The Christmas Hitchhiker

White Christmases are rare in my part of the country. You’re far more likely to have the windows open and the air conditioning running on Christmas Day, but I distinctly remember one white Christmas, maybe the most recent one in my life, and it wasn’t because of the layer of white that covered our lawns.

It was 1989. I was a reporter at the Rome News-Tribune, living in my first, post-college apartment when I woke up to snow. It was beautiful.

I lived downtown in what is known as the Between the Rivers district, just three blocks off Broad, on a street lined with tastefully decorated Victorian-era homes that seemed to come alive with the addition of the new-fallen snow.

I put on a warm coat and gloves, packed my Honda Accord with wrapped gifts, and headed to my parents’ house, just a couple of miles away. Unaccustomed to icy roads and driving a new car, I devised a drive plan to avoid overpasses and hills. It worked well until I turned on to Maple Street in a not-so-great part of town.

I didn’t get far when I was flagged down by a woman, standing in the middle of the road, waving both her arms over her head to get my attention. I had no choice but to stop. I rolled down my window, and she asked if I could give her a ride.

“It’s Christmas,” I thought to myself. “Peace on earth and good will toward men.”

I unlocked the passenger door and she slid in, dressed in a furry brown coat that had seen better days, her hair all over her head.

“I can take you as far as East 12^th,” I told her, as I slowly rolled up a small incline.

I don’t remember anything that she said. She may not have said anything at all. It was a relatively short drive, just a few blocks to the intersection where I needed to turn. Within a couple of minutes, I pulled to the curb to let her out onto the snow-covered sidewalk.

She thanked me for the ride and turned toward me, her arms, encumbered by the coat that kept her warm, extended toward me. I turned to face her, expecting a “Merry Christmas” and a hug.

What I received instead was a Christmas present I’ve never forgotten.

Before I could even realize what was happening, I received a memorable and entirely unexpected, full-speed, no-holds-barred kiss right on my lips. There was no time to turn. I had no place to run. There she was in all her holiday cheer, kissing me with the fervor of well-brandied distant relative with no concept of personal boundaries. The kiss was a little too wet and lasted far too long. I was a hostage in my own car.

“Thank you,” she said, as she struggled out the Honda to plant her feet firmly on the waiting concrete.

The next few seconds felt like time in slow motion.

What just happened?

What’s that taste in my mouth?

Is that whiskey? Wine? Beer? All three?

I couldn’t tell, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

I hastily wiped my mouth, repeatedly – that, too, seemed to take more time than it should have– before shifting into drive. Too shocked to laugh and too discombobulated to be mad, I turned toward my parents house, carrying one extra Christmas present that I never asked for, never intended to receive and couldn’t regift to anyone else.

Ever since then, when I hear ol’ Bing croon White Christmas, I still think about the movie where he and Rosemary Clooney steal a kiss behind the Christmas tree. But that thought is quickly crowded out by the memory of a sloppy, boozy kiss from my white Christmas hitchhiker.

Merry Christmas.