The Kindness of Strangers: Penniless Across America by Mike McIntyre
Authors: Mike McIntyre
Ads: Link
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
“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
Similar Books
