Creepy Flashlight Guy

Part 2 of my "old letters series."
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Hitch hiking isn’t dangerous… but sleeping at RV parks might be.

We had heard from friends in Salt Lake City that Highway 1 along the California coast was the way to go if you were hitching. Even kids who typically hop freight trains animatedly confided that they’d rather hitch along that coast than take a train… all for the spectacular views. Our friend Dallan had been the most convincing; his eyes shining like the silver-blue oceans in his memory as he described the worthwhile beauty on each side of the two lane road.

And it was beautiful, for the time we saw it. We caught a ride out of San Luis Obispo with an old man who lectured us about the spot we chose to hitch hike from (he didn’t think we gave drivers enough space to pull over, though he seemed to do just fine) and bored us with brief, vague stories about his own hitch hiking experiences from long before we were born.

He dropped us off at a beach and camping site a few miles north of Morro Bay, letting us know as we grabbed our gear that it wouldn’t be likely for us to catch any rides there until the morning. He pointed out the camping site, wished us luck, and departed. We cooked some rice and the rest of our dumpstered vegetables in our hobo stoves, fed the dog, and explored the beach. The campsite seemed to be a few miles walk into a small forest area. We decided to try hitch hiking until the inevitable fog came, and if our luck had run out for the day, we’d hike the campsite. After a while, the biggest cloud of fog either of us had seen began to absorb the beach and woods, Justin describing it as “black metal as fuck!” Within minutes the ocean had been quietly buried, and a quick head turn revealed that the woods were next. I checked my wristwatch and declared five more minutes on the shoulder. Literally seconds before taking down our sign and resigning to the now concealed copse, a Jeep lumbered out of the parking lot across the road and immediately pulled over.

Another sole old timer invited us in, and after some luggage-tetris we melted into our seats. Our driver turned out to be a just-retired-engineer-turned-photographer named George. He didn’t ask us many questions, but talked for most of the trip, periodically pulling over to take some photographs of things like the Hearst Castle and ocean water that looked more like CGI than real life. He told us that after a year and a half of volunteering in Sri Lanka had made him unsatisfied in his job and that he was now working on publishing a photo-memoir called “Another Leaf.” George told us about his multiple houses, ex-wife and beautiful children he’d photographed while volunteering, chatting nonstop for hours. Americans have a notion that only psychopaths and morons pick up hitch hikers, but in my experience it is just lonely people.

Night fell upon us as we reached the curvaceous mountain roads that clung to the coastline… just as we clung to our seats as our driver nonchalantly raced at almost twice the speed limit. George laughed and said “if my driving is scaring you, just yell at me… just not too loud, haha. No really, if I’m scaring you, just let me know.” Having either a bizarre idea of tact or an inclination to be silent, neither Justin nor I questioned his erratic driving. We passed the Piedras Blancas Lighthouse and the crass, enormous summer homes forced into the magnificent cliffs throughout Big Sur.

George offered us a place to sleep in his RV and a ride to the 5 Freeway in the morning, or a drop off at any place we fancied along the way. We told him we’d consider the couch, drawing boundaries and haphazard scenarios in our heads. After stopping for coffee, we decided that he could pass through our “psychopath filter" and we could at least check out the RV park.

I could hardly stay awake as we practically fell out of the Jeep and stumbled towards the brightly-lit RV. After going over our options, Justin and I chose to sleep in the meadow behind the park, not quite thrill-seeking enough to climb into the RV with our new friend for the night. He pointed us out a nice spot under a tree and authorized us to “tell anyone who gives you trouble that you’re with George.” Aching and grumbling, we rolled out the tarp and sleeping bags, took our last pee for the night, and passed out.

It wasn’t the light that woke us, but Biscuit’s warning growl. Dogs have a fascinating language, and right then I suspect that Biscuit was calmly, but assertively saying “Guys, guys… there's a dude over there being sketch as fuck."

It took me a second to wake up and get a sense of what exactly was going on. About three RVs down from where were trying to shush the irritated dog, the dark shadow of a man stood with an annoyingly bright flashlight. He scanned the meadow, as if not sure where the dog’s growling was coming from, and then fixed blinding beam on us. He held it there momentarily; us more fervently whispering to Biscuit to cut it out, and then he turned it off.

All we could see was the lit cigarette he was smoking. The little red glow hovered there for a moment, and then he turned the light on again, holding it there like some annoying god saying “ha, caught you.” Biscuit had elevated his warning to say “Listen, asshole, I still have a lot of room in my stomach and you’re starting to act delicious.”

Justin and I waited in the harsh light for the man to say or do something. He turned the light off again, still smoking his cigarette, waited for a moment, then turned it on us yet again. Biscuit was getting difficult to contain, now he wanted to stop the guy himself. Justin forced him to lay down and tried to calm him, but Biscuit only got louder. The light turned off again. And on again. And off.

“Okay, this is fucking stupid,” I hissed, reaching for my own flashlight, “two can play that game, motherfucker…” I was terrified and shaking, but finally grasped the sleek metal comfort of my light’s handle. I lit it up and shined it on where our harasser had stood, but he was gone. Biscuit quieted down a bit, still alert and pissed. Justin and I were terrified.

“What the fuck, man?”

“Who the fuck was that and what the hell was he trying to do?”

I thought the raccoons had been scary. The raccoons were nothing more than cupcakes with fake spiders on them... this guy had been a true monster. I pulled my bag closer, gripping my flashlight like a frightened child with a stuffed bear. Biscuit curled up on my legs, all three of us looking around for any further provocation. Somehow, I soon fell back asleep.

“Boy, you on private property!”

I lazily turned over in my sleeping bag, not sure if we were still sleeping or having another confrontation with an RV park asshole.

Apparently it was the latter, because he continued his comments, which were directed at Justin. “You best git on outta here, boy, yer on private property and if you don’t yer gonna git yerself shot fer truspassin.”

“Um…” Justin casually informed our rude alarm clock, “We’re with George.”

The man paused.

“George?!” He exclaimed this like it was a secret password we had trickily figured out to prevent him from dutifully shooting us. Without another stammer, he stormed back into his Old Glory-adorned RV.

Justin sniffed his stuffy nose, spat, and glared at the gaudy display of U.S. patriotism. The guy’s RV looked like the 4th of July decoration aisle at Wal-Mart. “Fucking Americans," he observed, "they’re so friendly.”

We stuffed our sleeping bags into their compression sacks, rolled up the tarp, and cracked unapologetic, mean jokes about American jingoism. Yawning as a side-effect from the disturbing night, we knocked on George’s door. He made us some coffee and showed us some beautiful and sad photographs of people and places in Sri Lanka. He then led us the park’s showers, and had I a few more bucks I would have stayed in there for hours.

George drove us to the 5 freeway as promised.