Gray Area

Despite all the moral “gray area” that seems to exist these days, there are a few widely accepted things that human beings, as a general rule, just simply shouldn’t do. Examples include feeding zoo animals, ripping off mattress tags, wearing the Ed Hardy shirt/Livestrong bracelet combo(or dating/associating with someone who does), watching any movie in which Eddie Murphy stars as multiple characters, and responding to that oh-so-enticing email from the sickly boy-prince of Nigeria, desperate to bestow upon you his fortune (657,000 African Zarr= 12 million United States Dollars! All he needs is your fax number, social security number, and mother’s maiden name! )

Another item on life’s “do not do” list is picking up hitchhikers.

I’ve learned to resist Prince J-Kwon’s tempting email offer, have only seen “The Nutty Professor 2” once (when my TV remote was lost), and would rather date a Lego than a guy with a decorative skull shirt (much better conversation.) But there is one list item I tend to struggle with.

I have never met anybody who has picked up more hitchhikers than I have. But here is the thing: I don’t even necessarily do it out of the good of my heart. I just find it wildly hilarious/exhilarating. Probably the same sort of rush people get from skydiving. Or illicit drug use.
Disclaimer: The following situations exemplify irresponsible, erratic and dangerous behavior. I do not in any way advocate, or even condone my actions. (But I also do not regret a single one.)

Scene 1: I was driving home late one summer night. Wet, tired and reeking of chlorine, it’s a wonder I stopped when I spotted the dark figure, thumb outstretched, loitering in the Mama Chu’s parking lot. Having just braved the Belmont hot tub (marinate in that thing too long and you’re just begging for a Staph infection) I was probably feeling adventurous. I nonchalantly rolled to a stop and beckoned the shadowy figure over, just like I did this every night. It shuffled over and quickly ducked in, just like it did this every night. I turned for a look at my passenger/service project. We had gone to high school together. I hadn’t spent much time analyzing the kid then, but I wouldn’t have expected him to someday sport a 2XL “G Unit” shirt and reek of cigarette smoke. We awkwardly acknowledged our previous acquaintance and he shared with me his ambition to become a manager at Peter Piper Pizza (they’ve got a great benefit structure.) I don’t know who the joke was on more. Him, for the obvious downward plunge post high school? Or me, for making the conscious decision to let a stranger into my vehicle at 2 am, while wearing a swimming suit, Ugg boots and a Costco bathrobe? Luckily the drive was short and sweet. He was a gracious rider, and thanked me profusely when he got out. Only later did I remember rejecting the Facebook friend request that same boy had coincidentally sent a few months prior. With it, was a heartfelt (and never responded to) message, informing me that I had gotten “hella fine” since high school. Oh, such a sweetie. I’m glad I got a chance to thank him.

Scene 2: A few friends and I were headed up Spanish Fork Canyon to attend some crawfish catching/cooking/eating social event. What exactly a crawfish is, I will never know because of what happened next. We stopped abruptly when we encountered a rusty old tan hatchback with a crazed-looking Indian (I mean, Native American) woman prancing around it, hands waving hysterically in the air. Between raspy, phlegm-filled breaths, she informed us that she was having a “panic attack” and needed to get to the hospital. I immediately offered our assistance, before my wary friends could object. (Let’s be honest; I think I was enticed more by the potential comedic value present than the chance to be a modern day Samaritan.) I ended up driving the woman-in her own car-to the Provo Hospital. I’m surprised we both fit; that car was absolutely littered with dream catchers, afghans, Crystal Creations (probably with healing powers) and prescription drug bottles. I think there might have been a peace pipe. I held her hand in an attempt to calm her down and we engaged in some forced, wheezy-breathed small-talk. Her name was Charlene and she was on her way to the reservation for a family reunion when the “panic attack” hit. Although the (empty) state of the scattered Rx bottles indicated a different story… When we got to the ER she refused to let go of my now sweaty hand, so I agreed to hang around, not knowing that this would involve my hands-on assistance in her urine sample collection. After another solid hour of bedside hand-holding, Charlene informed me that I was now one of her best friends. It’s like I’ve always said; holding hands really is a bigger deal than kissing.

There have been more. Offhand, I can think of three more instances right off the top of my head. Each one has kept me laughing for days on end. I know I get more of a kick out of telling the stories than those who have to sit through them. And I’m not promising there won’t be more. I will just let this be my one “gray area” justification. If a hitchhiker is someday the cause of my ultimate demise, at least I will die in the service of a fellow being. And I will most likely be laughing.