Detour Monologues

The life of Al Roberts, a pianist in a New York nightclub, turns into a nightmare when he decides to hitchhike to Los Angeles to visit his girlfriend.

Money. You know what that is, the stuff you never have enough of. Little green things with George Washington's picture that men slave for, commit crimes for, die for. It's the stuff that has caused more trouble in the world than anything else we ever invented, simply because there's too little of it.

That's life. Whichever way you turn, Fate sticks out a foot to trip you.

Yes. Fate, or some mysterious force, can put the finger on you or me for no good reason at all.

That took me by surprise, and I turned around to look at her. She was facing straight ahead, so I couldn't see her eyes. She was young - not more than 24. Man, she looked like she had been thrown off the crummiest freight train in the world! Yet in spite of that, I got the impression of beauty, not the beauty of a movie actress, mind you, or the beauty you dream about with your wife, but a natural beauty, a beauty that's almost homely, because it's so real. And suddenly she turned to face me…

So when this drunk handed me a ten spot after a request, I couldn't get very excited. What was it I asked myself? A piece of paper crawling with germs. Couldn't buy anything I wanted.

I guess at least an hour passed before I noticed those deep scratches on his right hand. They were wicked, three puffy red lines about a quarter inch apart. He must have seen me looking at them because he said...

Whatever it was, it must have been pretty big and vicious to have done that!

As I drove off, it was still raining and the drops streaked down the windshield like tears.

Vera was just as rotten in the morning as she'd been the night before.

It wasn't much of a club, really. You know the kind. A joint where you could have a sandwich and a few drinks and run interference for your girl on the dance floor.

He was a piece of cheese, the big blowhard.

He got his for being greedy. He wasn't satisfied, so the final windup was he took the count. A couple of day ago you didn't have a dime. Why, you were so broke, you couldn't pay cash for a postage stamp

What kind of dames thumb rides? Sunday school teachers?

Ever done any hitchhiking? It's not much fun, believe me. Oh yeah, I know all about how it's an education, and how you get to meet a lot of people, and all that. But me, from now on I'll take my education in college, or in PS-62, or I'll send $1.98 in stamps for ten easy lessons.

Until then I had done things my way, but from then on something stepped in and shunted me off to a different destination than the one I'd picked for myself.

I was in Bakersfield before I read that Vera's body was discovered. That the police were looking for a Haskell in connection with his wife's murder. Isn't that a laugh? Haskell got me into this mess, and Haskell was getting me out of it. The police were searching for a dead man.

I keep trying to forget what happened, and wonder what my life might have been if that car of Haskell's hadn't stopped. But one thing I don't have to wonder about, I know. Someday a car will stop to pick me up that I never thumbed. Yes. Fate, or some mysterious force, can put the finger on you or me for no good reason at all.

The world is full of skeptics.

I was dead tired.