if i ever come through mississippi again (i say “if” because, after today, i may never come through, at least jackson, that is) i’d like to bring someone to the Down Home Cafe. this truck stop is a little slice of a former small-town side-of-the-highway america, circa 1960. a buffet with all kinds of southern cooking, from fried chicken to okra, blackeyed peas to green beans & ham. cornbread and sweet (sweet!) tea. this place calms my mind after an enitre day sitting in the sun. i hitched one ride, from one side of jackson to the other, and after about 10 am didn’t get a ride until 5. i can’t tell if it was the waiting that drove me crazy or the hot sun with all it’s radiating uv rays. or maybe the fifty pound pack. mostly–i think–it was the *thousands* of vehicles that passed me by, an endless stream of steel and plastic. i didn’t think a person could stand with an outstretched arm for seven hours while so much traffic flowed by. i waved, smiled, held signs. nothing. i think i could wait that long on a highway with no traffic, a car or two every hour. the chances are thin. but i’ve learned that in jackson, no one like to look at a solitary hitchhiker, sometimes flailing desperately for a ride up the road.

i spent the night on a construction site, dirt and concrete pipe surrounding me. i slept well. no rain. and in the morning i met only southbound truckers fueling their trucks at the station. a couple hours drove me to the exit ramp and i grabbed my first ride across town, getting me away from the tangled i55/i20 intersection. now on the north side of jackson, i hiked up the on-ramp, jumped on the interstate and held up my sign: memphis. no luck. the sun cooked at high noon. i walked a bit. nothing but empty skies and hot sun. even on on-ramps, i met fancy cars and blank stares. i guessed i was near a mall and walked on. my rides usually come from young folks, contruction workers, mexicans, or truckers. occasionally i get a ride from a woman, a fancy car, or a chartered bus, but here: nobody. the psychological impact of everyone–thousands of vehicles–passing you by leads to a certain lost hope in humanity. i don’t ask for charity, just a ride up the road in an empty seat or bed of a pickup truck. after four hours, i started yelling at every pickup. i walked some more. six hours: i wrote “help” on the backside of my sign. nope. even the state trooper didn’t pull over; three times he passed me. finally, after seven hours–i don’t remember if i was standing or sitting, but i pulled the sign away from my face to block the sun’s rays–a red ford pickup truck rolled right up to my feet. i threw by pack in the bed (surprised i had the strength to lift if over the side) and hopped in. turns out the male driver thought i was a women (he didn’t have his glasses), but he decided to give me a lift anyway after i got in the truck. i write now in no rush ready to come to terms with my situation: on the road with no guarentee, a heavy pack, and no sunscreen. i’ve got time though. i just lost my faith in humanity for a moment, i guess.