At 4 p.m. on a Tuesday, in the summer of ’99, I stood along the Pacific Coast Highway, one… At 4 p.m. on a Tuesday, in the summer of ’99, I stood along the Pacific Coast Highway, one mile north of the Santa Monica Pier, and put my thumb in the air. I had $30. My friends were waiting for me in Seattle.

I was on leave from Pearl Harbor Naval Base in Hawaii, where I was stationed as a marine accountant. How I came to be broke and without means of getting from Los Angeles to Seattle is unimportant. What’s important is I had to catch a flight back to Honolulu from Seattle in one week.

Standing along the PCH I began to sweat. The sun was hot. There was no wind. The ocean was flat, like glass. I was holding my right thumb out to the passing cars and clutching a gallon of water in my left hand – raising it to my lips every couple minutes. No one was stopping.

I was standing next to the entrance of a craft store. The old ladies pulling in and out were giving me stink eye. I was a vagrant.

Nearly two hours had passed and I was beginning to lose hope when I heard the honking of a horn from across the intersection.

A man who looked to be about 40 years old was yelling to me from a ’99 red Jeep Wrangler that was stopped at the light. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. The light turned green. He drove through the intersection and into craft store parking lot. I started walking towards him.

“Where you going?” he asked.

I hesitated. “North,” I said.

“Where?” he asked again.

“Seattle,” I answered.

He laughed. He had no teeth.

“Well, I was just out driving but I’ll take you to San Francisco,” he said.

OK, it was clear this man had issues. He would drive 350 out of the way – just for fun? But a ride to San Francisco seemed too good to pass up. So with more than a little apprehension I walked around to the passenger’s side and stepped up into the jeep. I fastened my seatbelt.

His name was Jack and after his first 20 minutes of incessant, incoherent rambling I realized Jack was on crack. He’d lost his teeth to the pipe. An hour passed. I said little. He didn’t shut up. He used to be in advertising. His wife threw a plate at him the week before. “See what the bitch did,” he said. Pointing to a small cut on his forehead.

“That sucks,” I told him.

As we approached Santa Barbara he reached into the center consul and pulled out a bag of weed. “Wanna smoke?” he asked.

“No thanks,” I said.

“I love my weed,” he said and then let out a dumb laugh.

An hour later the sky turned pink and the air was getting cooler. To my right, brown hills rolled, one after another, to someplace far off where they became mountains. To my left the Pacific lay still and vast.

I was beginning to tune Jack out when he mentioned the desert.

“When the bitch throws stuff at me, I drive to the desert and shoot my .45 automatic.” I quickly tuned back in.

“How do you blow off steam?” he asked.

“Uh,” I stammered a bit, thinking of something more tranquil. ” I play ping pong,” I said.

“Huh,” he grunted. As if contemplating a change in hobbies. “No, I like to smoke and shoot,” he reaffirmed. “Love my weed and gun. Wanna go shoot my gun? I got it in the glove compartment.”

“No!” I shouted, with a frightened, yet authoritative voice. “Let’s just stick to the San Fran plan.”

“San Fran plan,” he repeated quietly to himself, appreciating the rhyme.

For the remainder of the ride, I kept one eye on his right hand and the other on the glove compartment. I made sure we spoke of “happy things,” but every so often he would become agitated and mention how his gun and weed eased the pain of his miserable marriage.

We arrived in San Francisco at about midnight. After Jack mentioned that we should find a place to stay together – “ya know, split the costs” – he pulled into a gas station. Within minutes he was embroiled in an argument with the cashier. I saw this as my opportunity to escape.

But before taking off, curiosity got the best of me. I checked the glove compartment. Sure enough, tucked away neatly, waiting for it’s next trip to the desert, was a .45 caliber automatic.

That night I stayed at the YMCA. The next morning I got back on the road. I made it to Seattle in time for my flight. It took six days and about 20 rides, but none quite as crazy as Jack.

These days, when I’m stuck without money and transportation I take a more mature and responsible approach. I call my father.

Ben Magid would like to remind everyone hitchhiking is dangerous. But if you insist, he suggests you bring a friend and a .44 Magnum. He can be reached at [email protected].