There’s a Hippie on the Highway

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‘Take a look at that lot!’ the truck driver said, and he spat out of the window of the cab. ‘I’d rather give a ride to a leper than to those freaks!’

Harry Mitchell rested his broad back against the throbbing leather of the cab’s seat. His eyes shifted from one side of the broad highway to the other, surveying the groups of hippies waiting with their bags, cardboard containers and guitars as the big truck roared towards them.

‘Scum!’ the truck driver said ‘The future people!’ he snorted. ‘That’s a laugh! Stinking junkies who’d cut their mother’s throats for a fix!’ The truck approached three girls in hipsters and shirts. They waved to the driver, making obscene gestures, ‘Little whores!’ Again he spat out of the window. ‘Am I glad I never had kids! My old lady wanted them, but I said no. My generation was bad enough, but this lot...’

Harry Mitchell took a crumpled pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and offered it When the two men lit up, the truck driver said, ‘I bet you’re wondering why I gave you a ride.’ He looked sharply at Harry before swivelling his eyes back to the road. ‘I’ll tell you. You’re just out of the army. I can spot a guy who’s done service... done service like me. I was in the Korea box-up. When did you get back?’

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