Hitchhikers by Kate Spofford Page B
Authors: Kate Spofford
police called.
Three red-haired heads swivel toward me as I
emerge from the playhouse, but I am in the front yard and jogging
down the street before a word is uttered. That word comes from the
youngest: “Puppy!”
I can only hope the mother, busy at her
computer, didn’t see me well enough for a description.
Although, “teenage boy and dog” would still
get me stopped by a patrol car.
-28-
At a gas station I stop in to pick up
something to eat: a sandwich if this is one of those deluxe gas
stations, or a Power Bar at least. Before I even reach the
refrigerator cases at the back of the store, the latest newspaper
grabs my attention.
Pack of Wild Dogs Attack Local Boy
Those howls last night – my irrational
anxiety – were these the same dogs?
Quickly, and under the scrutiny of the
acne-covered clerk (she doesn’t really care what I’m doing, but
teenage boys don’t usually read the paper and who knows what my
hair looks like or how strongly I smell), I scan the article.
The body of a tenth grade student at the
local high school was found in bushes in a new development.
Apparently he had been out late, over a friend’s house, drinking on
Halloween, and had taken a short cut home. His body was torn apart,
and the numerous paw prints around the body indicated at least five
different animals. The authorities weren’t sure if these were wild
coyotes, wolves, or feral dogs, but the paw prints were smaller
than a wolf’s and larger than a coyote’s. There had also been
reports of a pack of wild dogs in the area.
The article went on with tips about what to
do if approached by a wild animal, and information about rabies,
even though the possibility of the wild dogs having rabies had not
even been mentioned by the animal control officers who were
interviewed. I suppose it makes sense that the reporter would
assume something like that – what other reason would make a pack of
wild animals attack a human?
As I select a sandwich from the deli case, I
wonder if that new development was Mist Valley Estates.
Days pass by in monotony, ever headed north.
In the nights I dream. In dreams I run alongside Lila on all fours,
baying at the moon, driven on by the scent of blood.
-29-
Libraries can be tricky. Some are small, and
if you look school-age and the librarians see you hanging around
all day, they start to ask questions. Others are big, and have
security guards there to keep people from stealing stuff and taking
baths in the men’s room, and they’re pretty alert for truants and
homeless people, of which I am both. An adult they’d just kick out,
but me they’d have to call the police.
There are some libraries, though, that don’t
ask questions and don’t mind me hanging around all day reading,
libraries where the bathrooms aren’t locked and I can wash up,
libraries that let you use the computers even if you don’t have a
library card.
These are the libraries I like.
Normally I don’t like spending a lot of time
around other people, especially places that would eventually notice
me. Gas stations, diners – these places are full of anonymous
faces, passers-through. Libraries, on the other hand, are full of
local people who notice if you’re not from around here. But in
those quiet spaces I don’t have to worry so much about blacking
out. I’m calm and the beast sleeps.
My first winter on the road I spent a lot of
time in libraries. It was warm, and even though my stomach was so
empty it felt like a cave between my ribs and my hipbones, I could
pretend for a few hours that I was normal. Lost in a book, I was a
normal kid with normal problems like a school bully or a suicidal
friend or anorexia. I never found a book where the kid has my
problem: waking up to find that he’s murdered a bunch of people and
possibly eaten them. Then again, I never read horror books.
On some really bad days, I hid in the library
all night rather than face the cold winds and seeping wetness and
the
Three red-haired heads swivel toward me as I
emerge from the playhouse, but I am in the front yard and jogging
down the street before a word is uttered. That word comes from the
youngest: “Puppy!”
I can only hope the mother, busy at her
computer, didn’t see me well enough for a description.
Although, “teenage boy and dog” would still
get me stopped by a patrol car.
-28-
At a gas station I stop in to pick up
something to eat: a sandwich if this is one of those deluxe gas
stations, or a Power Bar at least. Before I even reach the
refrigerator cases at the back of the store, the latest newspaper
grabs my attention.
Pack of Wild Dogs Attack Local Boy
Those howls last night – my irrational
anxiety – were these the same dogs?
Quickly, and under the scrutiny of the
acne-covered clerk (she doesn’t really care what I’m doing, but
teenage boys don’t usually read the paper and who knows what my
hair looks like or how strongly I smell), I scan the article.
The body of a tenth grade student at the
local high school was found in bushes in a new development.
Apparently he had been out late, over a friend’s house, drinking on
Halloween, and had taken a short cut home. His body was torn apart,
and the numerous paw prints around the body indicated at least five
different animals. The authorities weren’t sure if these were wild
coyotes, wolves, or feral dogs, but the paw prints were smaller
than a wolf’s and larger than a coyote’s. There had also been
reports of a pack of wild dogs in the area.
The article went on with tips about what to
do if approached by a wild animal, and information about rabies,
even though the possibility of the wild dogs having rabies had not
even been mentioned by the animal control officers who were
interviewed. I suppose it makes sense that the reporter would
assume something like that – what other reason would make a pack of
wild animals attack a human?
As I select a sandwich from the deli case, I
wonder if that new development was Mist Valley Estates.
Days pass by in monotony, ever headed north.
In the nights I dream. In dreams I run alongside Lila on all fours,
baying at the moon, driven on by the scent of blood.
-29-
Libraries can be tricky. Some are small, and
if you look school-age and the librarians see you hanging around
all day, they start to ask questions. Others are big, and have
security guards there to keep people from stealing stuff and taking
baths in the men’s room, and they’re pretty alert for truants and
homeless people, of which I am both. An adult they’d just kick out,
but me they’d have to call the police.
There are some libraries, though, that don’t
ask questions and don’t mind me hanging around all day reading,
libraries where the bathrooms aren’t locked and I can wash up,
libraries that let you use the computers even if you don’t have a
library card.
These are the libraries I like.
Normally I don’t like spending a lot of time
around other people, especially places that would eventually notice
me. Gas stations, diners – these places are full of anonymous
faces, passers-through. Libraries, on the other hand, are full of
local people who notice if you’re not from around here. But in
those quiet spaces I don’t have to worry so much about blacking
out. I’m calm and the beast sleeps.
My first winter on the road I spent a lot of
time in libraries. It was warm, and even though my stomach was so
empty it felt like a cave between my ribs and my hipbones, I could
pretend for a few hours that I was normal. Lost in a book, I was a
normal kid with normal problems like a school bully or a suicidal
friend or anorexia. I never found a book where the kid has my
problem: waking up to find that he’s murdered a bunch of people and
possibly eaten them. Then again, I never read horror books.
On some really bad days, I hid in the library
all night rather than face the cold winds and seeping wetness and
the