The hitchhiker stood on a wet patch of gravel next to the side of the road. The morning clouds had given up a little rain earlier; he was glad to have spent that little shower underneath the old car park he'd slept in the night before. The roof was standing and sturdy on the old car port, but the house it once belonged to was not in such good shape. The home, long since abandoned, had caved in on itself long ago, he estimated. The weeds and growth around the old property suggested so - but the car port looked warm, dry and relatively safe - the old house was set back from the old highway a ways, and with no one to maintain the property, the old shrubbery out front obscured most of the places existence. He'd looked through the house briefly - noting the old newspapers and magazines from the late 70s to the mid 80s. The house had been deserted for probably over 35 years. It was a shame no one seemed to want this old property, he thought. It was kind of out of the way. It was the lone house for miles in a long stretch of old highway, built long ago before America's super highways had made these old state routes less traveled. Not that the road was abandoned, far from it - but it was less traveled than it once was. In fact, the whole roadway was littered with old abandoned hotels and motels, that were probably once full of travelers and vacationers in mid-century America. Most of those places, though the business was given up, still had visitors... more transients. Much like himself, but yet not like me he thought. Sadly, many were junkies - chasing the dragon with old dirty needles, or succumbing to the latest drug plaguing the lower classes - methamphetamine. The hitchhiker steered clear of that stuff. He traveled light - a small backpack with a blanket, some old clothes inside, whatever snacks or food he managed to get, and his old guitar. It was a beat up Takamine someone in Toledo had traded to him for a pocket knife. He was glad to have an instrument again - it made a nice traveling partner. It also seemed to endear him more to people who might stop to give him a lift - even if he didn't play, something about it made others more at ease. He hoped it did. He didn't want to hurt anyone. He just wanted to keep going. Where? Somewhere.
The patch of gravel next to the road was about 2 miles down from the car port he'd slept it; he started walking down the road and waited to see where he'd get. He knew there was a little town about 20 miles up ahead. He'd stop in there, and see what he could find. A pharmacy, maybe. Hopefully a little restaurant - he'd managed to save a little money from the last job he grabbed at the previous town he shuffled into. He helped a local road crew pave some roads for a few days, and at the end, he gave back the orange jacket they'd handed him, and handed him a wad of cash. A nod, a hand shake, and he went back on the road.
He didn't often think of where he'd come from - he thought often of where he'd been... but that old home he was once from? He hadn't been there in years. Didn't have a reason to - everyone was gone. When you're orphaned into the world, and your siblings won't claim to know you - you've got to find your own path. Which is just what he did. So he here was on the road - in a state he was not from, but rapidly learning to love as his own. He felt a kinship with this place as of late - and something made him think that this would be his home. Somewhere around her. But for now, he heard a car coming down the old highway, and he stuck his thumb out gently as those who ply in his trade do. The sound of wheels slowing down reached his ear, and soon, an automobile had stopped next to his gravel patch.
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