Ohio (From "The State I'm In" Series)
Posted: Wednesday, September 14, 2011
by Jack H. Schick
They threw me in jail in Columbus, Ohio. It wasn’t the first time I’d been hauled down to the police station, but it was the first time I was actually dumped in the tank. Before, my dad had paid for the windows I’d thrown rocks through and they let me go home. This time, I was a voting age adult and there was a chance I’d have to stick around for a while. At one point, I almost made my escape, but they caught up to me in the alleyway behind the courthouse and took me back into custody. As is true for most people who are collared for their criminal behavior, the episode totally screwed up my weekend plans and cost me money I’d been planning to spend on something else.
It’s pretty tough to get to Colorado from Pennsylvania without going through Ohio. Interstates 70, 80 and 90, all go through there. Ohio was about the toughest state to hitchhike in, too. The cops threatened you with fines, ran you off the exit ramps and picked you up if you were out on the highway. The last time I hitchhiked through there, I was lucky enough to get a ride straight through to South Bend. Other times I’d run into some trouble, and this time was even worse.
I got a ride with a flighty black fellow who was rushing to Columbus to participate in a track meet. He talked fast and all the time. He was fidgety and hyped up. There was a big bible on the dashboard. He was running late so we didn’t waste any time. He had a problem, though; he was low on gasoline and didn’t have any money. When we had to stop, I told him I was broke too, and while he was in the restaurant trying to sell his track shoes, I decided to part company.
I found a hippy looking guy in the parking lot and asked him for a ride. He was headed for somewhere north of Columbus and was willing to have a passenger. My plan was to get off at the Intestate bypass loop and avoid going through town. We hit it off pretty good, and missed my exit while we were talking. He was turning north right in the center of the city. I, of course, was headed west. It was evening rush hour in Columbus. It was dangerous to stop, but he dropped me off at the fork in the highways, smack in the middle of downtown.
It was horrifying. Three lanes of bumper to bumper traffic zoomed past at 60 miles an hour. I was poised on a two foot wide sidewalk, scrunched up against a guard rail on an overpass. The roar and wind gusts were frightening. If a truck with a big side mirror was too close to the curb it could easily have wacked me and toppled me over the rail to the city street below. I barely had room to stick my thumb out without getting it clipped off. No one could stop for me without causing a horrendous, multiple car rear end crash. I was afraid to even turn my back to traffic and start walking. With my thumb tentatively out, I slowly shuffled backwards, hoping just to survive the experience.
Before too long, someone did stop to pick me up. Actually, I considered it a rescue. A Columbus police car turned on its lights and screeched to a stop right next to me, blocking the right hand lane, causing an even worse commuter mess. The officer could barely crack open his door into traffic. He carefully squeezed out and ran around the front of the patrol car, screaming at me the whole way.
“Are you crazy? What the hell are you doing out here? Are you trying to get killed?” He shrieked at me, waved his hands in the air and shook his fist in my face.
I didn’t care. I was glad to see him. He opened the back door of the car and just pointed. I threw my backpack in ahead of me and eagerly dove in. He yelled at me again as he eased back into traffic, then, almost as an after thought, asked me if I had any weapons. I pulled my Boy Scout pocket knife out of my pocket, dug the spare one out of my backpack and handed them to him through the wire screen. He was pretty much calmed down by the time we got to the station. I couldn’t disagree with him. I had been in a pretty dangerous position out there, but when he told me I didn’t stand a chance of getting to Colorado hitchhiking, I didn’t have the nerve to say that, once I was past Ohio, it would be relatively easy.
It didn’t look like I was going to get past Ohio, though. I though they might just yell at me some more and let me go, but they charged me with “Occupying Space on an Interstate,” took all my stuff and threw me in the drunk tank. It was a ceramic tiled room with a cement floor about 20 feet square. Ledges molded into the walls were the only seats. There was a lid-less, seat-less toilet over in one corner. It was bright and clean, but smelled funny. For a while, I was completely alone.
I’d been sitting there for half an hour, fretting over lost travel time and wondering if I was even going to get to Colorado when they brought in a couple of other guys. They seemed friendly enough. One even offered me a cigarette, which I took. “What are you in for?” he asked. He laughed when I told him “hitchhiking.” I asked back, and was a little nervous when he said he was in for assault and battery, again. I was only about half way through the smoke when they called for me. I threw it on the floor and was about to stomp it out when the guy yelled, “Hey, I might be in here for awhile this time!” He picked up the half cigarette, knocked the ember off and put it back in his pack.
Two officers, including the one who saved me, watched as I unpacked my backpack. When they saw my ring bologna, cheese and crackers, canteen of water and all my bad weather gear my “friend” said, “He’s a Boy Scout, all right. He’s sure prepared.” He reiterated the tale of my rescue to other officers who’d gathered around. They thought it was ridiculous and wonderfully funny that I thought I could get to Colorado on my thumb. “Not this time,” they said, when I told them I’d done it before.
They took my ID and made me count out my money. A chubby guy, who looked too out of shape to be on patrol, had me come up to a counter and asked me questions while he filled in blanks on a long, two sided form. He had me go sit down on a bench across the room while he sent my info back to Pennsylvania to see if I was wanted for anything. Meanwhile they brought out my cigarette smoking buddy and took some mug shots. I wondered if I was going to have the same honor.
After about twenty minutes, another guy called me up to the same counter, but a few feet down from where I talked to the first one. He asked me the same questions and filled in the same form, checking against the first one as we went along. I went back and sat down. Half an hour later, a third guy called me up, a few feet further down the counter. They all seemed to have their own spot. We went through the same thing all over again. His job was a little harder because he had to compare his answers to both previous forms. He managed to eat a sandwich while he was doing it, though. I guess all my answers were okay, because they didn’t say anything. The truth always works that way.
After I sat around for an hour or two they found out that Pennsylvania didn’t want me--well, you know what I mean. They gave me a fine of $10, which was a good chunk of change in those days. I had to pay it or enjoy their hospitality a while longer. It was past shift change and a new cop was assigned to ride me over to the courthouse. We had to hurry. It was the Friday before Memorial Day and the courthouse was only open for another hour. Everybody at the station sort of liked me (better than the assault and battery guy, anyway). I was a well behaved, harmless hippy who was on one of those adventure in life that some of them probably envied; but, they didn’t want me on their hands for another three days if I was unable to pay my fine before five o’clock.
I went out the big sliding barred gate to the waiting police car. It closed behind me. My escort officer was still over at the counter picking up my paperwork. One of the guys behind the counter remembered at the last minute and came running over to the gate. “Hey! You forgot your pocket knives.” He started to hand them through the bars to me. Suddenly, he got a funny look on his face and yanked his arm back. “I can’t give them to you!” it dawned on him. He gave them to my driver when he came over. He put them on the front seat and we were off.
There was a pretty long line at the fine paying window. As far as I could tell, I was the only one that was busted for hitchhiking. I paid my way out of jail and got my receipt at 4:54pm, six minutes before closing. I didn’t see my cop around so I quick scooted out the side door of the courthouse and slipped into an alley. I’d paid close attention to the road signs on my way over from the police station and knew exactly how to get back to the Interstate. I was way behind schedule on my trip to Fort Collins and wanted to get back on the road as soon as I could.
I’d trotted down to a corner, jogged over a block and was headed down another ally when a police car passed by up at the far end. It backed up and turned in. I thought about running away, but froze. He turned on his flashing lights and slowly drove up the ally toward me. It was the officer who had driven me to the courthouse. He rolled down his window and waved me over. I was nervous. He had a big grin on his face. “Why’d you run off?" he asked, "You forgot your knives.” He turned off the lights and handed them to me. I didn’t say anything; just put them in my pocket. “Where are you going?” he asked. I still didn’t say anything. He pointed to the seat next to him and said, “Get in. I’ll give you a ride.”
I figured there was no chance he was taking me out to the Interstate, or driving me to the edge of town and telling me to not come back, like the sheriff might do out in Old Tucson. I was right. He was friendly, almost fatherly, and lectured me on the dangers of hitchhiking the whole way over to the bus station. He knew about Ohio, too, and said that there was no way I’d get out of the state without ending up in jail again. This time I’d show up on the computer and be a repeat offender.
He didn’t let me out of his sight at the bus depot. He stood behind me, looking over my shoulder as I bought a ticket to Pittsburgh. He knew exactly how much money I had and made me get coins and use the pay phone to call my wife to tell her the story. He hung around until the bus left, even offered to buy me a coffee out of the machine. When I grabbed my backpack and headed for the bus, he stopped me, shook my hand and wished me good luck. He followed me out to the gate, though, and stood by the bus door until it shut for good and we started to pull away. I guess he was in charge of running me out of town.
That was my last real hitchhiking experience. Less than six months later I was living in Rawlins, Wyoming, working at the oil refinery. We had a family on the way and I wouldn’t be allowed, if I even thought about heading out again to ride thumb. My buddy still lived in Fort Collins, but now, that was only a couple hours drive in my brand new four-wheel-drive pick-up truck. The episode sort of punctuated my life; put a period at the end of my youthful exuberance. They were nice enough to me, sure; but, I can’t forget that, in Columbus, Ohio, they threw me in jail, screwed up my plans and ruined my Memorial Day trip, simply because I was occupying space on an Interstate.
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Top-level comments on this article: (2 total)Jack Schick, hippie, fellow Pittsburgher! The officer did you a good service, I'd say. Great telling!Just went to school at Pittsburgh.
Yes, Ohio used to be tough on hitchhikers...never knew the rest of the country was more forgiving about it. Nowadays, it seems not to many are crazy enough to thumb it....I've got about 16,000 miles on my thumb
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