Warning sign #1 we were 20 miles north of where he said he was going, however we were slightly more than 20 miles north, and another 10 or so east, from where he claimed his car had broken down. The explanation: I was not the first person to offer him a ride that day, and somehow, whether through stupidity or somnolence, he had allowed himself to be driven more than twice the intended distance. Now, I've done my share of stupid things, and I have the divorce papers to prove it, so one stupid act is something I'd typically overlook. What stuck with me, and really started me thinking that this was an idiot of rare caliber, was the obvious anger he was expressing over the fact that the first driver who had picked him up hadn't been willing to turn around and drive him 20 miles back. He seemed to think this was chiefly due to the fact that the guy had been Mexican, and hadn't understood his English. I found myself suddenly wishing I was Mexican too. About this time I invited him to turn on the radio and find a station he liked, figuring no matter what his taste, even country, it would be far easier to deal with than further conversation.
Warning sign #2 We were approaching Slidell, for which there are two exits, shortly after which I-12 ends with an interchange onto one of several other highways. Now, I am not from the region, and though I've lived here for 8 years or so now, my home is in Biloxi, some 70 miles from my office. My geographic knowledge of Louisiana is therefore limited to the area around my office, the highway in between, certain parts of New Orleans and the approximate locations of some of the larger towns and cities. I find it reasonable, therefore, to expect that the area native to whom I was providing this altruistic shuttle service would be able to tell me which of the two exits he needed. You may understand, then, my surprise and dismay when, in answer to that question, the reply I received was, "whichever one you think."
What. The. Frost?
This is what he knew. There was a sign near the exit that said Jackson. There was a sign on an overpass that said Slidell. His final destination was Tickfaw, which is not among those larger towns and cities with which I'm familiar and is at any rate so absurd a name for a town that it should immediately make any rational person not want to go there. One exit said Airport Road, but you could take the one after that one. More specifics were a challenge because, as he succinctly put it, "I don't read too good."f‚, Fortunately, I believed I had enough to go on. At the end of I-12 you can get on I-59, which heads to northern Mississippi and potentially Jackson, though I've never been that way and didn't remember a sign saying Jackson specifically. There is an overpass with a Slidell sign shortly before one of the exits, and, the most helpful piece, the first Slidell exit is indeed Airport Road.
So, at the risk of spoiling the suspense, let me clue you in on something I learned that Friday. Something that, despite having been born and lived in the area his whole life, I'm still not sure my memorable passenger has fully grasped. The small and picturesque hamlet of Tickfaw is not situated in the proximity of Slidell. In fact, like the end of my ride that day, and of this tale, we were nowhere Frost-ing close. TwatwafflepigeonFrostbutterCarrollShakespeare. Sorry, flashback. Moving on.
Warning sign #3 - not sure where he is, not clear where he's going. Time to make a phone call. Not that he had a cell phone, unless it was up his ass behind the box cutter on his taint. That would actually have made sense, since it would mean it was near his head. When we pulled off the interstate, nothing seemed familiar to him, so I gave him my phone to call someone for directions, while planning out how best to tell him that. unless we could get him to where he needed to be in short order, he should probably be asking the person on the phone for a ride instead of directions. Unfortunately, despite the fact that he was speaking with someone who was presumably already where he needed to be, and he could at least name the town and exit where he presently was, it didn't seem from the half of the conversation I could hear that there was much progress being made. My guess was that the party on the other end was family. I hoped it wasn't a wife or girlfriend, or else their spawn might have created a stupidity singularity from which no intelligent thought could ever hope to escape. I've heard rumor that something similar had once occurred in Kansas.
In order to sidestep the stupid, the phone on the other end was handed off to someone with a better grasp of complex geographical concepts such as north and south, and I took over on our end. Unfortunately, and I expect to wear the Shakespeare out of the word unfortunately before I'm done, the guy on the other end was a Coonass. What's a Coonass? Well, it depends on who you ask. Coonas is apparently both a derogatory term for a Louisiana Cajun, while at the same time it's a subset of Cajuns who refer to themselves as Coonass (Coonasses? Coonae?). (I mean it in the second sense, as to be derogatory towards an ethic group is bigotry, and bigotry is the pathetic outlet of those too stupid and/or lazy to find and focus their contempt on the many individuals out there who truly warrant it.) So, as the gentleman on the other end of the line rambled at me in a blur of warp speed gibberish, I desperately tried to glean whatever information I could. Eventually I managed to communicate that I was not from the area, would need directions that did not require advanced knowledge of the local road systems, and, most importantly, didn't know the dumb mother-Froster in the passenger seat and just wanted to get him wherever he was going and the hell out of my car. I could be wrong, but I think it was that last bit that earned me enough respect to get the guy to slow down and start over. Finally progress could be made, but I really only needed to hear one word f',f,,f‚...“ Hammond.
Hammond? Hammond, unlike Tickfaw, is large enough for me to have heard of it. Progress at last. I knew exactly where Hammond was, 20 miles north of where I originally picked him up. Too bad the moron didn't speak Spanish, because the Mexican guy was probably trying to tell the fool that they were going the right way. Then again, somehow I feel he may have been happy to let the gringo get out and start walking. At any rate, I figured I was done. There was no way I was driving 40 miles back in the other direction for some rude semi-literate hick Frost who didn't know up from down, and I hung up the phone intent on letting him know as much, though as nicely as I could manage.
Unfortunately.
When I hung up the phone the guy looked a bit nervous and upset, and not because he was further from his destination than when we started. He was worried because I had mentioned on the phone that I had picked him up hitchhiking. As it turned out, the guy on the phone was the father of the mother of my passenger's son, and his purpose in getting up to Tickfaw that day was to see his kid for the first time in several months. He was worried that the baby mama's daddy would be angry about the hitching, and he wanted, sincerely it seemed, to see his kid.
I'm a father. I fought an 18 month custody battle for my son, which luckily ended with equal physical and joint legal custody, with a fully equal division of time. Sure, I had to move to Mississippi, but it was well worth it. So, if I have a soft spot I'd admit to, it's for a parent trying to see their kid, even if he's the dumbest mother-Froster in Louisiana. Sof',f,,f‚, Tickfaw. Damn, I hoped he'd find a radio station he liked.
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