Columbus, OH – “The one about the time my dad picked you up hitchhiking” – The Thirsty Ear – October 31, 2000

The Thirsty Ear was buzzing—especially for a Monday night. The show was nearly sold out, and the energy was infectious. Afterward, as I signed CDs, I noticed there were a surprising number of attendees with the same “funny story” to share.

It always starts the same way. “I was hitchhiking on Martha’s Vineyard when this guy picked me up, and it turned out to be James Taylor.” Without fail, each person says it like it’s the ultimate plot twist. Then come the variations—“He was so kind/tall/handsome/skinny and a bit shy. He complimented my red scarf/bee keeper suit/Icelandic sweater/ZZ Top beard. If you tell him this story, he’ll definitely remember me.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad my dad picks up hitchhikers—it’s a lovely trait. And to the thousands of people who swear this happened to them, I’m not calling your bluff. But I can’t help but wonder when he had time to do anything else in his life. Was he just circling the island, trolling for thumb riders? And honestly, after hearing this story every single night from someone who expects me to be shocked, it’s all I can do not to spoil the punchline halfway through.

We had a day off yesterday and drove to Columbus to get us closer to the next show. It was eerily quiet at 2 a.m.—except for the blaring red neon “Bob Evan’s” sign advertising their “Famous Fudge Brounies.” (Yes, Brounies—their spelling, not mine.) Delucchi couldn’t help but point out the typo as we pulled into the hotel across the street. A massive billboard nearby loomed in judgment, asking, “What part of ‘Thou shalt not’ didn’t you understand? – GOD.”

The hotel, creatively named “Cross-Country Inn,” had a drive-through check-in window, which was a first for us. Naturally, we had to document the experience, so we started filming. The night shift attendant—a blonde woman with smudged mascara and a less-than-enthusiastic demeanor—squinted at us through the window. She couldn’t find our reservation at first, but we didn’t panic. This kind of thing happens all the time. Sure enough, after her third attempt, the reservation turned up. It was filed under some inexplicable name like a club owner’s wife’s maiden name or their daughter’s pet hamster “Hugo.” Go figure.

The club got me my own room. It was quiet in #217, except for a mini-fridge humming with an off-tune bathroom fan. I dropped my bags and had barely settled in when there was a knock at the door. “Knock, knock. Open up. It’s Kenny, beer police,” came a muffled voice from the hallway. I opened the door to find Kenny grinning. “Gimme a beer and a hug,” he said before strutting back to room #221 to play video games with the rest of the crew.

At 4:30 a.m., just as I was about to drift off, Soucy barged into my room—full of energy. “Can you shave racing stripes into my head?” he asked, as if this were a perfectly reasonable request at that hour.
I wasn’t asleep yet, so I groggily agreed. “Have you ever shaved a skull before?” he asked skeptically.
“Yes,” I replied, offended by his lack of trust.
“Whose?” he pressed.
“Kipp’s, my brother Ben’s,” I listed confidently.
“Did you mess up or cut either of them?”
“Of course not,” I said, though honestly, I couldn’t fully recall.
“Because scalp cuts bleed a lot,” he emphasized.
“I know,” I cut him off, rolling my eyes. Eventually, I convinced him to sit down, and I swiveled the TV to catch “Sex and the City” on HBO while I worked.
“You’re not seriously going to watch TV while cutting my hair,” he protested.
“Just trust me,” I said with exasperation.

And, I nailed it! Soucy may have been too much of a baby to outright thank me, but I knew he liked his new look. “I’m sure my mom wouldn’t want to read about this in tomorrow’s road tales,” he hinted, hoping I’d leave the story out.
“Oh, there’s no way I’m not writing about this. I did too good of a job not to brag,” I shot back.
And that’s how Soucy ended up with racing stripes at 4:30 a.m. Sorry you had to find out this way, Mrs. Soucy.