So I put my clothes on while Cathy stared right at my groin.
“Do you need a ride to the lake, we’re heading down now,” he said. Now Mr. Martin was a second Dad. He knew all about the emotional fights that emitted loud noises toward his kitchen door. He hadn’t fully gotten over the times I had chased Ann all over the two yards and beyond trying to get a kiss. “Kiss Tag” in my mind…terror in hers, I’m sure.
I refused the 45-mile ride out of embarrassment. Canandaigua didn’t seem like a long way to hitch hike that day. My mind was split between going to Canandaigua and the idea that I was free to do anything that day, having been sprung from both parental and super-ego barriers, I was, by any measure, out of my mind.
Thus I didn’t remember how I walked a mile down east avenue to get to the I-490 Linden road on ramp. And still don’t remember much about the man who got me as far as Victor, the philosophical, if not geographic halfway point to Canandaigua. From there, another universally-sent ride got me to the northwest corner of the city of Canandaigua, located at the north end of the westernmost of the picaresque Finger lakes. It was probably anything but a beautiful drive for the 50s couple who picked me up in Victor. They would have left me by the cornfield on the far side of Boughton Hill if it was up to the driver. But, the second happy-to-help lady in a row saved the day. She managed to get me calmed down enough so I could tell her I lived on West Lake Road, and it was at the beginning of this 20-mile road that I was dropped off. I got out and started walking, but my outstretched thumb wasn’t working anymore.
featured image by Anna Podris, Raleigh, NC