The deputy chief finally returns and says I can camp at the baseball field outside of his tiny town.
I walk along a remote road through the dark and find the ballpark set back in the woods. I fight gusts of wind to pitch my tent in the farthest corner of the field. The night is bitter cold, and I crawl into my sleeping bag fully dressed.
In the morning, I take a look at the map. I’m so close to the end, I figure it’s a good time to call home to Anne.
I find a payphone in the courthouse. Bailiffs lead handcuffed prisoners in orange suits through the hallway.
It feels funny to hold a phone to my ear. I tell the operator I want to place a collect call to San Francisco.
I hear my home phone ringing on the other side of the country. I’m excited—and nervous. I haven’t talked to Anne, or anyone I know, for nearly six weeks. There was no way to reach me. I fear that something terrible has happened, and I almost hang up before Anne picks up.
I’m relieved when Anne answers and tells me that all is well.
It’s great to hear her voice, but our conversation is awkward. I don’t know what it is. I decide it can wait until I get back.
Before I hang up, I ask Anne to mail my ATM card to me in care of general delivery at the post office in Wilmington, North Carolina, the last city before Cape Fear.
The transcontinental connection leaves me unsettled. I’m in limbo, neither here nor there. I force my mind back to the journey. I have 450 penniless miles to go.
I could be stuck for days in the mountains of eastern Tennessee. Few cars are headed out of Huntsville.
No point getting greedy. I write “Caryville,” the next town of any size, on my sign.
After a long while, a dented Ford panel van stops across the street from me. Like so many strangers who have offered me rides, this fellow passed me then turned back.
The driver says something, but his voice is so soft, it’s lost in the wind.
“What?” I say, a hand to my ear.
“I’m goin’ right past Caryville,” the man says.
Turns out he’s driving clear across the Appalachians into North Carolina.
Eldon, 26, is from nearby Oneida, Tennessee. He’s a ceramic tile layer who drives to jobs throughout the South. Tonight he has to be in Gastonia, just west of Charlotte.
His van is packed with tools, a dolly and several Army surplus sleeping bags. I throw my pack atop the heap and climb in.
Eldon’s appearance screams backwoods. Most of his upper teeth are worn down to pointy nubs. His one full-length tooth fits perfectly into the gap formed by a missing tooth in the bottom row. His ears stick out at right angles from under a Tennessee Volunteers baseball cap. He pulls cigarettes from the pocket of a sleeveless khaki shirt. His arms have patches of skin with no pigment. He would be downright scary if it wasn’t for his doe brown eyes and painfully shy voice.
I ask Eldon why he turned back for me.
He says that not so long ago, his van broke down 30 miles from home. He stuck out his thumb. Nobody stopped, not even people who knew him. He walked home in the dark.
“When I saw you, I thought about that time I walked,” he says.
Eldon strikes me as a total innocent. He reminds me of Forrest Gump, the slow-witted but big-hearted character from the blockbuster movie of the same name.
He offers me an RC Cola from the cooler on the floorboard between our seats. But it’s too early in the morning for me.
Outside Knoxville, we pick up Interstate 40. The freeway climbs a summit near the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. Wisps of fog rise from the forest like spot fires. Rain hits the windshield. It feels good to be on this side of the wipers.
I tell Eldon that money hasn’t touched my hands in nearly six weeks.
“That’s the way it’ll all get done here pretty quick,” he says.
“How do you mean?”
“The Book of Revelation,” Eldon starts in. He trips over the Scripture. “I forget the exact words,” he says. He mentions the mark of the beast. He says everyone will soon need money cards with numbers, like the kind you use at the Safeway. “It’s gettin’ to where we cain’t use cash anymore.” He stammers, fumbling for the right passage. “There’s a Bible in that glove box,” he finally says.
I fish through the compartment but come up empty. I remember the small Gideons Bible that Pete gave me back in South Dakota. I pull it from my pack and flip through “Revelation.”
“Here it is,” I say. I begin reading: “And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name…”
Many of the Christians I’ve met on this trip were force-fed their faith as children. They had no choice. I’m not impressed by their convictions. But, like me, Eldon had no religious upbringing, so I’m curious how he became a believer.
“Three or four years ago, I was just layin’ in bed one night and I just knew,” he says. “Jesus Christ done died for my sins.”
“How did you know?”
“It’s the only thing I’ve ever known for sure. You can tell me my name is Eldon Wallace. I think my name is Eldon Wallace, but I don’t know it for sure. But that feeling I got is the one thing I know for sure.”
“What did it feel like?”
“It was a glowin’ feelin’. I reckon it was the best feelin’ I ever had.”
I ask Eldon what his life was like before.
“I was headed down the wrong track,” he says. He made $30,000 in three months, then blew it all on women, drugs and booze. “It don’t matter what you do. All you gotta do is believe. Like that guy who died on the cross next to Jesus. All he said was two words, ‘Remember me.’ And Jesus said, ‘You will live forever,’ or somethin’ like that. I’m as low-down as they come, but I believe.”
We stop for gas in Asheville, North Carolina. The cashier in the minimart sits in a bulletproof booth, something I haven’t seen since leaving San Francisco.
“Get you somethin’ to eat if you want,” Eldon says quietly. “I don’t mind.”
I tell him I’m okay, but he insists. I grab an egg salad sandwich from the refrigerator.
We leave the freeway for Route 74, a road that twists through lush mountains covered with kudzu plant. The rain continues to pour, and we pass three wrecks within a dozen miles. I spot a yellow “Dead End” sign out of the corner of my eye. Is my worst fear still out there waiting for me?
When at last we reach the flatlands, I see the first new crop since Nebraska. Corn has been replaced by cotton. The bolls are so white it almost hurts my eyes.
Eldon is meeting his father-in-law and brother-in-law at the job site in Gastonia. They’re driving up from Alabama. It will take two days to lay the tiles. The men will sleep at the job site to save on expenses. That’s why Eldon carries the sleeping bags. He says I’m welcome to stay at the job site with them.
The job site is a new Burger King. When we arrive, electricians, carpenters and wallpaper hangers are working swiftly. The restaurant is due to open in a week. Eldon and I sit in a booth, trying to stay out of the way. Eldon’s tiles won’t arrive until tomorrow morning.
Nail guns, drills and country music bombard my ears. The floor is cluttered with tools, boxes of furniture and stainless steel cooking equipment. A layer of sawdust covers everything.
The guys doing the finish work are a group of hard partiers called the Zoo Crew. One of them wears a baseball cap emblazoned with the Confederate flag. “American by Birth,” it reads. “Southern by the Grace of God.”
The superintendent, Gene, pulls up in a pickup. A fat black lab named Matlock trails him. The dog is friendly; Gene does the barking. He keeps the crews hopping. I hope he doesn’t notice me. The floor of a Burger King may not be the perfect bed, but at least it’s dry.
Eldon’s in-laws haven’t arrived by six p.m., so we walk next door to the McDonald’s, and Eldon buys us dinner. We bring our Big Macs, fries and Cokes back to the job site. I don’t think that’
s what Burger King has in mind when they say, “Have it your way.”
After the workers leave for the night, I have a closer look at my latest digs. There’s no heat or hot water, but a sink works in the pantry. I sweep the kitchen floor and unroll my sleeping bag next to the Frymaster. Eldon sets out his three Army surplus bags in the men’s room.
Eldon’s brother-in-law, Keith, finally shows up around 11. His dad and the other helpers are stuck in Georgia. The windshield wiper motor on their car broke. They’ll drive up in the morning.
The three of us sit in a booth and talk.
I thought it might be hard to get enthusiastic about sleeping in a Burger King, but I’m exhausted. I ask if I can flip out the lights in the kitchen and leave the ones in the restaurant on.
“Hell, turn ’em all off,” Keith says.
I find the electric panel. I hit all the switches at once. The building goes dark—except for a glaring bulb over the Frymaster and my sleeping bag.
I carry my bedding into the pantry and spread it out by the meat locker. The floor slopes down to a drain, and a ventilator hums obnoxiously overhead. Still, I get a whopper of a night’s rest.
The tile truck comes at seven in the morning. I don my poncho and help Eldon and Keith unload the boxes.
A carpenter arrives and says that one of the Zoo Crew was arrested last night for drunk driving. When Gene hears this, he takes it out on his workers. He glares at two trucks parked in a section of the parking lot that has turned to quicksand.
“I don’t know why in the hell you boys gotta drive in that mud,” he growls.
But the sight of the neatly stacked boxes of ceramic tiles changes his mood. He pulls a ten-dollar bill from his wallet. He tells Eldon and Keith to buy breakfast at McDonald’s. Eldon tells me to come along.
“Get Matlock a sausage biscuit,” Gene calls after us.
We slosh through the orange mud. Keith says Gene always buys his dog human food—that’s why he’s so fat. I order an Egg McMuffin and a large coffee. For once on this trip, I’ve actually earned my meal.
We get the food to go and run back to the Burger King in the rain. When we unload the paper bag, Keith realizes he forgot Matlock’s sausage biscuit. Gene is ticked. I wolf down my Egg McMuffin before he takes it away from me and gives it to his dog. Matlock paces around with a look that says, “Which one of you flunkies screwed up?”
The rain won’t quit. I keep staring out the window, as if that will do any good. My choice is to either get wet or spend a very long day in a half-finished Burger King.
I pull a plastic garbage bag over my pack and walk out into the storm.
CHAPTER 37
North Carolina’s Route 74 is six lanes wide between Gastonia and Charlotte. There’s no shoulder, nowhere to stand and hold my sign.
I wade through tall, wet grass. My boots are soaked. The rain is unrelenting, and the mud on my pants looks like blood. Drivers in warm, dry cars whiz through puddles and spray me. I’m cold and wet and miserable.
I come to a long stretch of strip malls. Concrete islands rise between the two directions of traffic. They taper at the ends so people can make left turns into the Wal-Marts and Kmarts. I dart through rushing cars and step onto an island. I stride briskly down the center of the road, hopping from one island to the next. I must look like a moron.
A man with a big piece of cardboard under his arm watches me from the entrance to a strip mall.
“Where you headed?” he calls to me as he crosses three lanes to reach my island.
“Cape Fear,” I say.
The man follows me. I have to slow down for him to keep pace. His clothes are grubby and he needs a shave, but he seems harmless.
“Where are you going?” I say.
“Oh, nowhere. I just had my sign out for a couple hours.”
“What’s your sign say?”
He unfolds the cardboard: “Homeless, Disabled, Hungry, Please Help, God Bless You.”
“Are you really homeless?” I say as we walk.
“No, I have my own home.”
This disgusts me. I walk faster, but keep my comments to myself. The man hustles to keep up.
“The reason I put my sign out is I’m disabled and my government check is only three eighty-eight a month. I need the extra money to pay my bills.”
He looks perfectly healthy. He has all four limbs. He’s walking. He’s talking.
“How are you disabled?”
“I had a broken arm.”
But he doesn’t have trouble lugging his giant sign.
I once wrote a story about panhandlers. Most of the 20 or so I interviewed were able-bodied and said that bumming change was their chosen profession. A few earned more than $100, tax-free, each day. I know there’s a legitimate homeless problem in this country. But ever since that story, I’ve been wary of beggars.
My new friend scampers behind me like a puppy.
“I used to do what you’re doing,” he says, “hitchhike all over the country.”
I stop in my tracks. The man bumps into me.
“Buddy, I don’t think you’ve ever done what I’m doing,” I snap. “I’m crossing America without a single penny. I haven’t touched money in six weeks.”
He looks at me in disbelief. “I need my money to live,” he says apologetically.
I walk faster down the island. The man falls behind.
I finally reach a spot in the road where there’s room to stand. I hold my umbrella over my head and stick out a thumb.
The man with the sign catches up to me 10 minutes later. He carries two McDonald’s cheeseburgers.
“I brought you some food,” he says.
He hands me the two burgers, their yellow wrappers wet with rain.
The man runs back across the road. He yells to me to come up to his trailer if I get tired. “Number fourteen,” he says. “Top of the hill.”
For a moment, I feel guilty about judging the man. But I remind myself that the money that bought the food was obtained fraudulently.
I wait until the man is out of sight before I throw the burgers in the trash.
A teenager in a station wagon stops for me. His name is Cam.
He lives in Belmont, a suburb of Charlotte. He quickly volunteers that he’s half white and half black. He wants to be a cop and work with dogs in the K-9 unit. He attends a junior college, but he cut class this morning to play video games.
“I love Mortal Kombat,” he says.
Cam says he has a friend who works at a motel where I can stay for free. But he withdraws the offer before I can accept.
“You probably wouldn’t like it,” he says. “It’s all black people living there.”
I assure him I have no problem with that, but he insists it’s a bad idea.
He says he has a black friend who lives with his grandmother. I can spend the night at her house.
“She’s not racist or anything,” he says.
As badly as I’d like to get out of the rain, I tell Cam that I just can’t show up at another person’s house.
He suggests I hop a freight train. He drives me to the switching yard to check a schedule he says is posted there. But when we reach the station, there’s no timetable and no train.
He says he’ll drive me to Cape Fear. It’s only four hours. He was there last weekend.
Cam is eager to help, but he’s clueless. He has to return his dad’s car soon. He must also pick up his girlfriend from high school. His girlfriend is white, he says. Her uncle belongs to the Ku Klux Klan.
Cam drops me back out on Route 74. At least there’s a sidewalk.
He warns me to watch out in Charlotte.
“If you get stuck there, stay downtown,” he says. “It’s lighted and the cops patrol there. There’s white people and black people together down there.”
My clothes are still wet when I step from Cam’s car. I lean my umbrella into the driving rain and start walking.
After a few miles, I see the Charlotte skyline thro
ugh the clouds. But it’s farther than it looks, and I walk another hour.
The sidewalk ends before I hit town. I continue along a one-foot wide swath of grass that runs between the guardrail and highway. I walk slowly, careful not to trip over vines and fall into oncoming traffic.
Route 74 crosses above a freeway near downtown Charlotte. The bridge railing only reaches my knees. The cars rushing below combine with those passing inches from me on the bridge to give me vertigo. The wind blowing my pack adds to the whirling sensation.
I’m so mad, I could smash my umbrella against the guardrail. It’s the first time I’ve been angry on this journey. I’m no longer taking the trip. The trip is taking me.
I navigate a series of slippery on-ramps, off-ramps, bridges and medians, until I finally reach the Queen City.
I was last in Charlotte in 1989, covering the trial of Jim Bakker, the televangelist who swindled millions from his followers. I stayed in a nice hotel and ordered room service. Today I’d settle for Bakker’s dry prison cell and some gruel.
Charlotte is the first big city I’ve passed through since Omaha. The tall buildings, crowded sidewalks and endless stoplights confuse and annoy me. The whole world suddenly seems in my way. All I want is to get in the clear.
A damp doom descends on me. I feel like my luck just ran out and washed down the gutter. I already wrote Anne today. Now I scribble a hasty message to her on a postcard, noting where I am and the exact time. Just in case.
I walk along East Seventh Street to the edge of the city. I walk with my eyes on the wet sidewalk. When I lift my head, I see I’m now in the midst of a housing project. The looks I get tell me there aren’t too many gangly white guys with backpacks who walk down this road.
A man pulls over, even though I don’t have a sign out. He tells me to hop in. This is no place for me, he says.
“I knew you weren’t from around here, walking where you were. You were in the crack part of town.”
As if to underscore his point, the topic on the call-in radio show he has tuned in is crime. One caller says that the United States has more mass murderers and serial killers than any nation in the world.
The Kindness of Strangers: Penniless Across America Page 23
