“It’s not the Ritz,” Tim says with a chuckle.
But I tell him how I slept last night in the rain, and how right now this dry refuge looks as good as any five-star hotel.
Tim invites me to Sunday supper, and we all walk next door, Julia leading me by the hand. “Mom, our guest is coming!” she calls. We hit the door just in time to see Diane sweep a pile of dirt and scraps from under the dinner table and hide it behind the kitchen wall. She sets the broom against the counter and smiles shyly.
Tim’s home looks like a tornado blew in, made itself something to eat, and blew back out.
“The place is kind of messy,” he apologizes. “Kids live here.”
A shirtless boy, Philip, is already at the table, eating a slice of white bread. Diane sets a bowl of beans and potatoes in the middle of the table and sits down. Tim picks up a Bible and reads Psalm 75: “Unto thee, O God, do we give thanks…” When he’s finished he turns the casserole toward me and I scoop some into a plastic bowl, Tim cracking about how they broke out the china for me.
“People have found out that poor people’s food is the best food,” he says. “Nobody but poor people ate beans and potatoes, now a lot of people do.” He looks at Diane and says, “Honey, we have some fruit, don’t we?” Diane gets up and after a few minutes returns with a bowl of sliced apples and oranges. As I serve myself, I get a bad feeling that the kids won’t be finding any fruit in their school lunch bags tomorrow.
There is but one picture on the wall, a sagging poster depicting two small boys in overalls, one asking the other, “Been farming long?”
Tim takes in his humble surroundings and laughs.
“In our church, we have these three-on-three nights, where two couples go to a third couple’s house for dinner,” he says, pushing his busted glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Wait’ll they come to our house.”
I say, “Hey, you’re doing a great thing here. You’ve got your family intact. Do you know how many families aren’t eating together tonight?”
Tim says he knows he’s blessed. He asks me my story, and I tell him. It doesn’t seem to matter to him that my poverty is self-imposed and temporary.
“It sounds like you’re searching for something,” he says.
“I am.”
He steps away from the table and comes back. “This is what I found when I was searching for something,” he says, handing me a pamphlet entitled “Four Spiritual Laws.” It’s a fire and brimstone tract, not exactly what I’m looking for, but I thank him just the same. He asks if I own a Bible and I tell him no. He gives me a Gideon’s, the cover of which bears tooth marks, as if somebody had tried to swallow salvation.
“Thanks,” I say.
But Tim’s not through giving. He wants me to have his tent, the one he slept in when he worked in the desert. I appreciate the offer, I say, but I can’t accept it. He insists. He never uses it, he says, it just sits in the garage. Even if that’s true, I know he could sell it. I regret telling him about last night. Tim won’t give up. It seems there’s no way I’m leaving without his tent. Finally, I agree to take it, knowing it’s probably one of his family’s more valuable possessions.
In the morning, I stop by the post office on my way out of town. Before I left home, I bought a stack of stamped envelopes and postcards. I jot a note to Anne or another friend or relative every day. That way, they’ll know where to start looking if something goes wrong.
Pastor Larry comes in as I’m walking out the door. He’s bundled up in a parka, and he mock shivers when I tell him I’m heading north.
“How are you fixed for food?” he says.
“Going day to day.”
He offers to bring me a sack of canned goods from the church food bank. Great, but I can’t carry more than a can or two, I tell him.
I wait on the sidewalk, and Pastor Larry returns on his Honda Gold Wing motorcycle. He wears black shades and a black helmet, and I can see how he was once a badass biker. But now he’s Santa Claus with an early Christmas stocking.
“I couldn’t make up my mind,” he says, pulling cans from a paper sack. Tuna, sardines, pork and beans, two tins of lunch loaf, a sleeve of soda crackers, plastic utensils, and a can opener. He packs the bag and hands it over.
“Let me ask you something,” I say. “What do you think about what I’m doing—the ethics of it?”
“I think it’s wonderful. Look, you’re not making any demands on anybody. You tell people what you’re doing, and they either help you or they don’t.” He looks over at my pack. “Do you have any way to protect yourself?”
“How do you mean?”
“What if someone tries to take your pack?”
“You mean, if somebody pulls a gun on me?”
“Or if there are three of them. You know, some of these cowboys out here have some funny ideas about outsiders.”
“I won’t get in a truck with three cowboys.”
“Well, if you get in a situation,” advises the gang member turned preacher, “tell them sensei told you to take a journey. Most everyone knows sensei is a karate teacher.”
Pastor Larry bows his head and offers a bike-side prayer for my safety. I thank him for everything and head for the edge of town.
As I wander down the road, I see a new shape to the shadow I cast—the tent strapped to my pack. I walk on, wondering how the people who have the least to give are often the ones who give the most.
CHAPTER 8
The Road to Cape Fear turns north out of Lakeview and bisects the wasteland of southeastern Oregon. I stand on the shoulder of Highway 395, in sight of the occasional car that stops to fill up at the last gas station for 100 miles. The sun shines, but acts like it’s got a faulty thermostat. I must remind myself that it’s still summer. A pair of gloves is in my pack, but if I put them on in September, what will I have to look forward to wearing next month in the Midwest? Finally, a new, red, four-door Chevy pickup hauling a horse trailer pulls up to the pump and the driver waves me over.
“You’re the first hitchhiker I’ve picked up in fifteen years,” the man says, flashing a smile that reveals a mouthful of brilliant white capped teeth.
“Well, until this trip, I hadn’t hitchhiked in fifteen years,” I say. “So I guess that makes us even.”
Jerry, 47, is driving home to Boise, Idaho. He owns a company that manufactures steel chemical tanks, some as big as a merry-go-round. He spends three months a year on the road—from California to Nebraska—testing his clients’ tanks, certifying that they meet federal guidelines. He hauls his testing equipment in the horse trailer. A cell phone, laptop computer and fax machine ride in the backseat of the pickup. He’s returning from a job in Klamath Falls. On longer trips, he flies his own plane.
The view through the window looks like a black eye. A gust of wind buffets the truck as we whisk by Lake Abert, a dark alkaline pool that reflects the clouds racing overhead. A purple bluff to the west jumps up 2,000 feet from the desert floor and keeps us company for the next half hour. The rest of the land is covered with sagebrush.
“The person who finds a use for sage will be a billionaire,” Jerry says.
Jerry exudes the ease and confidence of a self-made man, but also displays immense gratitude. He’s a man who made a U-turn in life and is now aimed down the right road, mindful of the perils of detours. Waiting for him at home are his third wife and their two young daughters. The couple tried without luck for years to have a baby. Then, middle-aged and with no time to wade through the public adoption system, they turned to private sources. Jerry’s girls are now five years and seven months old. He used to work 16-hour days, but now he’s home for dinner each night. When he’s out of town, he calls his eldest daughter every day—as much for his own good as for hers.
“It’s my second chance at a family,” he says.
Jerry’s second wife was the girl who grew up next door to him in southern California. They were married 14 years, but never had kids. She was an alcoholic, in and
out of rehab. Jerry wouldn’t quit his wife, attending countless AA meetings with her. Then when he was laid up in the hospital with a broken neck, his wife left him.
Jerry’s first marriage was a disaster that lasted five years. Those were the days of the Bad Jerry. He was a drinker, a carouser, and, at times, a scoundrel. The couple had two boys, but Jerry was a negligent father. When the relationship headed south for good, Jerry’s wife and kids were living with another man by the name of Stevens. Jerry kicked down his front door one day and threatened to kill him.
“I used to have a bad temper,” Jerry says.
Jerry’s first wife married Mr. Stevens and disappeared. She never forgave Jerry for his years of straying. She changed the boys’ last name and wouldn’t tell them where their father lived. After he moved to Idaho and turned his life around, Jerry tried in vain for years to find his sons. Whenever business took him to California, he pored over phone books, dialing every Stevens listed.
“But you know how many Stevens there are?” he says.
Then eight years ago on Thanksgiving, Jerry was summoned from the table by a phone call. It was Tommy, his youngest son, who had tracked his father down on his own.
“We were both bawling on the phone,” Jerry says.
Tommy, then 17, moved to Idaho to live with Jerry and his current wife. But after four months, he grew restless and returned to California. Jerry understood; his son had another life. But he told Tommy to remember that he would always be there for him.
A short time later, when Jerry was in California, he called his eldest son, Billy, and asked if he wanted to meet. Billy said he had to work on his car. When Jerry called the next day, Billy said his car was still broken. Jerry offered to come get him. Billy said he’d have to call him back. He never did.
Jerry’s sons are now grown men, not much younger than me. Jerry lives with the hard fact that despite best intentions, some things can’t be fixed. Still, he tries. He got a toll-free number so Billy and Tommy can call him anytime, from anywhere. It never rings.
We pull into a truck stop in Burns, Oregon. Burns isn’t exactly the middle of nowhere, but it’s right on the edge.
“Want some lunch?” Jerry says.
I already told him about my journey. I remind him I’m penniless.
“I’ll buy you lunch. It’s no big deal.”
The offer comes just in time, as the beans I ate at Tim and Diane’s last night have long since worn off, and my head feels light enough to float away like a helium balloon.
We slide into a booth and I order a double cheeseburger, fries and a Coke. Jerry finishes his sandwich and lingers over a second glass of iced tea, then a third.
He isn’t a Bible thumper, and he doesn’t ask my beliefs, but he feels compelled to share where he stands on matters of faith.
“It’s not good enough being a good person. Your heart’s gotta be in the right place. I’ve always been a Christian, but I was on the fence. Now I say no to my temptations.”
“What are your temptations?” I say.
Jerry blushes. “Women,” he says with a chuckle. His smile quickly fades. “If I say yes to my temptations, I know all my treasures will be here on earth, rather than for eternity. Do you know how long eternity is?”
We drive east from Burns on Highway 20, climbing over Stinking Water Pass, then Drinking Water Pass. Magpies greet us on the other side of the summit as the high desert gives way to a broad basin. A sign tells me I’m now in the Mountain Time Zone, and I think of how far I’ve come, and how far I’ve got to go.
We’re suddenly over the Snake River and into Idaho. It’s been my longest and favorite ride of the trip, and I’m sorry it’s about to end. I’d like to go home with Jerry, meet his wife, play with his little girls. But I know that won’t happen. Jerry has already lost one family. He’s not about to risk losing another.
The rush hour traffic of the greater Boise area is unsettling after the solitude of rural Oregon. I steal nervous glances at the digital clock on the dashboard. It will soon be dark, and I’ll be standing on the side of yet another unfamiliar road.
“So, do you know which way you want to head?” Jerry asks.
“I don’t know, I’ll have to look at my map in the morning. Do you know a place I can pitch my tent tonight?”
“How about I get you a room at the Comfort Inn? Wouldn’t you rather have a bed and a shower?”
“Wow, I’d really appreciate that,” I say, my throat catching with gratitude. “You know, before this trip, it was always hard for me to accept anything from anyone. I always tried to be the giver. I’d do favors knowing I’d never ask for anything in return. I never wanted to take anything because I never wanted to feel like I owed anything. I think I used it as a shield, as a way of keeping people at a distance. But now I’ve put myself in a position where I have to accept favors daily, yet I know I’ll never be able to repay people. It feels funny.”
“Mike, on this trip, keep in mind that when people give you something, there’s a reason for it. They have their own motivations for helping you.”
Jerry parks in front of the motel office. He pays for the room with a credit card and gives me the key. I consider asking him what his motivation is for helping me. But it’s soon clear.
He pulls a business card from his wallet. On the back, he writes down his toll-free number. The one he got for his sons. The one that never rings.
Jerry’s eyes are moist when he hands me the card.
“If you need something out there and you can’t get ahold of your dad, call me.”
CHAPTER 9
I get Jerry’s money’s worth at the Comfort Inn. In the morning, I hit the free continental breakfast in the lobby, loading up on bagels, cream cheese, sweet rolls and orange juice. I haul my booty, along with a complimentary copy of USA Today, back to my room, where I gorge out in front of Good Morning America. After a long soak in the tub and a shower, I pack the extra soap and shampoo samples, then watch the movie Malcolm X on HBO until checkout.
I walk down a commercial boulevard out of Boise, heading for open spaces. A large, balding man stops for me in a Nissan Sentra. He says he used to be an attorney in Boise but now lives in Hawaii. He flew over for his high school reunion. His wife stayed in the Islands.
“Have you had your lunch yet?” he says.
“No.”
“Neither have I. I know a nice little restaurant on the road that leads out of town. I’ll buy you lunch, then you’ll be on your way.”
The sudden offer raises my suspicions. Besides, I’m not even hungry. But a penniless traveler never knows when he’ll next eat, so I reluctantly agree.
We both order the special of the day, chicken fried steak.
Something about the man pushes my uh-oh button. He won’t look me in the eye. He doesn’t ask me any personal questions, not even where I’m from. And for a guy who lives in Hawaii, he looks awfully pale.
He says he stopped picking up hitchhikers after one killed a friend several years ago. He recently resumed giving rides because he likes to help people. He says the president of a local college is a close friend. It’s as if he’s trying to convince me of something, put me at ease.
The man says he’s been moving some boxes out of storage, but it’s been difficult because he recently suffered whiplash in a car wreck. He mentions the beautiful home in Boise he’s house-sitting. I sense this is all leading up to a request for help, with an offer of a night’s shelter in return. I rehearse my polite refusal in my mind.
“Do you want some pie?” the man says.
“Oh, no thanks. I’m stuffed.”
“Well, I’ll drive you out to the stoplight. It’ll be easier for you to get a ride out there.”
I recall the guy in California who drove me down the dead-end road. I may be paranoid, but there’s no way I’m getting back into this man’s car.
“That’s okay. You’ve done enough.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“No, really, t
hanks. I’ll just walk out that way.”
“It’s no trouble at all.”
“I’d like to walk, really. I need to work off my lunch.”
“Well, all right,” he says.
I retrieve my pack from the man’s car and thank him for the meal. It’s broad daylight and we’re in a crowded parking lot, but I’m afraid of him. I can’t get away fast enough.
When I was a kid growing up in California, there was a string of murders attributed to a man called the Zodiac Killer. After each death, he claimed responsibility in a card or letter that bore astrological symbols. He once mailed a card to the news media from a post office near my home at Lake Tahoe. I worried about the Zodiac Killer a lot. He was never caught. Years later, one expert claimed that the notorious murderer was a real estate agent living in northern California. But today, part of me is convinced that the Zodiac Killer is a retired attorney from Boise, Idaho.
Walking down the street, I keep turning around, expecting to find him following me. I imagine him turning up further along the Road to Cape Fear. Will he be my last ride?
I chastise myself. I’m to blame for this fright. I got too greedy.
It was stupid to accept lunch from a stranger who triggered my mistrust. I must be more careful. For the rest of the trip, I vow to listen to my instincts before my stomach.
CHAPTER 10
A junior high school on the edge of Boise is letting out when I drop my pack in the dirt. I draw a sign for a place called Murphy, a dot on the map in southwestern Idaho. I don’t know what’s there, but it’s away from the city. Kids cruising in cars read my destination and bust loose laughing. I guess Murphy is where all the geeks live.
An old Jeep Wagoneer stops to pick me up. The driver, Sue, must weigh close to 250 pounds. Her 55-year-old mother Edie rides shotgun. Sue’s little girl Katie, an adorable child with blond hair and blue eyes, stands on the floorboard, as my pack and I now take up the whole backseat. Sue’s other daughter, Laura, 11, is sprawled across her grandmother’s lap. She wears a protective helmet. Her body is as limp as linguine.
The Kindness of Strangers: Penniless Across America Page 5
