The Kindness of Strangers: Penniless Across America by Mike McIntyre Page A
Authors: Mike McIntyre
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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
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
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