The Kindness of Strangers: Penniless Across America (5 page)

“You don’t have a tent or a tarp, and you’re going to sleep out in the rain?”

“I have a plastic poncho and a space blanket. I figured I’d put my sleeping bag between the two.”

“Well, I’ll show you a flat spot I know of.”

I follow the man around the bend, further into the black night.

“Where were you headed just now?” I say.

“On a hike.”

“In the pitch dark?”

“I’m having a little talk with myself.”

He turns abruptly up a steep mountainside. I stop on the road.

“Hurry,” he says. “If the police see us, they’ll arrest us. It’s fire season, and no one’s allowed on the watershed.”

I turn on my flashlight, but the man commands me to turn it off. I start up the mountain, groping at roots in the wet ground. My pack catches a branch and I stumble backward, bracing myself against a boulder. I hike up the hill, slipping and sliding, raindrops pelting my face. We stop about 200 yards up. I bend over and suck in the damp air. It’s only now, deep in the dark forest, I realize that my guide is not a local homeowner.

“You live up here, don’t you?”

“Yeah, for four years. But I live way up there, where they can’t find me. The place I’m going to show you is where I first thought of living, but it’s too close to the trail.”

He tells me to walk about 30 yards to my right. I wish I could see his eyes. But there’s only a voice in the dark, and I decide to trust it.

“Back in there is a flat spot,” he says. “Some bums were camping out there. There should be some old plastic. I don’t know if it’s still waterproof or not. If you’re not too sleepy, use your flashlight and look around for some string. What you want to do is tie one end of your space blanket between two trees, and somehow stake the other end of it to the ground. You’ll get a little wet, but it’s better than sleeping in the rain.”

I reach for the man’s hand. “I’m Mike,” I say.

“Richard.”

His hand is smooth and cold. He lets go, and vanishes into the night.

I feel my way through the trees, tripping over dead branches. Invisible limbs brush my cheeks. There’s a loud humming noise. I stop. It’s only the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.

I force myself to step farther into the woods, but I can’t find the flat spot.

The dim beam from my flashlight finally falls on a narrow clearing. A mound of something I can’t make out is heaped in the middle.

“Anyone there?” I call.

I edge closer and find a soggy sleeping bag, a ripped tent and a tattered piece of plastic. A dirty T-shirt hangs from a tree. Empty beer and whisky bottles litter the ground. The tent is useless, but bits of nylon rope are tied to its corners. I lean my pack against a tree and quickly get to work.

Rain trickles down my neck as I tie one end of my space blanket to a pair of branches about a yard apart. I anchor the other end to the ground with rocks and beer bottles. I hear a sudden crash behind me. I reel and point my flashlight like a gun.

“Who’s there?” I shout.

But it’s just my pack, tipped over from the tree.

I spread my poncho on the ground beneath the lean-to, then unroll my sleeping bag and climb in. After a few minutes, I’m aware of a crackling noise in the forest. It sounds like branches and twigs snapping underfoot. It gets louder. Someone or something is creeping into my camp. If it’s a bear, I know I’m supposed to play dead. I lie still, not even breathing, but I fear my thumping heart will shake the ground and betray my location. The crunching sound draws nearer. I lean out from under my shelter and poke a hole in the dark with my flashlight.

“Hey!” I yell.

I sweep the flashlight back and forth across the trees. Nothing.

But the sound is still there, right by my left ear. Whatever is making it is almost on top of me. I strain to listen. I close my eyes. I listen harder.

It’s suddenly clear: It’s the rain tapping on my space blanket. The drops hit different sizes of folds in the foil and create a symphony of scary sounds: twigs crunching, branches snapping, trees uprooting from the ground.

I let out a deep breath. I lie back and listen to my lean-to. But relief is soon replaced by panic. If it sounds this real, how will I know the real thing when it comes for me?

Then I hear Linda’s soothing voice:
Don’t be afraid of the dark
.
Don’t be afraid of nature
.
Reverence
.

I repeat the phrase over and over in my mind, like a mantra, until at last I make peace with the black night and slip away into slumber.

In the morning, I feel like a he-man. I may not yet be cozy with Mother Nature, but at least I’m no longer afraid to spend the night at her house.

CHAPTER 7

My ride drops me on the outskirts of Klamath Falls, Oregon. It’s only an hour east of Ashland but looks like another planet. Trees, hippies and marijuana have been replaced by steers, cowboys and chewing tobacco. I get the idea that folks in these parts can go a long time without mentioning their karma or their wounded inner child.

Citizens in four-wheel-drive pickups scowl at me from underneath the brims of cowboy hats. One youth leans over the steering wheel, as if trying to touch me through the windshield, and flips me the bird. I smile and wave. In the interests of harmony and personal safety, I put away my sign and walk 10 miles around the city to pick up Highway 140. I draw a new sign for Lakeview, 100 miles east, my frozen fingers rigid around the felt pen.

A couple stops for me in a Ford pickup. “Hop in back,” the man says. “We’re going to Lakeview to get some hay.” The woman calls out the window, “Holler if you get cold.” We get up to speed and the wind chill makes it feel like I’m riding in Siberia. I’m glad when the rain comes and the couple stops to let me in the cab.

Brad and Ellen were both married before and support six kids between them. Brad, who has a droopy black mustache and a black cowboy hat, works in a lumber mill. Ellen, whose thick makeup covers a worn but kind face, is a waitress. They hold hands, Brad alternating his other hand between the wheel and a coffee cup that fills with his tobacco juice. They’ve endured some hard knocks but remain as optimistic about the future as high school sweethearts.

“If I work swing shift this year, I’ll make almost ten dollars an hour,” Brad says.

It’s four in the afternoon when the sun makes its first appearance of the day. The sky glows with a rainbow so perfect it could be anchored by
two
pots of gold. A hawk surfs the currents high above. A billboard in the shape of a cowboy marks the city limits of Lakeview, at more than 4,000 feet, the “Tallest Town in Oregon.” Brad drops me at the town’s single blinking light.

“It’ll take you a while to get out of here,” he says. “When you do get out, be careful. Beyond here is the high desert. There’s nothing but sage, coyotes and rattlesnakes. If you have to bed down in the brush, watch where you sleep. There’s rattlesnakes everywhere.”

Lakeview is a misnomer. There’s no lake and there’s no view. It’s a mill town that resembles a ghost town. A faded white
L
brands the dull brown hill above.

I use the bathroom at the gas station. The attendant says it’s going to drop to 20 tonight. With civic pride, he adds that it once snowed here on the Fourth of July. I almost ask him if I can sleep in the men’s room. It smells like piss, but at least it’s warm. Then I figure that would be only slightly better than snoozing with the snakes. I know I can do better.

I wander the quiet streets until I find myself standing before the Catholic Church. I remember that it’s Sunday.

I had no religious training as a child, and I’ve never been a churchgoer, except for weddings and funerals. I’m not a believer, nor am I an atheist. I can’t even claim to be an agnostic. On the question of God, I remain passionately noncommittal—a heretic in all camps. I actually consider myself to be a spiritual fellow, in a small
s
kind of way, but organized religion scares the bejeezus out of me. Even the sight of stained glass sends a shiver down my spine. So it’s odd to be knocking on the rectory door, about to ask the padre if the Lord’s house could spare a pew for the night.

There’s no answer.

A housepainter working nearby thinks the priest might be at the parish hall, a few blocks away. He offers to drive me over, and I set my pack atop a pile of paint buckets and ladders in the back of his truck. No one’s at the parish hall, either. The painter, Mike, asks if I’m looking for a place to stay, and I tell him, yes. He drives me to the Church of Nazarene and waits in the truck.

“Is the priest here?” I ask the old man who answers the door.

“We don’t have a priest, we have a pastor,” he says. “There’s a church service now. He’ll be through in a few minutes.”

I walk back out to the truck. Mike notes the weather and asks if I have a coat. A light one, I tell him.

“I’ve got an old coat I can give you,” he says. “I live nearby.”

I wait in the truck as Mike rummages through a garage cluttered with the tools of his trade. A tricycle sits on the front lawn. I hear a woman’s voice call from inside the house. “It’s nothing, honey, I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Mike says, shutting the garage door. He hands me a bulky green Army-style jacket splattered with white paint.

“It’s not much to look at, but it’ll keep you warm. If nothing else, you can use it to sleep on.”

“It’s perfect,” I say. “Thanks a lot.”

Mike swings me back by the church. He says if things don’t work out to come to his house, and he’ll think of something. I sense a moral quandary churning within him. I think he’d like to do more, maybe invite me home to dinner, and offer me his couch. But there’s the owner of the tricycle to think of, and the woman at the kitchen door.

I set my pack and new coat on the church steps. The service ends, and a few parishioners file out, clutching Bibles. They all wear smiles. They want to know who I am, where I’m from, where I’m going.

A young man with a cat at his feet extends his hand. One of his eyes droops horribly down and to the side. He speaks in a hyper-monotone.

“My name’s Michael. I’ve been a Christian since 1971. I was born March 11, 1971. I have a receding hairline, see? I’ve always wanted to look young because I’m never going to die because I have Jesus Christ in my life. I got hit by a drunk driver. I was walking down the road and he hit me from behind. I didn’t break a bone—”

“Take your cat and go home, Michael” The voice is booming but jovial. I look up to see the huge presence of Pastor Larry. He has a beard and rosy cheeks. His expansive girth makes the wooden cross hanging from his neck point out. He smiles at me.

“My name is Mike McIntyre,” I start in. “I’m from San Francisco, and I’m on my way to the East Coast. I wonder if I could sleep in your church tonight?”

“I can’t let people sleep here, that’s a board decision.” But as soon as it’s out of his mouth, he adds, “Come in.”

It’s a simple church. Folding chairs. No stained glass. Pastor Larry says he doesn’t know where I’ll sleep, and I say the floor will do fine.

“I’ve got to be perfectly honest with you,” I say. “I put myself in this position. I’m on a sort of spiritual journey.” I tell him about my penniless itinerary.

He offers to get me a motel room. I wouldn’t have to touch any money. It would be paid for with a voucher. I’m tempted by the vision of a bed and sheets and a shower, but I tell Pastor Larry to save the funds for the truly needy.

He offers to call a family that takes people in from time to time. That’s great, I say, that’s what this trip is about. There’s no answer, so he calls a second family. The line’s busy.

I ask Pastor Larry if he’s originally from Lakeview.

“No, I grew up in Phoenix and southern California. I was a biker. I was in a gang. Then one day the Lord told me that if I remained a biker, I was going to die. I saw the light at the end of a double-barreled shotgun. A guy from a rival gang aimed at my chest and pulled the trigger. It just made a noise, and I figured it must’ve been blanks. After we won the fight, one of our guys put the gun in the air and squeezed the trigger. His arm about blew off from the recoil. I knew then what the Lord was saying. I’ve been a Christian for fourteen years and a pastor here for eleven. I still ride bikes. I sometimes witness to the bikers. It’s fun.”

He tries the number again. I hear a man’s voice on the other end say, “Send him on over.” Pastor Larry suggests the man come get me. He hangs up and says, “Tim’s a little, how shall I put this? Tim’s a little rough. But he’s a good man. He’s fallen for the Lord hard.”

A minute later, I hear an approaching clamor, children yelling excitedly. Tim blows into Pastor Larry’s office, his three daughters hanging from him, as if he were a jungle gym.

“Is this the fellow?” Tim says. “Is this the millionaire? Ha, ha, ha!”

He’s about 30, with short-cropped hair and bent glasses. He wears sweats and a dirty white T-shirt. The tail of his flannel shirt is ripped and hangs down the side of his leg. I feel conspicuous in my handmade Italian sweater, new Levi’s and new hiking boots.

Tim dropped out of high school to work in a northern California lumber mill. When he got laid off, he moved his family to Lakeview. The closest job he could find was 150 miles south in the Nevada desert. He repaired mining equipment and slept in a tent, returning home once every 10 days. He recently got hired at a Lakeview lumber mill, where he works six days a week, from four in the morning until eight at night.

He and his family live around the corner from the church in a two-story duplex. They used to sublet one side, but had to evict the tenants because they trashed the place. Tim and his wife, Diane, don’t plan to re-rent, though it’s obvious they can use the money. They want to keep the unit open for people who need emergency shelter. Tim calls it their ministry.

“Just showing up at church on Sunday and putting a few shekels in the plate isn’t enough,” he says. “If you’re gonna be a Christian, be a Christian.”

Tim gives me a tour of tonight’s quarters, as Julia, Charlotte and Kristina scamper about the vacant duplex. Stuffed plastic garbage bags sit like beanbag chairs on the bare floor. Wind whistles through the busted doorjamb. Paint peels from grimy walls. The curtains are torn and stained. Upstairs in the bathroom, the toilet has overflowed repeatedly, leaving the floor as soggy as quicksand, the tub ready to sink into the living room.