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--I stick out my thumb, hoping for a car to stop, and a kind man or woman to give me a lift to their off ramp. I’ve just gotten out of a very lovely woman’s car; she gave me a ride farther than I’d honestly expected to get. I was grateful, deeply.
--As I walk backwards down the interstate, I go over my story; I’m an orphan on my way to insert city name here, and I’m going because I might have some family there. My name, my road name, is Ray Schliebe. It’s not my story... My real story is I’m a homosexual, and am fleeing from people who want to kill me because they found out. My real name is Tommy Grey. I’m coming from Huntsville, Alabama, and going to San Francisco, in Golden California. It’s nineteen ninety-two, and I hear they are very tolerant over there in San Fran.
--I’m usually safe, because I have a spring-knife up my sleeve, and some pepper spray in my right pocket. I’d really rather not explain how I acquired them.
--Finally, after a lot of waiting, someone pulls over, and I run up to their car.
“Where are you headed?” The man asks, leaning over so that he can get a better look at me.
“Pueblo.” I reply, amiably, and climb into the passenger seat.
--The man takes a good, long look at me. I have emerald green eyes, and longish chestnut hair, that reaches to just above my shoulders. I’m wearing faded jeans, and a knit sweater because it’s early spring. I’ve got biker boots on, and am currently holding my backpack in my lap. I’m really only fifteen, but most people think I am in my twenties. I tell them I am seventeen, just to be safe.
--I have to make my way west, through Utah and Nevada before I reach California. I’m not looking forward to it, but I’ve been extremely lucky so far.
--The mans name is Mike McKinley. He told me he normally wouldn’t pick up a hitch hiker, but he was feeling generous this time. I give him my road name, and he smiles at me, and shakes my hand.
As we drive along, I cycle my way through my story. Why am I headed to Pueblo? I am an orphan, but I think I may finally have found an Aunt and Uncle out there in Pueblo. I give him the name of the last city I stayed in.
“Your accent... You don’t sound like you’re from Colorado.” Mike tells me.
“Well, we had moved here from the South, so maybe I still retain some of that accent.” I reply. “They died when I was ten. I’m seventeen.”
He studies me from the corner of his eye for a second. “I’d have thought you a lot older.” He tells me, finally.
“So would a lot of people.” I mutter. “How far can you take me?” I ask.
“To Pueblo’s off ramp. I’m going past there.”
“How far past?” I ask, out of curiosity.
“Just the next town, and then North.” He gives me a sideways glance again. He’s also not going the right way.
“North, eh?” I say. “What’s it like farther North?”
“Colder.” He replies, and we both laugh for a few seconds. “It’s nice. Colder, yeah, but still nice. Snow’s gorgeous.”
“How much more do you get, compared to Pueblo?” I try to carry the conversation on. Not because its polite, but because I actually want to know.
“Not all that much more.” He muses. “Ten or so inches, I think. At the most, really. But don’t quote me on that, because I’m no expert.” He’s smiling. “It’s nice to get snowed on, if it’s wet snow. And it’s beautiful to watch.”
“Sounds it, for real.” I smile, too. He is a nice man. Not good looking, really. Balding, and chubby, wearing a suit... Probably a salesman or something, going to a little cottage to be alone for the weekend.
“Why aren’t you taking a bus or something?” He asks me. I knew a question like that would be asked, sooner or later.
“I didn’t have the money, you know?” I reply. “I decided to save what I do have for food.”
“It’s getting late... Sicko’s, nuts, and psychos are on the roads at night...” He sighs. “Do you want a ride the whole way into town?”
“Ahh...” I freeze for a moment. I don’t know what to say. It’d never gotten this offer yet. “No.” I finally say, smoothly. “No, you don’t have to go out of your way. I can take care of myself at night.”
“Nonsense.” He says, and he sounds concerned. “I can take you into town, and drive the rest of my way on the back roads.”
“I...” And then I realized I needed a place for the night, but I didn’t have enough for a room... I’d rather hitch all night. “No, thank you.” I tell him, “Just drop me at the exit. I’ll do good on my own from there.”
“Sure thing.” Mike replies.

--The next to pick me up was a family, who offered I could stay with them in their hotel when they stopped for the night. Once again, I was very grateful. They didn’t ask much more than my name and why I was hitching. My road story covered it, and they took me in for the night. They had two kids, a boy and a girl. The boy was older, but only be a year or so. And he was only twelve. I think he kind of looked up to me for the short time I was with them. He asked me all sorts of questions, and he looks generally enthralled by my replies, and stories. I think he was upset that I had to leave. His sister was a little less happy about me... She seemed upset by my presence, and generally seemed a spoiled girl. Apparently her brother was a lot kinder, and good mannered. I’ll always remember his name, Cody Edwards.

--You know... I’m not always lucky like I was with that family... I’m finally at the California border. I did bus a bit of the way after working under the table as a bartender for a week in one of the larger Nevada cities. He had to quicken my training... A lot. But in the end, with tips, I’d made over two hundred dollars, even with working two dollars an hour - what can I say? Sometimes under the table really sucks, and other times, it really doesn’t.
--I have just around a hundred dollars left, and I’m closing in on a Wendy’s at a rest stop. I’m hungry, so I’ve decided to stop here for lunch. I’ve told woman who picked me up to let me off here, instead, so I can get a bite to eat. She agreed, easily enough, and dropped me there. I told her not to wait, I’d find another ride.
--It’s here that I face my biggest problem. A trucker basically decides to give me a ride most of the way to San Fran, since most of his cargo is going that way anyways. I was very unsure about going with him, though he seemed nice enough. And there didn’t seem to be anyone else who wanted to give me a ride, or even acknowledge me. It seemed I really didn’t have a choice, though I could have waited. Against my instincts, I decided to go with him.

“So, Ray... What brings you out here?” He asked me, randomly. I had been nodding off.
“Mm?” I blink, and rub my eyes a bit. “What do you mean?”
“Your accent is Alabama.” The trucker says.
“Oh, that...” I say, and sigh, giving a shrug. “My parents moved us out here when I was ten... I must still have the accent.” I run him through my story, and he listens. He smiles, but something is wrong. I can smell it as clearly as anyone would has been able to see or feel it. And I knew I shouldn’t have gone with him, but I did anyways. I was stupid.
--He pulls off the highway, on to a back road, and I realize who and what he is. He’s a sicko, but only because I’m underage. Just me luck, huh? The ***** puts his hand on my thigh. I shudder, and try and pull away.
“Want to make some quick cash, Ray?” He asks, as he pulls into a secluded area.
I shake my head. “No thanks.” I say. I get the distinct, and strong feeling that he really isn’t listening.
--My feeling is right, unfortunately. He leans over, but I’ve rolled out of the cab with my knife sprung into my hand before he can do anything.
“I said no, man.” I say, holding the knife in a defensive way. He stares at me, practically glowering. I turn and begin to run, blindly up the road he’d come down. I don’t think he came after me, but I ran and ran until I couldn’t breath. That was when I slammed right into another boy, and noticed I was back on the road that lead to ramp to the highway.
“Oh, thank God!” I say, and start to explain things while reloading my spring knife. I don’t realize he’s reading my lips, not hearing me, until he produces a notepad. I look at him, uncomprehending, and he writes down his name and a consolatory sentence. This was when I realized he was deaf and dumb. He offers to travel with me, and I’m, again, very grateful.
--His name is Richard, but he writes that I can just call him Richie. I think of telling him my road name, and then write out an explanation of who I really am, followed by my road story, so he knows it. He nods, and smiles. We walk back to the highway off/on ramps for the highway, a f*****t and a deaf-mute. The perfect pair.

--We get maybe two towns up, and sleep in a twenty-four seven Laundromat. While we’re getting settled for the night, I take a look at him. He is tall, with bright blue eyes, and black hair that was just a bit too short to be long, and just a bit too long to be short. He is two and a half inches taller than I am, making him, roughly, six feet tall. He’s got muscular legs, suggesting a lot of walking, and a God-given a**, the picture of perfection. He’s wearing tight jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket. He’s got a piercing in his left ear that has a feather hanging from it, and a sapphire stud in his right ear.
--Slowly, groggily, I wake up to bright sunlight. Richie’s holding me, like I was his little brother. I felt safe last night, I feel safer today. He’ll take care of me, I’ll be his ears and mouth.

--Traveling with Richie is a lot easier. We’ve been working and bussing. It’s a lot easier, with two of us; we can afford bus tickets both quicker, and on a better line. And we can afford food easier now, too. We’ve stopped eating a fast food restaurants, though, and started picking up fresh fruits, and sandwich materials at super markets. As a result, I don’t think I’ve ever felt healthier, in my whole life. I enjoy Richie’s company, too. He seems to understand me, and he’s a good friend.

--We’ve finally reached San Francisco, our goal. Richie and I have become best friends. So much so that he hugged me when we saw the Welcome to San Francisco sign, and almost kissed me when we got among the big buildings and shops.
The first thing we’re going to do is look for a job we could do together. Maybe we’ll go for construction, and eventually get ourselves a small apartment, near the beach. And maybe we’ll be accepted, and live the way we want.
--I don’t need my road name anymore. That alias was officially retired when we crossed into San Francisco. I am Tommy Grey again, finally. And I, Tommy, and my friend Richie, have finally made it to a place where we are mostly accepted for who we are. A place where we don’t have to hide, or worry, or feel outcast. We’re happy, now, and things are looking up. We’re finally in a place that we can call home. And life is good.