Just as I had in every other city, I started the next day with a cup of coffee, a cigarette, and a walk to kick off the job hunt. While walking around downtown, I came across a Salvation Army with a handwritten Help Wanted sign taped to the front door. I asked for an application, sat down on a used sofa, and filled it out. I handed it back to the girl behind the counter. A couple days later, I received another voice mail from the day labor agency in Cheyenne, as well as one from the Salvation Army. They wanted me to come down for an interview.
When I showed up at 10:30 the next morning, the very first thing they had me do after signing in was take a Breathalyzer test. I passed. On the desk I saw my application. I remembered how important body language was during a job interview, so I sat on the edge of my seat, answering all of their questions: Why’d you join the military? Why do you want to work for the Salvation Army? Instead of answering, “Because I’ve always loved thrift stores, especially the Salvation Army,” or that I wanted to know everything about thrift stores from the bottom up so that one day I could open up one of my own, or how I really valued that they were a charitable organization, I told him that I just wanted to work, and work hard, that I’d bust my ass for them. I would show up on time, and do my job without complaint.
He told me that they have a high turnover rate, and that most people just work until they receive their first paycheck, then split. Others call in sick with all sorts of excuses, like they can’t come in today because their cat is sick. I told him he didn’t have to worry about that with me since I didn’t have a cat. He told me he liked my answers, and asked when I could start. I told him now. He explained to me that they had a part-time position available five hours a day, minimum wage, no benefits. I told him that was perfect. He asked if I knew how to get to their other Salvation Army on Euclid. I told him that I did not, that I’d just gotten into town the other day and didn’t quite know my way around yet, but I could easily get directions on Google, no problem. He told me that was great and for me to show up at 10:30 the next morning for a drug test. If I passed, I’d be an employee.
I thanked him, shaking his hand. I was surprised that he didn’t ask me once during the interview what had led me here to Des Moines; instead, all he asked along those lines was where I was staying, since on my application I’d written down a bogus address I just made up. When he asked me where that was, I quickly told him I was just staying there for a couple days and no longer, that I would have a new address for them.
“Oh. Where you at now?”
I tell him.
A pained look slapped across his face, like he had just stepped in dog shit.
“You’re staying there?”
Feeling on the verge of suddenly losing this job, I told him quickly that it was just a temporary living situation until I found something else. He nodded, said that “temporary” was a good idea, and suggested for me not to stay there longer than I had to. “That’s kind of a rough hotel. We deal with a lot of people who live there, since we have programs available here as well. I’d be careful.”
Will do.
The next day, I drove the car to the Salvation Army up on Euclid. At 10:30 a.m. there were already a dozen shoppers inside. I told the girl working the counter that I was there to see Jim. She told me to follow her to the back, which I did. She moved slowly, and her walk was more of a waddle than anything else. In the back, an American flag was hung up on the wall, and there sat Jim, going over time cards. We shook hands, and he had me follow him to the bathroom to conduct the drug test. I filled a plastic cup halfway, and he handed me a plastic eyedropper, asking that I drip three drops into each hole on the little plastic drug test, which he had out on the sink. I wondered what the fuck was going on when two paper strips instantly turned color. Then a line appeared for each drug test: THC, methamphetamine, cocaine. I couldn’t believe it—there were a couple nights in Omaha where I’d completely blacked out, but as far as I could remember, none of those nights had involved any illegal drugs. He then stuck his hand out and said, “Congratulations. Welcome to the Salvation Army!”
Standing at the position of attention, I raised my chin, and in my head I could hear the army band playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” feeling proud. Since I was in the army now, I needed a uniform, so he told me to go to the clothing racks and pick out tan khaki pants as well as a red polo shirt; this would be my uniform. Awesome! Free clothes! All their clothing was arranged neatly, organized by gender, type, and color. It was goddamn beautiful! The efficiency and upkeep in this establishment was second to none. I walked over to where all the tan khaki pants were located, and since I’m such a stylish guy, I looked for flat-front khakis. None found. They were all pleated, which from what I understand is a fashion no-no. Whatever. I’m a size 33, and the closest thing I could find was a 38, which were not only a bit too hip-hop for me but also a couple inches too short in length, exposing my white socks. I walked over to where all the red polos were located and, hopes up that there would be a cast-off Fred Perry, began my hunt. I didn’t find any, and right about the time I was giving up, close to grabbing any old red polo that fit, I nearly exclaimed, “Fuck yeah!” when I came across one that was absolutely perfect. It was a crimson red polo shirt with an embroidered Harvard University crest, with the golden word “Alumni” underneath.
Wide-eyed, I lifted it off the rack, held it up, and just stared in awe. What moron would donate his Harvard alumni shirt to Goodwill? Probably somebody who doesn’t deserve to wear one, that’s who. I swear, Ivy Leaguers, silver spoons, totally unappreciative of what they have, filled with a sense of entitlement. . . . Fuck this person! He or she didn’t deserve to wear this polo shirt anyway, it deserves to be worn by somebody who understands and appreciates the time-honored tradition and excellence that is Harvard, and that person is moi. I deserve to wear it. If I had graduated from Harvard, all I would ever wear was Harvard apparel, everything that I owned would scream Harvard, even my email address, which I would spam the hell out of everyone with because it would read: [email protected]. Mom would be proud.
Back in the office, Jim gave my uniform an inspection—I passed. Said I looked good even. Confidently, I told him, “I know.”
I was introduced to Rhonda, who I would be working with today. Rhonda has been with the Salvation Army for about eight months, and she told me that it’s a great job, the days go by fast, never a dull moment. Since they like to have women work the front, men in the back, my job would be waiting around for people to show up with donated items, providing them with a tax write-off slip, then sorting all the donated items into huge cardboard boxes that sat on crates. One crate was for clothes, one for miscellaneous items, one for trash. She told me that Mondays were usually pretty busy because over the weekend people have garage sales, and on Monday they donate all the items that didn’t sell. We stepped outside to have a smoke, and she lit her smoke and started to tell me that whenever you step outside for a smoke, somebody will show up to donate stuff. Which is exactly what happened. An old lady showed up in an old blue Cadillac completely filled with stuffed animals. I noticed that Rhonda didn’t flick her cigarette; she just extinguished the cherry so that she could relight later, which I also did. Normally, the Salvation Army doesn’t accept toys, but we took these off her hands anyway, as she was moving into a smaller living space. She told me that she had an entire room completely devoted to all her teddy bears. On her last trip, she nearly started to cry as she handed me the last box of her teddy bears.
From there, it seemed like every thirty minutes or so somebody would roll up with items to give away, and less than half wanted a tax write-off slip. Not to mention the guy who showed up with three television sets to donate—three?
I was taken aback by how high the prices were at Salvation Army; I felt that everything should have been sold for half of what they were asking. I was amazed how much stuff people buy, never use, never even touch—many items wit
h tags still on them or still in their boxes—all ending up donated to the Salvation Army. It’s like an illness. People buy stuff just to buy stuff, and to make room to buy more stuff, they donate the unused stuff.
Even the poor purchase crap they don’t need. They’d come into the store, grab a cart, and I would watch them, sometimes even follow them, to see what they’d put in their cart—porcelain angels, a VHS set of the third season of Friends. I got the impression that the Salvation Army gave them a sense of normalcy; they could come in and afford to be consumers and purchase items, items that they either needed, felt they needed, or didn’t need, just like everybody else.
My second day of work, I arrived a bit early, so I parked my car in the front lot and sipped coffee while waiting for ten o’clock to come around. By the front door were several plastic garbage bags filled with clothes that somebody must have dropped off overnight.
A rusty Chevy Blazer driven by an obese lady with two dirty kids in the back seat pulled up; she had one of her kids step out and grab the bags of donated clothes, then drove off.
At 9:55, a lady walked up to the front door and waited. At 10:00 a.m., the store was opened, and with my pleated khakis and red Harvard polo shirt, I started the day off by mopping the floor.
Now, usually it would take me about half an hour to mop the floor in a space like that, but I took my sweet time, since it made for fantastic people-watching.
One lady came in with three kids—two in a stroller, another in a backpack. This lady was insane; I had to follow her. Three kids! Irish triplets! One right after another! My wife can barely handle one, so while mopping, I observed her out of the corner of my eye to see how she did it. First, she went over to where all the kids’ clothes were, grabbed a bunch, and then made her way over to the changing rooms in the corner. With her two kids waiting in the stroller outside the door, she went in, and when she exited, I noticed that she had a lot less kids’ clothes than when she first entered. A lot less. Earlier, I’d watched an old Asian lady steal a coffee mug, casually dumping it in her purse. She saw me see her do this, and I just sort of smiled and nodded at her like Right on old lady, fuck yeah! Don’t worry, I don’t care. I went to Harvard . . . it’s all good. I don’t really fault these people for stealing from the Salvation Army. I think their prices are a bit steep, and don’t reflect the current economic reality.
When I was done mopping, I stepped into the back. Rhonda, who was busy pricing clothes, told me to go ahead and grab the price gun and price the suitcases stacked up in the corner, placing them out on the floor when I was done. She told me the big ones should be priced at $7.99, the smaller ones $6.99. I priced them all $2.99 and put them out. Later on that day, I noticed that all of those suitcases were gone.
Harvard Business School, anyone?
I returned to the hotel after work, a six-pack with me. I asked the black lady I was sharing the elevator with what floor, and she told me four. Grimacing while holding her back, she told me that the morphine wasn’t working and that her back was still killing her.
“Really?”
“Yup. Twenty milligrams. I got some methadone, too, but that won’t do anything.”
Once all the beers were drained, I found myself bored with drinking in my room. After pacing for a bit, I decided to go out and do something else.
I ordered a shot and a beer at the bar next door. While thinking long and hard about how there’s got to be more to life than drinking in your room every night, I heard a voice ask me when I got back. I came to, looked over, black guy about my age also drinking by himself. His question took me off guard, so I asked what he meant by that, and he repeated himself, this time adding, “When’d you get back from the war?”
I had no article of clothing on me as evidence that I was ever in the military, so I asked, “How’d you know? Were you in the military?”
He shook his head, told me no, and while holding onto his pint glass told me, “You can just tell.”
Wow. Time for a makeover. Did I really look that depressing? I’d honestly lost track of how many years it had been since I’d come back from deployment, and so far it had all been a blur. I knew deep down inside I was wasting the best years of my life by opting to drink my way through them, but I just didn’t know what else to do. What was there to do? Something needed to happen to get me out of this routine, I just wasn’t sure what that was yet.
I left the bar. Every town along I-80 seems to have railroad track running parallel to it, and this one was no exception. While wandering around semi-drunk, I came across a couple scruffy-looking guys with backpacks and sleeping bags who were looking to jump on a train. Mid-twenties. They were looking for a train with a floorboard, and I asked them where they were headed off to; they told me Kansas City. One of the train hoppers had green hair and a weight problem. When I asked him why he was jumping a train, he told me that there’s nothing in Des Moines: “It sucks here and my parents hate me, so fuck them, I’m leaving.” Which is what he did.
I watched them jump on a train and, with no gesture of a good-bye, leave.
I then thought about my own life. Another train going in the opposite direction was pulling up. I had a vision of jumping in front of it. Then it slowly came to a halt.
My thoughts were drunk, and either I could jump on this train and run away forever and abandon everything—this book, the life I had, and all my worldly possessions, all of it—or I could . . .
I jumped on. Minutes later, it started to move. It felt like freedom.
I didn’t go far, just over the river, and once on the other side of the bridge, I jumped off before it could pick up speed. I made my way over to a bar. When the bartender asked me where I was from, I told him, and that I had hopped a train to get here, which was partially true. He gave me a free shot. I thanked him with a tip.
I thought long and hard about what I should do, where I should go, how I could get to the goddamn climax. Then I got an idea. I ordered another round, got drunk, blacked out, and don’t remember much. I slept through my alarm clock, which meant I didn’t show up to work, which meant I lost my job. Which meant I had a drinking problem.
I had to leave.
Checkout was at noon, I was forty-five minutes late, and I couldn’t find my car keys. Finally, I found them stashed away in a coat pocket. I grabbed my shit and left. When I stepped into the elevator down the hall, as his back was turned to me, I saw that the guy I was sharing the ride with had a fifth of vodka peeking out of his back pocket. I’d seen him before hanging out both inside and out of the hotel, and I was sure he’d seen me doing the same, but this time I looked different. This time I had all my personal belongings with me, and he looked over at me, up and down, taking notice that I was carrying my military duffel bag, backpack, and sleeping bag—which I used to keep me warm at night, since the room had no goddamn heating—and I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he asked me if I was leaving. I told him that I was, and when he asked me where to, I told him Detroit. Intrigued, he opened his eyes up a bit and kind of shifted his body toward mine and asked, “What for?”
“Just cuz.”
So far, whenever I’ve told somebody that I’m traveling “just cuz,” they get suspicious and think I’m trafficking in drugs or running from the law, something screwy like that . . . though there was this one smart lady, a bartender working a dive over by the train tracks in Laramie, Wyoming, who, when she discovered that I was driving by myself across the country, quickly said, “Let me guess, there’s a woman involved.”
“Nope,” I quickly lied.
“You’re going there just because?” the guy in the elevator asked. “To Detroit? For no reason at all?”
Shaking his head, thinking, he stopped, and I saw a smile about to crack on his face. By now we were passing the second floor.
He asked, “What are you, like a vagabond or something?”
“Naw. Not reall
y. Just doing the whole Kerouac thing, that’s all.”
“What?”
“Long story.”
The elevator doors opened up, and the guy just kind of stood there in bewilderment, slightly shaking his head. Then he snapped out of it, put his fist out so that we could hit fists together, and wished me luck. I thanked him as he went his way, and I went mine.
The guy working the desk at the hotel was an older gentleman, and didn’t say much. Behind him on the wall were a series of wooden slots for the mail coming in for the people who lived in the building. Most were empty. The man had white hair and a series of old sun-faded prison-style tattoos up and down both arms. They were so old that I couldn’t really tell what they were anymore, and while he fished my $25 deposit for the week, and my $5 deposit for the key, out of the old school register, I looked over at the back table, where a guy was passed out, head down on the table. Next to his head was a stack of day-old bread for the people who live here. I’d been living off that bread since landing at the hotel, and I thought to myself how sick I was of that bread. Too many carbs. I got my money and split. After passing by all the bail-bond businesses next door, I made my way over to my mistress.
When I got inside, I saw that there was a piece of paper underneath one of my windshield wipers. The note stated that I was illegally parked, that the parking space I was in was reserved for the people living in the condos next door, and that if I did it again, they’d have me towed. I looked up at the condo and frowned. It looked like it was designed by somebody who spent way too much time as a color-blind child playing with square Legos, and nothing else. I crumpled up the note and threw it into the pile of other garbage down on the floorboard of the passenger side. I lit up a smoke and made my way over to the freeway, glad to be leaving Des Moines and on to somewhere else. When I pulled onto the freeway heading east, for the very first time on this journey, I made my way over to the fast lane and stayed there.
Lost in America: A Dead-End Journey Page 11
