4am Hitch-Hiking by John Robinson

“Get the fuck out” she ordered
after I had performed some
insane and dangerous
drunken behaviour within the
speeding vehicle;
I did as she asked and climbed
out of the car, it was about
4am and we had been
hurtling through murderous
narrow, dark country-lanes;
and then she sped away and
I expected her to turn around
after a few minutes but she
didn’t and I watched the
red tail-lights fade and
vanish into blackness;
I was fucked; miles from
town and now I had no
choice but to stagger along
the treacherous roads
thumbing for a ride on a
deserted and lonely road;
but it happened;
a car pulled over and I
stumbled towards the car
and clambered into the
front passenger seat smiling
and feeling relieved;
the driver was a little older
than I and he was pleasant
and talkative and then I
felt something cold and wet
and soft push forcefully
against the back of my neck
and then I heard a low
grumbling growl;
I was startled and my body
tensed in fear.
“Oh yes, of course” the driver
said casually “I almost
forgot about Spartacus,
he’s so quiet, I really wouldn’t
make any quick movements”
“What?” I whispered
“Be still, you don’t want
to startle Spartacus” he
said
“Spartacus?” I said
“Yeah, Spartacus, a 3 year
old black Doberman Pincer,
a nervous and unpredictable
dog sometimes” said the driver.
From out of the corner of an eye
I saw a grin cut across his
face and I sat still, very
still and I felt trapped,
frozen and scared;
I could feel Spartacus’
breath roll across the
nape of my neck but I
could no longer hear the
growling;
“That’s enough now
Spartacus” the driver said and
the dog pulled away and
sank back down into the rear
seats; I relaxed a little and
slowly looked over my
shoulder; Spartacus was a
fine specimen, sleek and
dark and powerful; I breathed
in deep and looked over
at the driver; the grin had
transformed into a loud
laugh and then after a
few moments he quietened
and concentrated silently
on the roads like
nothing had happened.
When we reached the
edges of town he pulled
over, turned and said to me
“Get the fuck outa my car”
I didn’t hesitate and he
sped away and I watched
the red tail-lights disappear
and I began walking and
I thought to myself, there
can’t be too many people
who can claim to have
been told, not once, but twice,
to ’get the fuck
out of my car’
within an hour in the
sleepy moments before sunrise.

john robinson

John D Robinson was born UK in 1963; began writing poetry aged 16, 1st poem published a year later; over the years many of his poems have appeared in the small presses; of recent, his work has appeared in Bareback Lit; Red Fez; The Kitchen Poet; Dead Snakes.

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