Brain dead in Tucson

The trip from San Diego to Tucson was punishing.
Somewhere along the way the speed limit turned to 75 mph and most traffic was now doing upwards of 80. My little bike could just handle it, but getting out from underfoot of vehicles jockeying for position was unnerving.
I've had the bike up to 100 mph, but that was for kicks on an open road in the sunshine.
Between California and Arizona people drove differently, as if accidents didn't matter. Like they were bored. Bored at high speed.
By the time I closed in on Tucson it was getting dark. Traffic was heavy.
The semi trailers weren't focused either. Drifting all over. Were they racing each other? A few times I dropped the bike from sixth gear into fifth to power out of an ugly tangle, a lovers spat between amorous truck drivers. But the bike was no jack rabbit going from 85 to 90 and the tiny shoulder on my right didn't look like a safe place to go in a jam, more like a place to be smashed up against a concrete barrier.
I dodged and weaved, exposed. I was out gunned and nervous, by people driving fast and carefree.
Though I wouldn't admit it at the time, it might have been safer on a bigger bike.
By the time I pulled off the interstate into a gas station in Tucson I was exhausted the way a hunted animal must get exhausted.
I was brain dead, thirsty for a drink to celebrate my survival, and though I hadn't planned on it, ready to pay for another night in a hostel.
I fueled up and went inside to pay. Walking up to the doors, a very tall, very well groomed man in a tidy brown leather jacket with long straight brown hair asked me if I had any change. He was standing in front of a pop machine. I assumed he wanted change: quarters for a dollar or something. He didn't look like any bum I had ever seen. I told him I didn't have any and entered the Circle K.
You've got to love those American gas station convenience stores. Each is it's own empire of vice. Tobacco, fireworks, pornography, junk food, gasoline and liquor. Chinese trinkets with American flags on 'em. This one had the typical wall of coolers, filled with cases and cases of terrible American beer.
I paid for gas and asked the cashier if he knew of a hostel close by.
He didn't know what a hostel was.
I asked if there was a YMCA and he didn't know that either.
“What about a cheap hotel?” I pleaded.
I got a blank look in return and he offered me a phonebook.
There was nothing under “Cheap place to stay.”
Life before smartphones. It was a riot.
I needed someone who knew the local scene. I needed to talk to someone a little closer to the edge the cashier to find out where I could get a room that wouldn't break me or a good place to camp.
I walked back to the beer display and pondered my situation. The beer was here, but where to drink it? It would be nice to camp tonight, drink a little and then sleep the sleep of angels.
It came to me in a flash. The guy I had passed on the way might know.
I walked back outside.
“Were you asking for money to buy alcohol?” I asked, awkwardly.
This huge white guy, I'm guessing 6 foot 4, turned red and sheepishly bowed his head as if he were about to be judged and found guilty.
"Yes,” he said.
“Great,” I said. “Where do you live?”
“Nowhere.”
'Great!' I exclaimed. 'Where are you camped?
He hesitated. 
“Like where are you staying?” I asked again.
I don't believe he hesitated because he couldn't understand my Canadian dialect. I believe he was wondering about the wisdom of telling a greasy guy who just rolled in on a motorcycle where he lived.
 “Behind this place,” he said.
"Perfect. Would I be able to camp with you?”
He hesitated again.
What I would later come to know about down and out folks, is that just because they've come onto hard luck doesn't mean they aren't fussy. This guy more than most really didn't like sharing his space.
I told him my situation, my lack of funds and showed him my bike and my camping gear.
"You're from Canada then?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
Looking back, I might have been a little more circumspect and a little less cheap. At the very least this guy was a candidate a mental health case. A gigantic, well dress homeless guy.
We came to an arrangement. I'd buy beer, he'd show me a place to camp. I bought a 15 pack of Budweiser and walked beyond the parking lot of the Circle K.
On the upside, it was close, but he was apologetic about how dirty it was. He had just made camp there recently and hadn't had a chance to clean it up, he explained.
His camping spot was quite literally between some low bushes. It was dark and I couldn't see a thing.
He found me some spare cardboard and I laid out my sleeping bag 10 feet from his. Setting up the tent seemed impertinent.
Typically this would have been the time to light a small fire, but my new friend new better than to try. We each cracked a beer.
After two beers I was ready for sleep, but my new friend had some things he needed to get off his chest.
That's how I got to meet Samuel James Hazard.