Car: 1993 Burgundy Toyota Corolla Station Wagon.

Bloke: Retired university of Otago professor in accounting.

Watching the mid-winter clock tick past 4pm, the steam on my breath thickened my biggest concern in life, “Will someone actually pick me up?”. Surely someone will stop. To make matters more edgy, my legs quickly became harassed by a furious sniff. God I hate Pitbulls. “Oi get down ya mut!” reassured what seemed like the pub owner of which I was standing out front of. The lady, ragged but content in her swagger, plopped a healthy dollop of Marjuana into my hand, along with a rather pathetic, almost second-hand looking filter paper. “To smoothen the trip”, she murmurs under her splintered voice. “Wow thanks!”. I was quite frankly gobsmacked. I had no real use for such a substance, I rarely smoke, but a laid back marajuana fueled American in my flat would relish in this “local gunja”. By this stage, dozens of hot potential wagons hooned past, avoiding my now weed-stained thumb. 5pm ticked, full beamers caught my eyes like a Central Otago rabbit in headlights. I began to flick into fight mode.

My caveman instincts swallowed any rationality I had remaining. “I'm not staying in this ghostly pub with a perma-stoned Pitbull”. I mumbled aloud. The thought of my destination, a Dunedin flat with 5 nose destroying, heavy lunged students seemed a reality I would now give a lot for. Funny how perspective changes with a rush of cortisol.

Hitchers are fiercely determined humans with a flexible and diluted moral compass. A ride is a ride. Nuff’ said. I needed deeper, more impressionable measures.

Tucked deep at the back of my hitch sleeve are a series of psychological guilt trips.

First, the remorse card, a clever but tiring maneuver. Here’s how it goes; hold out a confident, slightly militant but laid backed thumb, with chest and eyes that guarantee good company. When you're confident the oncoming driver would rather run you over than pick you up, drop your thumb, shoulders and head in absolute disgust. Careful, this technique is a double edge sword. Pick your battles. Lowered Holden Commodores cannot tolerate such disrespect.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Second, the milk shaker. With a confident grip, flick the thumb up and down in a fidgety fashion and engage heavy eye contact as oncoming cars approach. This technique puts the ball in the drivers court - attracting their vision, attracts their mind. Check mate.

In my case, this planted a seed in an old 1993 burgundy Toyota Corolla station wagon. Plastered on the bumper sticker was the iconic italicized 'Dunedin' sticker. We’re in business. At first, it steamed past with flickering brake lights. I thought to myself, “Funny, the oncoming corner only recommends 75 km/h, it surely doesn’t require a panic brake.” The fixation of my eyes on the blackened road corner, waiting for the returning driver, resembled the eyes and thoughts of a male witnessing childbirth. “It's got to pop out”.

“Gday young fella, where ya heading!?”. As I locked eyes with the man’s soft green-eyed gaze, I felt like dropping to one knee, grasping his hands and screaming,

“To Dunedin you bloody legendary kind Sir”. But my now rationalized mind stopped my inner primate.

The poor spring system in the old Corolla backdoor handle was grasped and ripped open in desperation. “Mate, I can’t thank you enough for the ride”, I spoke with a heaving outbreath. Before indulging in 21 questions, I quickly perform my security rituals.

“Phone, check. Wallet, check. Hat, check, Bag, check. Sketchy marijuana from the pub lady, CHECK."

If you were to put yourself in the shoes of the driver who caught a glimpse of this, two things could come to mind. First, the macarena must be a spiritualized ritual he does upon entering a new human presence, Or, this guy is batshit crazy. I think the latter holds some truth. My father locks his truck inside of his garage. It's a genetic thing, like eye-colour.

The setting of the sun, the gentle purr of an ancient Corolla heater and the flow of effortless connection brought the trip down from a 2-hour journey, to what seemed like 10 minutes. A delivery outside my drizzly flat under an ominous Dunedin evening, summarized the unconditional kindness this man had.

And for that, I'm am forever grateful.