I went to college about 75 miles from my home. About once a month I would go home for the weekend, bringing my laundry with me in a battered brown case that once belonged to my father. I’m sure my mother noticed the dried pale yellow stains on my T-shirts and briefs but mercifully never said a word.

Because I didn’t own a car, I had to take a couple of buses, and then hitchhike the remaining 30 miles. Back in those days, hitchhiking was more common and safer. And so, one cold, rainy November night, I found myself standing beside the highway at my last bus stop. My breath mixed with the unrelenting drizzle and after half-an-hour I wondered if I’d ever catch a ride. But after another fifteen minutes a big, late-model Chrysler pulled over. I opened the rear door and tossed in my case, then got into the front seat.

“Helluva night for hitchhiking!” said the driver. He was a tall, heavily-built man, about 45 years old and well-dressed.

“It sure is!” I said. “Thanks for stopping.”

He didn’t bother to introduce himself, and neither did I. He asked where I as headed and when I told him, he said that dropping me off at my home would take him just a few miles out of his way. He explained that he was a travelling salesman and made a trip through this part of the state about every two weeks. Following an awkward silence, he offered me a hip flask he’d been holding between his thighs.

“Maybe this will take the chill off,” he said. “And this might help, too” he said as he turned up the heat and directed most of it to my side of the car.

“Thanks,” I said, and apprehensively took a small swig from the flask. The whiskey was like liquid fire and I almost choked, but managed to swallow it.

“Don’t be shy,” the man said. “I’ve got a fifth in my suitcase that I can always refill the flask from.” So I took another swig, and noticed I was indeed beginning to warm up. I handed the flask back to him and he took a swig himself.

“You need to know something about me right off the bat,” he said. “I’m very direct, some might say blunt, … and nosy, too! But you don’t have to answer any of my questions if you don’t want to. I get lonely on the road, and this is a rare opportunity to talk. Are you O.K. with that?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I replied. “So what do you want to know?”

“Well, for starters,” he said, “what’s in the case? Laundry for your mom to wash?”

“Yeah,” I answered.

“And will she find some strange, crusty stains on it?” he asked.

“What the hell kind of question is that?!”, I said. He reminded me that he was direct, blunt and nosy and that I shouldn’t be shocked.

“Look,” he said, “when I was your age, I jerked off a lot, and my mom probably washed a ton of underclothes, sheets and pillowcases just like yours.