A Run-In With The Sheriff – Tampa FLA, USA

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“You can’t have that sign on display in this premises sir” she puffs, making the ‘sir’ sound like an expletive.
“OK, look, I’m going to buy these bananas and then I’m leaving. I didn’t realise that the famous right to free speech doesn’t apply to hitchhikers.”
“If I see you in here with that sign again, I will call the sheriff” she tells me…

I’m hitchhiking at a truck stop on the outskirts of Tampa, Florida.
Failing to hitchhike is more accurate actually.
I’ve got my sign on my bag. I’ve shaved. I’ve been chatting with every Truckee I see, and being as charming as I know how, but my luck is just not in today, it feels like. Nobody seems to be going north.
 

9:07 am.

A gigantic woman in a truck-stop uniform comes over to me.
“I’m sorry sir, you can’t have that sign in here.”
She doesn’t sound sorry at all, but I smile placatingly.
“OK.  No problem” I tell her.  “I’m leaving in a minute.”

The sign on my backpack says ‘North’.  
Actually, I don’t much care where I end up.  I just want to get out of this truck-stop.
I’ve been here all day.  And yesterday afternoon…
Last night I pitched my tent in a vacant lot next to a fast food joint. 

Tampa is a tough town for hitchhiking. 
It’s like this sometimes.

I take the sign off my bag and tuck it inside the top flap, out of sight.
I really don’t want to get chucked out of this truck stop. It’s the only place I can get out of the sun.

 
10:46 am.

I’m sitting at a concrete table outside the truck stop diner. A fat guy with a thin moustache and a lazy eye takes a seat beside me.
“You hitchhiking?” he asks me.
“Yeah. I’m trying to get a ride north.”
“You should have a sign buddy. Get a ride a lot quicker with a sign.”
“Yeah. I know. I had one, but they told me I’m not allowed to show it here in the truck stop.”
“Oh yeah. Well, they get a lot of bums hanging around in here, trying to get money and smokes off of drivers, I guess.”
He lights a cigarette and re-settles his bulky frame on the concrete bench.
“That’s an Australian accent you got there isn’t it?” he asks me.
“Yeah. That’s right” I smile.
“Australian huh? Fancy that. I got an uncle lives down under.” He chews his cigarette for a moment. “You got kangaroos down there in Australia right?”
“We sure do” I confirm, “they’re delicious.”
He laughs a smokey gurgling laugh.
“Y’all eat ’em?”
“Absolutely. There’s so many they have to cull them every year. People hunt them and eat them.”
“Well how the hell do you hunt them? My uncle told me you can’t have guns down there. The Australian government took all your guns away. Is that correct?”
“That’s right. There was a big mass shooting in the 1990’s so the law was changed to restrict gun ownership.”
The fat guy spits on the concrete.
“Damn. How the hell you gonna defend yourselves if something like that happens again?” he asks me, incredulous.
“Well, I think the idea is that if there are less guns around, that people are less likely to go on shooting rampages.”
“You got to be able to defend yourself though” he counters. “That’s a right protected by the constitution here in the US. You Aussies don’t have that right in your constitution, do you?”
“That’s true, we lost our right to have guns. We kept our right to have signs, though. I guess you can’t have everything.”

 
11:52 am.

After another fruitless hour trying to get a ride at the truck stop, I head up the road to the Interstate on-ramp.

The endless canals and parking lots shimmer in the midday sun beside the highway.
Massive billboards on the roadside proclaim:
‘400 legal abortions in Florida in 2016.’
‘Stop the murder of America’s babies.’
‘Every abortion makes Jesus weep.’

It’s roasting hot, but luckily I find a little patch of shade under a tree, right by the on-ramp

I stand on the ramp for the better part of four hours, with my cardboard sign on my bag and my thumb in the air. Nobody even slows down.
I had not expected hitching in the US to be this hard.
Hundreds of expensive looking cars and pickups roar past. Tinted windows. Shining chrome grilles. Bumper stickers saying ‘Jesus Saves’.

I decide to do an experiment.
I find a piece of cardboard in the grass beside the on-ramp, get out my marker and write up a new sign.
I figure maybe I can appeal to Florida’s religious fervour. My new sign says simply: ‘Jesus’.

An hour later. Still no ride, and no interest.
The shade has melted away. I’m done.

I guess if I was a driver I might think twice about picking up a weird looking, mud spattered, tattooed guy with a ‘Jesus’ sign.

I head back to the truck stop.

 
4:48 pm.

I push through the cafeteria doors and sigh with pleasure as the air con hits my face. I’m hungry and thirsty and frustrated, but air con is the panacea to every hitchhiker’s woes.

I fill my water bottle in the toilets. I grab a bunch of bananas and a muffin and head over to the counter to pay.
As I approach the cash register a strident voice cuts through the truck stop musak; “That’s against the rules in here!”
I look up, startled. The massive woman behind the counter glares at me over the till. She stabs her bulbous finger in the direction of my backpack.
“I told you before, you can’t have that sign!”

I forgot to take the ‘Jesus’ sign off my bag.
I stare at the pasty, belligerant face in front of me. My resolve to be cheerful and polite is very worn at this point.
“Sir” she barks at me “didn’t I tell you, you can’t have that?”
“Can’t have it in what sense?” I ask her. “This sign is my property, so actually, I can have it.”
“You can’t have that sign on display in this premises sir” she puffs, making the ‘sir’ sound like an expletive.
“OK, look, I’m going to buy these bananas and then I’m leaving. I didn’t realise that the famous right to free speech doesn’t apply to hitchhikers.”
I slap two dollars on the counter and she gives me my change.
“If I see you in here with that sign again, I will call the sheriff” she tells me.
I stare at her. I can’t help smiling.
“The sheriff? Really? I’m sure he’ll take that very seriously” I say.
I pick up my food and walk out.


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6:31 pm.

I’m back at the concrete table on the truck stop verandah.
I’ve given up hitchhiking for the day, but at least I’m out of the sun here.

“I’m setting out for Colorado tomorrow morning.”
A friendly looking, leathery faced man in a baseball cap settles himself onto the bench opposite me.
“Really? Can you give me a ride?” I ask him.
“Sure, I guess. If you’re still here.”
“I have a nasty feeling I might be” I tell him.
“Alright. Well, there’s plenty of room in the truck. It’s against the company’s rules, but, screw ’em. I seen you sitting here all day, and I reckon you want to get out of here, huh?”
“You don’t know how much” I tell him. “I’m Manny.”
“Scott.”
He extends his wrinkled hand and we shake.
“My truck’s been held up here for a couple days so I know how you feel. But I’ll be heading out in the morning. You might get a ride before then I guess, but if you don’t, you can count on me.”
“Well, thanks so much Scott. It turns out Tampa is a tough town to hitchhike from.”
“Yeah, I guess it could be. Lot of people are scared in Florida right now. You heard about the shooting in Orlando?”
“Yes. Of course. It’s terrible.”
Scott frowns. “Yes it is. This country’s going crazy I reckon.” His face brightens. “Say, you got a lot of kangaroos down there in Australia right?”

As I’m about to answer Scott, we are interrupted by a man in a cowboy hat.
“Excuse me sir” he says to me “do you have some ID there?”
He looks like a perfect sheriff cliche. Grey, starched uniform. Silver badge. Pink chubby cheeks and an absurdly serious expression on his round face.
“Yes. I do have ID” I tell him, smiling, sounding as much like a posh Englishman as I possibly can. “Is there some sort of problem?”
“I’m afraid the management don’t want you here, sir.”
Scott the trucker chuckles. “He don’t wanna be here neither, but nobody’ll give him a ride” Scott quips.
“Is this about my hitchhiking sign?” I ask the sheriff, confidentially.
“I believe it is, sir.”
“Well, as you can see, I am no longer displaying the offending sign. Also, I am a paying customer of this establishment. I purchased this bunch of bananas here less than an hour ago. Do you still want need to see my ID?”
“Yes sir, I’m afraid I do.”

I pull my passport out of my bag and hand it to the sheriff.
“You’re Australian?” he asks me.
“That’s right.”
“Y’all got kangaroos in Australia don’t you?” the sheriff asks me.
“We do! They’re everywhere” I tell him. “Some days there’s so many on the road they hold up the traffic. The police in Oz spend half their time rounding up ‘roos.”
The sheriff raises his eyebrows in amazement.
“Is that a fact? Good lord.”
I nod sagely. “It’s a big problem for the highway patrol.”

“So you’re hitchhiking?” the sheriff asks me.
“That’s right. I want to travel right across the country to California.”
The sheriff puffs out his cheeks, and gives a low whistle.
“Well… I’ll be damned. I never met an Australian hitchhiker before” he marvels. “I realise you’re just trying to get a ride here, but the management of this truck stop complained that you had a sign displayed, and that’s against their rules, you see?”
“Right. I understand.”
“What did you have written on the hitchhiking sign? Any offensive language?”
“Certainly not” I assure him, “my sign just says ‘Jesus’.”
I pull the sign out and hold it up for the sheriff to read.

The sheriff scribbles my details into his notebook, takes a photo of the’Jesus’ sign with his phone-camera and hands me back my passport. He clears his throat and adjusts his hat.
“OK sir, just give me a minute to talk to the manager, alright? Now, you understand this is private property, so if they want you to leave, that is within their rights. But it looks to me like you’re not doing any harm, so let me see what we can work out here.”
“Well thank you officer, I certainly appreciate that.”
“No problem sir. Just a minute.”

The sheriff marches off into the truck stop cafeteria.
Scott, the trucker laughs a snorting laugh. “I’ll be damned. Unbelievable.” He slaps his hand on the table. “I never knew that about the kangaroos stopping the traffic in Australia.”

From inside the truck stop cafeteria comes the sound of the managers loud belligerent voice, raised in argument. I can’t make out all the words, but I do hear ‘hobo’ and ‘smart ass’.

After a minute the sheriff re-appears.
“How did that go?” I ask him.
“Well sir, I explained to the management that you aren’t intending to do any harm here. You’re a paying customer, and I explained that to them as well. They have decided to let you stay here, but with two rules; no signs, and no asking anyone for money.”
“That seems fair” I tell the sheriff.
“OK, sir. Thank you for your cooperation. Y’all have a nice day now.”
“Thank you sheriff. Thanks for your help.”
“No trouble sir. Enjoy your stay in the United States.”

The sheriff strides off to his pick-up.
Scott the trucker shakes his head.
“That manager is a bitch.”
“She isn’t the nicest person I’ve ever met” I agree.
“I can’t believe it! Calling the sheriff on ya just ’cause you got a hitchhiking sign!”
“I know. And I thought people liked Jesus in these parts.”

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