed curious.

His story didn’t hold together entirely.  He was headed north toward San Francisco but was unattached to actually arriving there.  Something about his sister who lived there heading south to see him, but how could she visit him in Santa Barbara if he was in San Francisco?

We dropped him off at a gas station with good luck and NDE event fliers.  I wouldn’t recognize him if I saw him again–I’m bad with faces–but he said his name was Kyle.

“Mom, I did something you’re not going to like.  Don’t get mad at me, okay?” I asked Mom yesterday evening.  “We picked up a hitchhiker–it was my first time.  He was nice!”

Mom made upset sounds and said, “Let your first time be your last!”

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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