I’d been driving down the Federal Highway for a couple of hours when I picked up the hitchhiker.
I was on my way to Canberra for yet another business conference. My routine was always the same: drive a few hours south the day before, spend the night at a cheap hotel, then go to the meeting in the morning. If I was lucky, I’d be home by late afternoon and wouldn’t have to spend the night making small talk with potential contacts, plying them with drinks and flattery. I knew I would though, if they asked.
Herds of empty eyed cattle and fields burnt brown with dry grass swept past as the monotony of the drive set in. The highway repeated like a Möbius strip. A silver ribbon of fencing ran unbroken along the road while trees looped every couple of minutes. I let my mind go blank.
I don’t know what made me look up, or what made me slow down, but a blip on the horizon broke the endless loop. A man materialised on the stretch of highway with his thumb stuck out across the open road. There was nothing for miles in either direction. The strangeness of it struck me, and I found myself pulling over.
He didn’t run over as I expected. Rather, he meandered towards me as though time had little meaning for him. The seconds made my fingers itch and I longed to turn the car back onto highway, but social niceties held me in place. My irritation grew with each slow step he took as I hung suspended between impatience and impoliteness.
Just as I was ready to drive away, he opened the door and sat down.
I scrambled to gather my forms from the seat before they were crushed.
‘Those important?’ the hitchhiker asked.
‘They’re for a presentation I’m giving,’ I said, trying to hide my irritation. ‘I’m the key speaker at the NBF conference.’
He made no sign of recognition and quietly watched as I organised the papers back into their folder. The stillness of his gaze unnerved me as I studied him from under my lashes. He was rail-thin beneath his sun-bleached canvas jacket, and the pants he wore were caked with dirt. I silently mourned my car’s cleanliness and tucked the folder between my seat and the door.
‘That’s the National Business Futurist Summit,’ I elaborated. ‘Can hardly give a speech without notes, can I?’
I flashed my most winning smile, but he gave no response. The dying afternoon light back-lit his face, making him even harder to read. His features were cast in shadow, and his skin was so caked dirt that it was impossible to see his skin color beneath. A leaf stuck out of his thick wiry beard, and I coughed to cover my laugh.
‘They’re very important,’ I clarified.
‘If you say so.’
I pulled back onto the highway and tried to break the rising tension.
‘Where you headed?’
‘Anywhere,’ he said.
‘Anywhere? It’d take a long time to get there,’ I laughed.
His eyes were a shade too green and held no humour as they met mine. ‘Anywhere is better than nowhere,’ he shrugged. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Canberra,’ I said. ‘They hold the conference there every year. It’s where all the big summits take place, you know? Lot of important people.’
‘I suppose I’m headed there, then.’
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.
‘You been on the road a long time?’
‘Which road?’ he asked.
‘You don’t know where you are? This is the Federal Highway. Goes all the way to Canberra, then connects to the Hume and to Melbourne. You don’t come from around here?’
‘I come from a few places.’
I studied him a little closer. He didn’t have an accent I could place, but he was relaxed as he watched the road ahead of us. He seemed comfortable, but whether it was with me or with himself, I couldn’t say. He carried no bag, so he couldn’t have travelled far. His hair was hidden by a stockman’s hat, and braids woven with dead flowers poked out from underneath. Perhaps he was an eccentric local.
The presentation notes rubbed against my leg and I swatted at the itch.
‘You gotta have a destination in mind. A direction of some sort?’ I asked.
‘Is having a direction important?’
‘Well, you can’t get anywhere if you don’t have a direction!’ I laughed again, but it sounded forced.
His eyes pierced me, and I felt sweat pool at my back as I turned my eyes back to the road.
‘You have to know who you are to know where you are going,’ the strange man said.
I pulled at the tie choking me as I searched for a topic with fewer elusive answers.
‘Well, what do you do for work?’ I asked.
‘This and that,’ he said.
‘So you’re freelancer, huh?’ I said, sighing with relief. ‘An entrepreneur. I get it. It’s good to diversify. Not be restricted to one project.’
I grinned. This was something I understood.
‘You know, I’m an innovation and leadership expert,’ I said. ‘I know a few people. I could put in a good word for you, get you into a startup.’
He gave no reply.
‘Are you a photographer?’ I asked, though he carried no camera.
Again, he gave no answer, no indication of who he was or why he was by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.
I looked at him for clues. Though his clothes were worn, they were well-made. While the edges were frayed and lightened from the sun, the material was still sturdy enough to hold the impressive collection of sticks, burs and earth that clung to it. Yet despite the dirt he carried, the only smell I could detect was that of my own sweat.
‘Perhaps an artist of some kind?’
Again, nothing.
I gnashed my teeth at his dismissive silence.
‘Are you a writer? A poet? An illustrator? Do you collect antiques? Are you a handyman? Do you work in sales? Are you a life coach? A designer? Are you in public relations? An Influencer? An administrator? What do you do?’
He remained completely composed throughout my tirade. I expected he would ignore me, until I heard his quiet voice.
‘Wouldn’t it be better to ask, “who am I”?’
I gave no answer, and we travelled in silence after that.
***
I was relieved when he disappeared. I told him I needed petrol and pulled into the next service station I saw, but it had been a lie. As I turned back from topping up my near-full tank, he was gone. One moment he was sitting patiently in the car, and the next his seat was empty. Despite his abrupt departure, I was relieved to put distance between us. But as I paid and turned back onto the highway, it felt as if he hadn’t left at all. Though not even a speck of dirt remained, I felt his presence on me like a stain. Throughout my solitary drive my discomfort didn’t lessen. It followed me all the way to the motor inn and into the cheap single bedroom I’d booked.
I leafed through my presentation notes but I found myself reading the same incomprehensible lines again and again.
After dumping them on the floral bedspread, I stepped outside.
The light had faded and the air was now cool. I loosened my tie and began ruminating conversation. Who was he? Something about his inability to define himself grated at me, and I began to question my own identity. Who am I?
I walked through the suburbs and into the open air, discarding the tie as I went. Empty bars and hollow buildings blurred together as I strode past dead ends and deserted streets. Sweat began to build and I loosened my jacket as I reached the edge of suburbia. I turned back to look at the city with heavy breath. The streetlights washed everything in a sickly yellow glow, and the angry red of taillights wove through squat block buildings wreathed in smog. Behind me was the highway, but beyond that were open plains pinned down by trees in the distance. I looked down at my watch, and then up at the open space.
I shed the heavy weight of my jacket and stepped off the road.
I walked underneath the stars, through fields of dew dropped grass and crossed rivers bright with reflected starlight. I ducked under trees and listened to owls hooting overhead while crickets sang lilting sonnets to unseen lovers. I walked like that until the sun rose, and then for a long time after.
As the heat of the day became thick, I emerged onto a long road buzzing with cars. It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that one responded to the question I’d been silently asking.
Putting down my hand, I stepped back as a car pulled over, engine still idling.
‘Where you headed?’ a voice asked.
‘Anywhere,’ the hitchhiker answered.
Alex Moss is a Triple A author: Asexual, Aromantic and Agender. They're currently completing a Masters of Creative Writing, Publishing, and Editing at The University of Melbourne and spend their time inside with their pet goblin working on their novel. If you want to show support, you can buy them a coffee here!