Comedy Corner: A hitchhiker’s tale

I want to dedicate this column as a thank-you to the people who live up in Bonny Doon.
I lived up there a few years ago and lost the use of my car for about four months. During that time, I found myself hitchhiking up and down Ice Cream Grade to Felton Empire Road so I could get to work in Ben Lomond.
I want to say thank you to the elderly grandmother with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth who put me in her back seat because of the groceries packed in her front seat. After getting in, I said to her, “Ma’am, you should never pick up strange men and put them in your back seat — you could be raped, robbed and murdered!”
And she said, “Honey, at my age, that sounds like fun!”
She told me I did not look like an ax murderer and to sit back and relax. I never got into cars with the elderly again.
There was also the 16-year-old high school girl who gave me a ride. Sorry for the fatherly lecture about how you should never pick up hitchhikers, especially men of my age. I told her that if I were her father I would take away her car. She appreciated the lecture, and I appreciated the ride.
To Mo: Thank you many times over for the rides.
To the beautiful actress-model woman who let me get into her white leather Mercedes Benz: It was like riding on a couch through the redwoods.
And, finally, my last experience as a hitchhiker. This lady picked me up after I got off work on Highway 9 and took me to Felton Empire Road. As I was standing on the side of Highway 9, sticking out my thumb, like any hitchhiker should, this white car came screeching to a halt right in front of me. When I got into the car, she told me she had just stopped taking her meds, and the voices in her head told her to pick me up.
What?!
In the meantime, the more she talked, the faster she drove. While checking my seat belt, I literally was hanging on to the sides of my seat. She said again that the voices were telling her to do things and that they were audible.
So, I decided to engage her in conversation (since I was a captive audience). I asked her how many voices she was hearing and what they were telling her. She said there were many different kinds — some male, some female. I was really getting nervous.
We came up to my stop and I said, “Oh, this is my stop,” and she said, well, the voices didn’t tell her that, and I said, “Well, I am telling you that this is my stop!”
At this point, I did not know who I was arguing with, and since she had to stop at the red light anyway, I opened the door and jumped out. As I did, I yelled back, “Thank you, everybody, for the ride!”
Needless to say, the next day, I took the plunge and bought a car.
Michael Larson is a 14-year resident of Felton and an aspiring comedy writer. He lives with his dog, Blue, and is working to complete his Bachelor of Arts at Bethany University in addiction studies. Contact him at mi***************@ya***.com.