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Commuting by Wits, Thumb
Three cars later, a silver Dodge Neon pulls over at a curve. The young man at the wheel recognizes Schindel as someone who lives near his grandfather and greets him with a respectful "Hey." It's warm inside the little car, and music is playing. But Schindel quickly starts calculating. The man is also in construction, now working the Navy Yard in the District, which would require Schindel to double back extensively on the Metro.
"Hmm, why don't we do this -- when we get to the light at the commuter lot, we'll hop out," he says to the reporter aboard for the ride.
  John Schindel catches a ride in Prince William on his way home from a job. He makes sure drivers can see his blue lunchbox. (By Tracy A. Woodward -- The Washington Post) Blog |
The young man, David Hoe, has never picked up Schindel before, although he has picked up other men who wait for work rides at 7-Eleven.
"We see the same people every morning when you get gas, soda, breakfast. They just look like they're safe. I mean, you're picking them up at 4 a.m. It's obvious where they're going," he says.
This site in Tysons can be tricky to get to; most of Schindel's jobs are in Northwest Washington, he says.
It's too early for the Virginia Railway Express train, but if he can catch someone going to Manassas, he can take buses and Metro from there. But most drivers, he has found, are going into Washington. At this hour, there is no slug line, since HOV restrictions don't begin until 6 a.m., when Schindel is supposed to be at work. So at the Route 610 commuter lot, he gets in line for the private Martz bus, which for $20 will take him to the Pentagon.
The bus comes at 5:10 a.m. "Hey! Gotten stopped by the sheriff lately for hitchhiking?" a woman in the next-to-last row yells out.
It's not illegal to hitchhike, as long as you aren't on "the road," which state law defines as the part "used for vehicular travel," including the shoulder. Schindel has been spoken to many times by police but not ticketed.
In fact, people seem to have a combination of sympathy for Schindel and reverence when he gets on his soapbox. They are glued to him in slug and bus lines, although it could also be because he's the only one who looks like a rock musician going off about public transportation deficiencies.
"You have to brush the sand off your shoulder and keep moving," he rasps as the Martz bus heads up Interstate 95 and people around him snooze. "Some people cry and moan, like 'I don't have a car,' whine, whine. It's, like, horse-hockey! I own a house, I have money in the bank, I have a dog who loves me, my parents love me. That's a lot."
His home is a small beige box with a porch overlooking woods and an unpaved road leading around the bend to a lake where he takes neighborhood kids fishing. Despite his somewhat risky commute, Schindel says the stars and the space make it worthwhile.
"I couldn't see myself buying some hideous Cape Cod overlooking Manassas Park," he says.
