Alvin, given to lamentation

I went away for the weekend. I hitchhiked for part of the journey and got a ride with a man whose name was not Alvin but let's call him that.

Alvin shook my hand, introduced himself and merrilly demanded to know what I was doing hitchhiking. I said it was mostly for environmental reasons and, in regards to safety, the risk of being attacked seemed far less than the everyday risk of driving in cars at 100kmh. I did not mind taking the 100kmh risk so why not take the hitchhiking risk, too.

Alvin said he picked up hitchhikers because he saw them as vulnerable and he knew they'd be safe with him, so it was a way he could be helpful. Alvin had something of Santa Claus about him, minus the beard.

A flock of birds was slow to leave the road as we approached. The birds looked like goldfinches but might have been yellowhammers; hard to tell at speed. Alvin, distressed, cried, "No! No! Get off the road!"

"We only hit one," I told him, looking in the rear-view mirror at the corpse, a soft spot in the bitumen background.

"Oh, I thought they got away. I hate killing animals," he said.

"One per journey's all right, isn't it? It might be a sustainable rate, I think."

"I just hate killing animals," he repeated, and then told me about the time he'd phoned the police to report a driver he'd seen deliberately running over ducks. "It's times like those you should be able to just pull out your Magnum and bang! 'You're dead.' I mean, accidentally killing birds is one thing, but how could anyone justify swerving to run them over?"

"Well, the only way would be if you had nothing to eat and you took home the bird and plucked and ate it; you could view it as a form of hunting."

It was an unlikely scenario: people with nothing to eat probably can't afford to run cars.

"True," said Alvin. "That would be the only case." Then he told me about the time he'd killed a bird on purpose as a child, and how shocked and guilty he'd felt.

"Oh well," I said. "You know, I think most of us have probably killed a bird or something when we were kids, and maybe that's part of learning remorse and compassion; how you learn that killing or injuring things doesn't feel good. It's the people who don't learn remorse or compassion we need to worry about, I reckon."

Alvin was somewhat given to lamentation, and I was somewhat given to consoling him.

Alvin was an alcoholic; he lamented the fact. Close relatives had died of alcohol-related causes; their deaths, he said, left him feeling so alone. "I hate alcohol, but I also love it. I just have an addictive personality. Don't ever start drinking," he said pleadingly.

"I won't. I am too old to start now," I consoled him.

We made a rest stop in a town. He drank three pints of stout, and I drank lemon, lime and bitterses. It was agreed I would drive for the rest of the journey, and so I did.

Alvin mentioned "a friend who is other than my wife".

"Your mistress?" I said, seeking clarification. Monogamy is so unlikely.

"Yes," he said. He told me a bit about the affair. He had nothing against his wife, to whom he'd been married forever; they just had mismatched libidos. He said he didn't think he'd mind if the situation were reversed. I said that was just as well, because otherwise it would be a double standard.

I asked if it made him feel anxious to have a mistress. "No, I just wish I could have more control in the situation. Like I wish I could call up Ruth [not the mistress' real name] and tell her to meet me somewhere at such and such a time, but I know I can't make those sorts of demands."

"I'm glad to hear that," I said. "You have to realise you have no rights in this situation." The driver's seat was making me bossy.

"I do realise that Anna," he said.

The windscreen struck a small bird, either a goldfinch or a yellowhammer. Another soft spot. Alvin gave a whimper.

"Sorry Alvin, I didn't see it coming."

"No no, you're all right; it's just I hate killing things."

I put CDs in the stereo: first Tom Petty and then Neil Young. Emo music for the baby boomer generation; Alvin's lot. I sang, for I like to sing on road trips. Sometimes Alvin joined in, a surprising falsetto. If this were a concert review I'd say he delivered heart-rending pathos in Petty's Free Fallin' and Young's Only Love Can Break Your Heart. He was himself a heart-rent man.

Alvin wanted to befriend me; he felt my life lacked direction. I get that a bit from people, but really I'm fine.

"If you ever come and visit, don't tell my wife now that I've confessed everything to you," he said, just before we parted ways.

"I won't," I said. I had no plans to visit them.