It was pretty awesome driving along the gorge dodging raindrops the whole way, passing between sunlight and storm-status clouds. Oddly enough, it was in the sunny patches that the rain found me. There was a river of cloud cover floating over the tops of the hilly mountains along both sides of the Columbia River, hiding the high peaks, and obliterating any hint of the windmills lining the gorge. The clouds, looking more like cotton candy snagged on the trees, than the foggy, watery substance they really were, hung low enough for me to almost touch.
Somewhere between Hood River and Troutdale, I spotted a figure trudging, dejected, along the side of the road. Being 50 degrees and rainy, I pitied him and pulled to a slow stop 100 yards in front of him. I've never picked up hitchhikers before in my life. That's my dad's thing. And not just any hitchhiker; the ones leaving prison. But that's a story for another time. The point being, I wasn't too concerned for my safety and wanted to help a brotha out. He looked like he was in his late twenties-early thirties, and wore an army-green jacket that almost reached his knees. Headed to Tigard? Sure, let's go.
And so off we were on our Tigard adventure. To protect myself, I didn't share personal information (such as where my ultimate destination was, or even my real name), but I did have him sitting right next to me for an hour. Since he had been walking in the rain, I assumed he would smell much like my dog when he goes out in such weather. I prepared for such a contingency by spraying body spray right before he walked up to my car...just in case. However, as it turned out, I didn't need to. He smelled slightly of damp man, but for the most part the guy was as clean-cut as they come. Of course, I had to ask the usual questions: "Are you carrying any weapons?" "Are you a serial killer?" And the ever popular, "Do you intend to rape and kill me?" He looked as though he was almost afraid of me, hesitantly threw his backpack in the back seat, and slipped in beside me. Conversation flowed with me doing most of the talking. He was quiet, but I pried hitchhiking tales out of him eventually. Unfortunately, he was a horrible storyteller, and didn't have anything particularly interesting to share. We got to Tigard with no delays (unless you call the torrential rain we hit up in Portland a delay), and I dropped him off at the 76 Station he pointed out. He thanked me, and walked into the mini mart.
The only thing he got out of me was my name: Isabelle.
I drove away with my dignity and chastity still in tact, minus a smudge or two on my truth chart.
Fail of the evening: I drove past a pan-handler standing in the rain at an off-ramp with a sign reading, "Anything helps. God bless." Unfortunately, I was driving too fast to stop in time to slide some money out to him, so I decided when I passed by him again on my way out, I'd give him some money. Now, you must understand, I never give money out to people on the side of the road. It's not my thing -- I need the money for Dutch Bros after all. But I was feeling strangely generous (helping out a hitchhiker does that to me), and actually had dollar bills in my wallet for a change, so I was prepared to help him. Well I left Wal-Mart twenty minutes later and was ready to get back on the highway, but by the time I reached the ramp I first saw him by, the man wasn't there anymore. I think it was a sign from God that I should keep my money and spend it on something worthwhile. Maybe Yang's for lunch.
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