living on the hump: an autobiography
by vinita a stoddard

My earliest memories come to me from around the age of 3. I lived on the hump. I recall one night in particular my brother, age 5, sleeping in the back seat of our old, ugly green station wagon; my mother, pillow against the window, sleeping in the passenger seat, my dad, Budweiser between his legs, Camel cigarette between his lips, and me, sitting on the hump in the front seat. It was the early 70’s so seatbelts weren’t really thought of back then and neither were car seats—so I rode on the hump. It was reserved only for me. My brother by this time was too tall to ride the hump so only I got to sit there.

This particular night my dad and I were shooting the breeze like we did every night while on the road. I believe we were somewhere in Montana. It wasn’t anything new to me. I had seen it before so I didn’t really mind that it was dark. I knew I’d see it again and again and again. This trip, like so many before us, would bring us to Idaho.

We had just stopped back home in Vermont to see family and only stayed for 2 weeks this time. We were back on the road again.

I realized later in life that Dad traveled so much because he was running away, but the one thing he was running from kept following him. He never could outrun his demons. But back to that night. Dad was driving and it was pretty quiet except for my brother snoring.

Mom was a quiet sleeper. She would just lay there holding her glasses in her hand and breathe real quiet like. Once in a while I’d look over at her and stare at her trying to see if her eyes were open, but they were always closed. I’d usually hear crackling on the CB and talking but this night it was very quiet. Dad and I ran out of things to say. He only said something when he ran out of beer and would ask me to get him another one out of the bag on the floor. Then he’d pop the top open and the foam would come out all over the top of the can. Back then I thought it was pretty cool to get to lick the foam off the beer can. But I guess living with an alcoholic molded me as a non-drinker as I grew up. To this day I hate the taste of beer.

There I was, bored and tired, so I decided it was time to find someone to talk to. I asked my dad if I could talk on the CB. He told me to go ahead. By this time I was a natural. I picked up the mic and proceeded to find myself a friend.

“Breaker 1-9, can I get a radio check?” I said in my most grown up 3 yr old voice. Nothing but silence. I guessed that there weren’t many people in Montana. At least none that were awake. It was after all around 2 am. I tried again. “Breaker, breaker! This is Meatball. Can I get a radio check please?” Apparently the please worked.

“Ahh, I got ya breaker,” said a very deep voice on the other end.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime there meatball?” I held that button down again and pressed the mic right up close to my mouth. “I ain’t got no bedtime. I am 3 years old you know.” I heard my dad laugh a little. I didnt really know why, but then I heard that man laugh too. I forget what all he had said after that but then a few other voices came on. I guessed I had woke them all up. Then a woman with a very Southern voice came on and started calling people ‘honey’ and ‘sugar’ and ‘baby’. I wasn’t really sure what she was talking about but it seemed that the other men out there were getting pretty happy so my dad turned the CB off and said, “I think that’s enough of that.”

Dad turned on the radio instead and we listened to some real country music. Not the kind you hear today, but stuff like The Oak Ridge Boys and Willie Nelson. My dad played in a band anytime he found a place to stay for more than a few weeks. He sang and played the steel guitar. I realized later in life that he was actually very talented, just drunk most of the time. He couldn’t read or write music but wrote songs and played by ear. He even had a song played on the radio in Idaho once but that’s another story for another time. Back to that one night.The music was on and I was starting to get very sleepy. I didn’t want to go to sleep though, because I felt like I was the only one keeping my dad awake. It was my responsibility to make sure he didn’t go to sleep and I was afraid that if I fell asleep, so would he. Luckily, we started coming into a city. I could see the lights way up ahead of us. I loved looking at the cities at night because they lit up like a Christmas tree. Because my mom was a Jehovah’s Witness, we never celebrated Christmas, so it was a pretty big deal for me to see all those colored lights. Sometimes we would drive close to some houses and once in a while someone would have a light on. I would stare hard into their windows. Sometimes I’d see a TV on and once in a while I’d actually see a person walk by as we drove past. It didn’t matter what kind of house it was. I thought they all must be rich because they lived in a house, not on a hump like me. I would have thought that we were the richest people in the world if we had lived in a real house. But for now, and until I was 12, we lived in the car.

We started heading toward this city. It was a big city by the looks of the lights and dad was starting to get tired too. He decided to pull into a truck stop to get some coffee. Mom and brother were still asleep so we just left them there. Back then you didn’t really worry about locking your car doors, so we just went in. My clothes were all wrinkled from 3 days of traveling. The same clothes by the way; I didn’t know any better.

My hair was long and stringy and there was no way you could have gotten a comb through that mess, but I didn’t care about that either. I marched into that truck stop with my dad, stood up as tall as I could and carried myself with pride and attitude, just like him. Unfortunately, the ‘dont mess with me’ look never did work for me as a child. I guess I was just too cute. So Dad and I walked into the truck stop and he picked me up and put me on one of those aluminum stools with the red vinyl seats. You know, the kind that old diners had. I could grab ahold of the counter and pull really hard and make my chair spin around about 3-and-a-half times but then I’d have to scoot my butt back around to the front because I couldn’t move the stool without some help.

The place was so bright inside that it hurt my eyes, but I adjusted quickly, like I always did with new things. There were a lot of men in there sitting alone at tables or at the counter looking very tired and not dressed any better than I was. Some would smile at me, others just had a blank stare. Dad ordered for both of us. I was an avid coffee drinker by this time. We always got the same thing. Coffee with lots of cream and lots of sugar and I always finished mine first. I would drink it down like water.

Dad would sip his so I had time to look around the counter while he flirted with the waitress. By the time Dad picked me up and put me back on the floor to leave I was sporting a pocketfull of sugar packs, creamers and those delicious packages of ketchup. I would drink the creamer as soon as we got back in the car because I knew they would spoil but the ketchup and sugar I would save for later.

Dad and I walked out of that diner the same way we walked in, walking tall. I didn’t need anyone to hold my hand because I was, after all, 3 yrs old and it was, after all, after 3 in the morning.

I knew that I was a big girl and so did my dad.

We got back in the car and I climbed back on the hump and proceeded to drink my creamers. I was starting to get pretty sleepy and would doze off and wake up with my head leaning against my dad. He didn’t seem to notice I had fallen asleep and I was happy that I woke up in time to keep him awake. That was, after all, my responsiblity.

Now around 4am Dad started to get very tired. We had driven past that big city and the lights had faded out behind us many miles back. Dad wasn’t real big on paying for a motel room if he didn’t have to. He "might get one tomorrow" he had said earlier. That way we could all take a bath and change clothes. But tonight a rest area would be fine. Back then you didn’t really worry too much about anyone coming up to you at a rest area and causing you any harm either.

Dad pulled into the Montana Welcome Center just shy of the Idaho state line and parked the car. He and I got out and did our rest area-bathroom stuff and met in the middle to walk back to the car. I remember how it looked so awesome that night. I loved looking up at the stars and this night the sky was clear and looked extra big. Montana skies are huge. Dad opened the door for me and I crawled down on the floor just under my mom’s feet. That was actually my room. That’s where I slept. Just under the passenger’s side of the car. It was a perfect spot. Nice and warm from the heat of the engine and just the right size for a scrawny little kid like me to curl up in a ball. Dad put the window down, leaned back in his seat and we went to sleep.

Dad didn’t need a pillow, he could sleep on a rock and wouldn’t notice.

Early that morning around 8am we all woke up. Dad was already up actually and I guessed he was in the bathroom. Mom woke me up. I was still pretty tired but knew I would spend the rest of the day sleeping. That was usually what I did on nights like that. Dad only needed a few hours of sleep.

When I got up out of the floor to get a little something for breakfast (mom always had something weird to eat) I was amazed to see so many motorcycles surrounding our ugly, old station wagon.

I finally saw my dad amongst them. He was standing next to a picnic table talking to a very hairy man with lots of leather and tattoos of naked women on his bare arms. Dad was laughing and sharing a beer so I knew this must be a nice guy. I got out of the car and ran over to my dad to see who this man was. Dad put his huge hand on my head and told the guy that I was his youngest.

The man smiled at me and was missing a few teeth, right in the front! But he seemed pretty friendly. He shook my hand and I noticed that his hand was almost as big as my dad’s. I kept trying to tell my dad to look at all the motorcycles. I still couldn’t believe it. I had never seen so many. And I noticed that this man was wearing weird clothing. I couldn’t help but stare at him and even at the ageof 3 I knew he had a bad word written on the back of his jacket. I told mom later that it looked like he had ‘hell’ written on his jacket. Mom said, “yes he did, don't say that! Its a bad word!” Then she said something about Hell’s Angels. It took me years to figure that one out.
But this big hairy man was pretty nice even if he did like bad words and naked women. He asked me if I liked motorcycles. I was a pretty shy kid but I shook my head yes because I didn’t want my dad to think I was scared. Then the man asked me if I wanted to sit on his motorcycle. I was very excited, so of course I said yes and we all walked over to his bike—my dad, me and the friendly hairy man. He picked me up and put me on the seat of his motorcycle and told me with a crooked grin that if I could even budge his motorcycle one inch he’d give it to me!! You can’t imagine how hard I tried to knock that bike over. I rocked back and forth first, then kicked it, then I stood up on the seat and held the handlebars, butt in the air and started jumping up and down. Still nothing moved. Finally, rejected, I sat back down. The hairy man laughed and then patted me on the head. That seemed to happen a lot to me growing up. Then he reached in his pocket, underneath his leather chaps and pulled out a shiny quarter. He told me that I had earned it for trying so hard. He helped me off the bike and I ran to the car. I wanted to brag to my brother that I had a quarter and he didn't!

After about 30 minutes I heard the most awful sound I had ever heard in my life. The motorcycles were leaving. We couldn’t move our car until they left because for some reason they had surrounded us. They were on both sides of our station wagon and behind it. I guessed there must not have been any other place to park. They all roared their engines and pulled out like a parade. I watched and waved until I couldn’t see them anymore.

Mom packed away the food, I went to the bathroom to try "one more time, just in case", then crawled back on the hump to continue our drive out West.

 

Vinita Stoddard is now 34 and lives in Marion, North Carolina, with her daughter Raven. She is an artist and aspiring writer.