Richard Paul Evans: The Complete Walk Series eBook Boxed Set

by Richard Paul Evans

  I already knew this, of course, but I didn’t tell him as I wanted to hear what he had to say.

  “Trees are usually your best bet for cover. I always scope out my sleeping spot from all angles to make sure I can’t be seen from the road. I always get up early, usually before the sun, to get back on the road. Nothing worse than having some itchy, tin badge wake you up at three in the morning to tell you to get going, regardless of the weather or how far you’re going to have to walk to get to the next exit.”

  “I haven’t had that happen yet,” I said.

  “You will. Another good place to sleep is under highway overpasses. There’s usually a ledge up top that makes a good bunk. Of course, first you need to check to see if someone else has slept there. Most transients leave a trail of beer cans, cardboard, old clothing, you know. If you’ve been on the road, you’ve seen it.” He shook his head. “Once I found a noose. Thankfully, there wasn’t a body attached to it.

  “What you’ve got to do is make sure there isn’t any feces. That’s the big one. Also, if it’s cloudy, I check the ground for water trails, just to make sure that the bridge doesn’t leak.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” I said. “So is it hard getting picked up?”

  “Sometimes. Like anything, you’ll have your days when the fish aren’t biting, but not usually. You might say I’m good at it. Hitchhiking is all about psychology. For instance, I used to have a red sleeping bag. I had to get rid of it. Red, yellow, and orange signify danger and people are less likely to pick you up if they see that color. I’ve never seen like a research study on that, but I tell you, I’ve proven it.

  “The truth is, most of the thinking that goes into picking up a hitchhiker isn’t logical. For instance, a lot of people won’t pick up a hitchhiker with long hair and a beard because they think he might be a serial killer. You can thank television for that. But it’s not the case. Look at Ted Bundy, the Zodiac killer, John Wayne Gacy, Son of Sam, the Green River killer—all of them clean-shaven, respectable-looking guys. So you might say that your best bet of getting picked up is to look like a serial killer.” He laughed at this. “Bottom line, if you want a ride, you need to look like you don’t need a ride. I always try my best to look presentable. I’d never wear my hair as long as yours. Scares people away.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m not hitchhiking,” I said.

  “Another thing you should know about are truck stops. Truck stops can be lifesavers if you know how to work them. First thing I do when I get to a truck stop is put my pack in the weeds outside so they don’t know I’m a hitchhiker. Then I can blend in with the truckers and sit in the truckers’ lounge and warm up or cool down, watch TV, whatever.

  “You learn tricks, you know? When truckers fill up at a gas station they get a shower ticket. I can spot them a mile away. I’ll ask a guy on the way to his truck if he has an extra shower ticket and most of the time he’ll give me one. Sometimes I’ll ask the truck stop management for a ticket. I tell them I’m not a panhandler and I’m not going to bother anybody and sometimes they’ll just give me a shower ticket.

  “But no matter how decent and respectable-looking you keep yourself, some people are still going to look at you like you’re a piece of garbage just because they’re in a car and you’re not. I stopped looking at the people in the cars years ago just to keep from losing my mind. I mean, some people look at you like you’re stuck to the bottom of their shoe. I’ve had people drive by me at forty miles per hour and lock their doors.

  “And then there’s the head shakers. They look at you waiting on an exit and shake their heads no. It’s degrading. I look at their cars, so I don’t look like I’m spacing out like a weirdo, but I don’t look at the people. There are too many door lockers and head shakers in this world.

  “Of course the best way to get a ride is to be a woman. Women can get rides from truckers no problem.”

  That certainly seemed to be the case with Pamela, I thought.

  “Someday I’m going to write a book called The Psychology of Hitchhiking. What do you think?”

  “I think it sounds interesting,” I said.

  “You don’t know anything about publishing books, do you?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. No.”

  “Doesn’t cost to ask,” he said.

  We walked a moment in silence.

  “Seventeen,” I said. “You must get lonely sometimes.”

  He frowned. “Yeah. Sometimes. I mean, I wish I could find a wife, but finding someone who would live this way isn’t very likely. There are women who like the road, but there are ten thousand guys to every one of them, so they get snatched up real quick. Besides, to meet women you have to stay in shelters or ride the trains, and I’ve never liked either.” He sighed a little. “So, what’s your story? Why are you on the road?”

  I thought briefly about how much to share, then decided to tell him everything. “I lost my wife last year after she broke her back in a horse riding accident. While I was taking care of her, my business was stolen from me. I lost everything. In a matter of weeks I lost my wife, my business, my house, and my cars. All gone. So I packed up and started walking. Key West was as far as I could go without swimming, so that’s where I decided to go.”

  “I’m sorry about all that,” he said sympathetically. “There’s a lot of bad in this world. What your brother doesn’t do to you, God will.” He looked around, raising his hands. “It’s dog eat dog out there. Those Sunday meeting minions will tell you that God’s beauty is witnessed in nature. But their view is selective. The truth is, nature is horrifying, red in tooth and claw.” He looked out over the corn. “Out there in that field right now there is death and terror.”

  “I see a lot of corn to feed people,” I said.

  “Sure there are sunsets and roses and all that crap, but there’s also the fly struggling in the web while a spider sucks the life from it. There are wolves hunting down a baby deer and eating it alive. These things were made by God too.”

  “You don’t get invited to many parties, do you?”

  He ignored me. “So what’s with this God who makes beautiful sunsets then soaks the ground beneath them in blood. If you ask me, I think God is the ultimate sadist. He’s like a kid who drops red ants and black ants together in the same jar just to watch them fight. I think this Earth is nothing more to God than a big cockfight.”

  “That’s about the darkest view of God I’ve ever heard,” I said.

  “Welcome to the real world, pal,” he said. “People going around saying that God is all just and good, but answer me this: how can God be just when according to almost every religion he damns sinners to an eternity of punishment for something that happens in a finite amount of time? It’s not a proportionate response. It’s not just and it’s certainly not good.”

  I couldn’t answer him.

  “Look at it this way. Let’s say a kid goes to a store where he sees a candy bar. He has no money, but he really wants that candy. So when he thinks no one is looking, he takes it. He’s broken the law. Of course he should pay—I don’t disagree with that. But what that poor kid doesn’t know is that the store owner has cameras everywhere and all he does is sit back in his office all day waiting to catch someone. So the store owner drags the kid out back behind the store, pours gasoline on him, and lights him on fire. That’s your eternal damnation. That’s your God. That’s your religion.”

  “That’s not my religion,” I said. “I don’t believe in a God who created us to condemn us. I don’t believe that God is fear.”

  “All religions teach God is fear,” Israel said. “Then they dress him up as the good shepherd. A wolf in shepherd’s clothing.”

  “Sometimes good parents use fear,” I said. “To protect their children. It’s like a mother telling her child not to play in the road, because he might get hit by a car.”

  “The difference,” Israel said, “is that God is the one driving the car.”

  I nodded. “You’re r
ight. That is the difference. You either believe in a God of grace and love or a God of damnation and condemnation, but you can’t believe in both, because he can’t be the same Being.”

  “There is no God of grace,” Israel said. “You should know. He killed your wife.”

  “He didn’t kill my wife. A horse did.”

  “He could have stopped her from dying.”

  “You mean he could have postponed her from dying. Because, in the end, everything in this world dies. Everything. That’s why people look to God for the next.”

  Israel looked at me darkly.

  “Look,” I said. “I don’t care what you believe about God. I’m not even sure what I believe. The truth is, much smarter men than us have discussed this question for millennia, and still haven’t come to a consensus.

  “And as far as the world being fair or good, the question that baffles me most isn’t why bad things happen. In a world like this, I would expect that. What I can’t comprehend is why good things happen. Why is there love? Why is there beauty? Why did I love my wife so much? And why did she love me? That’s what baffles me. That’s what I can’t explain.”

  Israel didn’t say anything but continued walking with his head down. After a minute he suddenly stopped walking. “I’ve bothered you long enough.”

  I stopped as well. “No bother,” I said. “But it was nice talking with you. Travel safe. And good luck with your book. If I ever see it in a store, I’ll buy a copy or two.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I hope you make it to Key West.” He shook my hand, then shrugged his pack from his shoulders and sat down on the side of the road with his sign. I just kept on walking.

  After Marceline, the towns seemed to change, becoming more Southern. Missouri was always split like that. Even during the Civil War, they weren’t sure which side of the conflict they were on.

  By the end of the third day from Marceline I entered Monroe City, a quaint town, like Sidney. The houses were well kept with large porches and beautiful yards. It was also the site of the first Civil War battle in northeast Missouri. I learned this from a brochure I picked up at the town’s visitors center.

  From what I read, the battle was an entertaining affair and the whole of the Monroe citizenry came out in buggies and wagons to picnic and watch the ruckus, which turned out to be a lot more bluster than blood.

  The conflict started when a group of Confederate sympathizers gathered in Monroe and Federal troops, led by Colonel Smith, were sent in to break them up. The area was a hotbed of secessionists and Colonel Smith and his men were soon outnumbered and forced to take refuge in a building called the Seminary.

  While the pro-secessionist troops surrounded the building, their leader, the Honorable Thomas A. Harris—known to love a good audience—began making a speech to the gathered crowd, who didn’t want words, but action.

  Harris declared that without a cannon the best thing to do would be retreat and he dismissed his men. His troops declined his offer, and when their cannon arrived the battle resumed. The cannon was a nine-pounder, but the soldiers only had a few nine-pound balls, which they used up with great inefficiency. They then filled their cannon with six-pound balls, which fired so erratically that it dispersed both picnickers and Confederate soldiers who said they didn’t like being fired on by their own side. By the end of the attack, the pro-South soldiers claimed that the only safe place to be was in front of the cannon.

  Federal reinforcements soon arrived to aid Colonel Smith and with one blast of grapeshot from the Union cannon, the secessionists retreated, hiding in buggies and wagons and mingling with the picnickers.

  In the meantime, wild rumors of the battle spread and a day after the conflict had ended, Colonel Ulysses S. Grant arrived on the scene with more than two thousand troops. Learning the battle was over, he moved on to Mexico. Thus ended the battle of Monroe.

  I passed the Rainbow Motel with a sign outside that read, “Look inside, then decide.” I looked inside. I felt as if I’d stepped back into the fifties. An old Pepsi vending machine stood next to the office door and a poster of the Ten Commandments.

  I booked a room for the night. The next day I reached Hannibal.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-four

  Life is not to be found in a cemetery.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  Aside from Disneyland, historic Hannibal was about as magical a town as I could hope to walk through—a storybook hamlet still blessed by its patron saint Samuel Clemens, better known as Mark Twain.

  Twain once wrote of his beloved hometown:

  After all these years I can picture that old time to myself now, just as it was then: the white town drowsing in the sunshine of a summer’s morning; the streets empty, or pretty nearly so; one or two clerks sitting in front of the Water Street stores, with their splint-bottomed chairs tilted back against the wall . . . the great Mississippi, the majestic, the magnificent Mississippi, rolling its mile-wide tide along, shining in the sun. . . .

  Walking into Hannibal it is possible to still imagine it as Twain saw it. The city is picturesque, with carefully preserved historic architecture, its eastern panorama framed by the “magnificent” river. It was the kind of place I desperately wanted to share with McKale and wondered why I hadn’t.

  I checked into the Best Western Plus On the River, which wasn’t really on the river, although, as a former adman, I could see how they could fudge this—since in 1993 the Mississippi overflowed its banks and flooded the town. So one could claim, in good conscience, that the hotel was, at the time, on the river. Or, more accurately, in it.

  As the clerk handed me my room key she proudly said, “You might be interested to know that we just got a new treadmill in our exercise room. In case you feel the inclination to walk.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Good to know.”

  I ate dinner across the street at a small, shoebox-shaped diner, Hannibal fried chicken with biscuits and sawmill gravy, then returned to the hotel to soak in the hot tub. I read a little of my Jesse James book, then retired early.

  Being in Hannibal lifted my spirits, and, perhaps for the first time since I left Seattle, I felt more like a tourist than a man on a pilgrimage. The next morning I went for a walk around the town, stopping for breakfast and coffee at the Java Jive on Main Street. My waitress was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. I guessed her to be in her early to mid twenties, but she was dressed in retro clothing: a formfitting striped dress with a red beret and sash and high-heeled shoes. She reminded me of one of those girls that B-52 bomber squads painted on the noses of their flying coffins.

  The pastry and coffee were good and I leisurely drank my coffee, the tourist traffic outside as meandering as the river the town parallels. It was a pleasure to watch others walk for a change.

  I hadn’t planned on spending the day in Hannibal, but an hour into the morning I knew I would. After finishing my second coffee I walked north to see Twain’s home.

  The Mark Twain historic complex was well preserved with cobblestone streets closed off to automobile traffic. Among the buildings still standing are Twain’s boyhood home, complete with the white fence Tom Sawyer hoodwinked the neighbor boys into painting, and the re-constructed home of Tom Blankenship—the boy Huckleberry Finn was based on. Twain wrote of his friend Tom:

  His liberties were totally unrestricted. He was the only really independent person—boy or man—in the community, and by consequence he was tranquilly and continuously happy, and was envied by all the rest of us. We liked him; we enjoyed his society. And as his society was forbidden us by our parents, the prohibition trebled and quadrupled its value, and therefore we sought and got more of his society than of any other boy’s.

  There was also Twain’s father’s justice of the peace office and the home of Laura Hawkins, the neighbor girl on whom Twain had based the character Becky Thatcher. In this, the author and I shared common ground—both of our lives were forever changed by the girl next door.
/>
  After touring the homes, I walked south along the bank of the Mississippi until I came to the loading plank of the Mark Twain riverboat. I paid fifteen dollars for a one-hour cruise and boarded the craft.

  The boat didn’t cover much ground, or water, just paddling up the river a spell then back down, but the ride was as pleasant and smooth as a southern drawl.

  Steve, the riverboat captain, was a jovial host and as we pulled away from the dock, he sang out over the boat’s PA system an obligatory “Maaaark Twaaaaaaain,” reassuring us that the water was two fathoms deep, which to the riverboat pilot meant safe water. Safe water. It is still a comforting reassurance to us today.

  I climbed up to the boat’s wheelhouse and asked Captain Steve something I’d always wondered: why were the top of the boat’s smokestacks fluted?

  “Mostly tradition,” he replied. “But back in Twain’s day the flutes helped keep the embers from the boat’s furnace from falling on the passengers’ heads.”

  Satisfied with the answer I went back to the ship’s bow and drank a Coke.

  On our return to shore, the captain blew the boat’s powerful steam whistle thrice before sidling up to the dock. I thanked Captain Steve and disembarked, then walked to Main Street, ate lunch at Ole Planters Restaurant, then wandered back to my hotel, perusing store windows on the way.

  Two blocks from my hotel I passed an office with a sign in the window that read:

  Haunted Hannibal Ghost Tours

  I went inside to check it out. No one was inside, but there was a sign-up list for the evening’s tour. I added my name to the list.

  Just about everything in Hannibal is haunted, and everyone in town had a ghost story they were eager to share. The first ghost story I heard was shared that morning by my waitress over breakfast. The renter in an apartment next to the Java Jive kept complaining about the creepy organ music that woke him every night at 3 A.M. He refused to believe that the coffeehouse management was not to blame even though the coffeehouse didn’t own an organ and closed at midnight.