The Richest People in the World

I had barely gotten onto the highway when I saw two figures standing by the road, thumbs out. One was short and thin, the other large and heavy—a perfect Laurel and Hardy pair.

I pulled over. The big one climbed into the front seat; the smaller man, burdened with most of the luggage, took the back. They told me they’d been waiting since morning—four hours—and I was the first car to stop.

We drove a few miles and were still getting acquainted when two more hitchhikers appeared up ahead. One wore black and a bandana across his forehead; he looked like a pirate. The other was plain and quiet.

I asked my passengers if it would be all right to take on two more.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” they shouted in unison, their enthusiasm oddly childlike. I couldn’t understand why they were so eager. That was my first signal for caution. Still, I stopped. The small man moved his bags to the trunk, the heavy man automatically squeezed into the back seat with the other two.  The pirate climbed into the front beside me. The trunk couldn’t hold all their belongings, so some of the bags ended up on their laps. When everyone was settled, a second alarm was raised in my mind … why did the heavy man move to the back?

Almost immediately, the four began talking among themselves, and it was clear the pirate was their leader. We hadn’t gone far when the heavy man cleared his throat.

“We owe you a confession,” he said. “The four of us met in town last night and started out together this morning. But no one would stop for four hitchhikers, so we split into pairs. You picked up the first half, then the second. That’s why we’re so happy.”

They all laughed. I smiled, though something about their closeness—their secret understanding—made me uneasy. A second alarm bell went off.

They wanted to know everything about me: where I was from, where I was headed, what I did. I asked about them in return, and their stories came out one by one.

The pirate spoke first. He was a machinist from Michigan. Once he’d had a good job, a wife, a baby boy, a car. They went to church, gave donations, nodded to all the neighbors. He described it all carefully, as if to prove how solid it had been.

Then, one day, he came home early and found his wife in bed with her brother.

“What?” I interrupted.

“With her brother,” he repeated, emphasizing each syllable. Stunned, he shut the door and left everything behind—home, wife, child, and dreams—and started walking. He’d been walking for over a year, he said, and still nothing made sense.

The heavy man was from Georgia, and he spoke next. His girlfriend had left him, and he’d been drifting ever since. The quiet one, from New York, followed—he too had lost a wife and was “trying to find himself.” The smallest man, from Oregon, nodded. Same story—a breakup and a long road ahead.

It took almost forty minutes for them to tell their stories. When they finished, a long silence filled the car. I didn’t want to interrupt—it was clear they were still somewhere inside their pain. Four restless men, all from different parts of the country, all burned by love, surrounding me in my small rental car. I was giving them a ride through Kentucky, but it felt as though we were crossing something much deeper.

Then, from the back seat, the man from New York spoke. “Are you married?”

“Yes,” I said.

“How long?”

“Sixteen years.”

“Sixteen years! A woman lover!” one of the men shouted. Then they all joined in, “Woman lover, woman lover, woman lover!” Their voices were sharp, metallic—almost razor-like in their anger. The air turned electric. I felt surrounded, besieged, as though by a pack of angry dogs. A shiver ran down my spine. My hands gripped the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road.

We drove in silence for several miles. When the men finally resumed their chitchat, my pulse slowed, and the fear and tension began to fade.

Near the end of the ride, I asked quietly, “You’ve been on the road for months. What do you miss most?”

One man answered, “Smoking.”

They looked at one another, and each repeated the same word: “Smoking. Smoking. Smoking.”

They told me that when a hitchhiker finds a cigarette butt on the road, he sucks on the filter, then wraps the stub in plastic and leaves it behind for the next traveler.

I felt a quiet warmth fill me as I sensed their generosity. I was reminded of a story told by Mother Teresa, who once heard about a woman who had not eaten in four days. When someone brought her food, the woman passed it on to another who had not eaten for seven.

Here were men—heartbroken, homeless, uncertain of their next meal, unsure whether any driver would even stop—and yet they were thinking of others still to come. I have seen this same spirit among poor people around the world: those who give from the little they have to help others in need.

That night, with those four travelers, I felt as though I were among the richest people in the world.