I almost called you. I hung on to your number, transferring it from one pair of jeans to another when I washed my clothes. It wasn't a conscious decision; I just switched everything in my pockets. I wasn't going to call, I mean, who would? I didn't know you. Then I got caught shoplifting, and you kinda need an adult to get you out of that one. If I'd had that scrap of paper then, I'd have called. Bet that would have surprised you – you said to call if I needed any help, just a dad to get me out of trouble – but I know this wouldn't have been what you meant.
You picked me up hitchhiking from Frisco, needing a ride to Denver. I couldn't believe it when you stopped, though I was damn glad. Five more minutes and I would have left to go find a quite spot to spend the night (behind the Safeway, I was thinking) – I don't like hitching at night. I had that damn kayak with me, too. The only ones I thought would give me a ride with that thing were the old guys who like young girls' bodies. Most would have just looked me up and down, licked their lips while making conversation. A few would have tried to kiss me, feel me up, and I would discourage them, forcefully if I needed. They were gross, but I'd ridden with their type before - they weren't a true danger, most of them. I didn't like getting rides from them, but I needed to get home. You already had your two kids jammed in the back seat, but got them to move over to fit me in as well. The kids were tired, you'd had a long drive, and some stoned teenage hitchhiker with a boat was probably the last thing you needed.
I was pretty quiet; I'm not the talkative type. I mentioned I lived with friends and lied about my age. I had a job, I told you, work I liked. I left my family out of it. But when we got there (you drove me all the way to my house), you got out, unloaded my boat, and gave me a scrap of paper with your name and number, and told me to call if I needed someone to talk to, a stand-in dad. And you said my dad still loved me. I don't know how you knew I wasn't yet 18, but I can figure out why you guessed I was a runaway. I was, in my own way.
Some days I think you were some sort of guardian angel, sent to show me there are still good people in this world, then tell myself I'm full of crap. You weren't the first to help me out, though you offered to do the most. Others have given me free meals; let me sleep at their house a few nights, that sort of thing. I hate taking that sort of charity, and I don't take them up on the offer – that's why I didn't call – but each time it reminds me someone out there still cares about strangers, and that makes this world seem like a decent place.
I tell myself I'd call, if I still had your number, though I know I'd be too shy. But I imagine you picking up the phone and I'd tell you that your kids couldn't help but grow up right with you for a dad, and that if there is some heaven after this life, you'd go there. I'd say that you were one of a very rare breed, those who actually make the world a little better. You'd ask who it was, on the other end, speaking to you. And I'd wish you a nice day and hang up. And hopefully, hopefully, you'd go off smiling.
Thank you.
