After trucker Stefan had dropped me off at the truck stop on Interstate 20 just west of Meridian, Mississippi, he pointed to a road which he said would lead to Interstate 59, which runs to New Orleans, Lousiana. "It's about a quarter of a mile up the road." It was already well dark, and I had to find a stealth camp somewhere and worry about walking to Interstate 59 tomorrow. Luckily, the surrounding lands were sparsely populated and I was able to set up camp along what looks like a hiking trail around a large pond.
In the morning I wanted to make haste because where I set up my tent seemed like private property: I crossed a locked gate last night. A quarter mile of walking should only take 10 minutes. Ten minutes passed. Then 30 minutes passed. Doubts stirred about whether Stefan had ever driven down this road because there hadn't been a rig coming down the road for the past 30 minutes. Then an hour passed, but I still held out hope Interstate 59 was still up ahead because it was sort of the correct direction. Doubts became annoyance, annoyance became frustration. Finally, I arrived at a little convenience store after another 30 minutes and asked for direction. The owner directed, "It's a good ways to 59. About 8 more miles." Eight miles?! After purchasing a 1 litre bottle of Dr. Pepper, I was heading back to the truck stop at Interstate 20 where I started this morning. (I could keep heading west to Texas via Interstate 20 and end up near Dallas.)
This was turning out to be a pretty lousy morning under the grey clouds, but things looked a little brighter when I got a hitch from Huckleberry, an 80-something year old man wearing overalls and hair sticking out of his chest like a neglected lawn. In his muffled voice, he related a story about 10 years ago when he picked up 2 hitchhikers who pulled a gun on him. He returned the favor by pulling out his gun from the side of his seat. Luckily the hitchhikers backed down and they left the vehicle.
Immediately, I got on the ramp for Interstate 20 west and started hitching. There was a voice as though someone was having a discussion in the nearby woods. "It wouldn't surprise me if someone actually lived there," I thought. Sure enough, Pat just moved in about a week ago. He was actually talking to himself, which is why I thought there was a conversation. It's okay to talk to yourself, just don't reply.
Pat came out to greet the first visitor he's had since he's relocated here. "You're the first person I've seen hitchhiking here." At many of the larger truck stops, people who try to solicit rides do so at the truck stops and not thumb rides. "Let me have a sip of your Dr. Pepper," he requested as though we were well acquainted. Initially, I refused because of the way he asked, but seconds later, I presented him the whole bottle which was mostly full.
Then he asked if he could borrow a dollar. When I shook my head, he followed, "Then can I have a dollar?" The way he came across so unassummingly and bluntly made me feel less compassionate, but I knew I should try to help. Many folks who are homeless actually receive some benefits from the government which goes into a bank account or somewhere, but it doesn't mean strangers shoudn't assist some of them. Two former homeless men offered help earlier in the week while many well-to-do people turned blind eyes. I handed over 2 dollars, 5 candy bars including Snickers, and a sealed package of precooked ground beef. He was very thankful, "Come down and see me later on."
After 30 minutes of unsuccessful thumbing, I went down to visit Pat's home. This home had all windows and no door. In most houses the living room is decorated with couches and a television and maybe a touch of rug, here the surrounding area was full of prickly thorns and the centerpiece was a torn cardboard sheet he lied on. He had already drank half the bottle of Dr. Pepper and ate one of the Snickers candy bar. There were a few odds and ends, but mostly useless items, well, at least seemingly valueless to me. One item of interest was a new damp paperback novel which he had purchased from Wal-mart for about $5.00. For me, this book stood out because it was something Pat bought for himself with precious little money. There was no tarp to cover the area so he just weathered the storm when nature brought its rain. I suspect he didn't utilize any rain covers so the authorities would not discover his little secret hideout.
He dropped bits of information about his recent life while we chatted for a few minutes. "When I was in detention for 4 months, the [government] checks were still coming. I said when I got out I would go to a pawn shop and buy a guitar and an amplifier." While locked up, he spent his creative energies writing songs. When Pat was released, he did buy the equipment, but he wasn't clear where he kept his belongings, but I think it was with some friends. I suggested, "You should spend the money you have on things you need first, and when you can get yourself out of this homeless situation, then buy the things you want. You can still write music without a guitar." I really can't blame Pat for buying a guitar: The guitar was an outlet for his life and dreams, and sometimes imagination and hope are the only sensations allowing us to surge forward or continue with this life.
I asked if he wanted a bible, and he happily accepted the bible James the trucker offered me 2 days ago. The gift must have been some great reward for Pat because he gave me a hug. "When you are reunited with your own bible, pass this bible on to someone else who would like it," I hinted. Although I don't consult the bible much, reading the bible on the lonely road home did provide some comfort at times.
Hitching didn't improve. Another hour gone by and Pat would visit me every 20 minutes. My frustration started to mount as the sun steered its rays out of the clouds. When Pat came around, I knew my chances of getting a hitch was about zero percent- not because of his haggard clothes, but because people are more afraid to pick up 2 men at once (at least they may think we were hitchhiking together), especially women.
Pat finally decided to buy something at the truck stop across the interstate with the money I donated earlier. During the time he would be away, I was hoping to catch a ride and not be frustated by his presence. Still no luck. Thirty minutes later Pat returned and approached with a cup of coffee and a flat worn wooden stick. My lack of patience recurred knowing there would be no rides if we were together. "You want some coffee," Pat questioned as he held the blue paper cup closer to me. I just shook my head. "I found this stick. You could use it to help you stand while you're waiting." I just shook my head again, but accepted the stick and then placed it immediately on the ground. Pat asked some other questions, but the silent reply was the same- just shaking my head to brush him off.
He finally understood I didn't want him standing next to me, not because I disliked him, but because it was difficult hitching. His feelings were obviously hurt as he walked back to his residence. He came back up to the road across from me and sat reading and looking into the distance. Today and possibly tomorrow and possibly even the week, I was probably his only friend, but I wronged him. The good I had done earlier seemed vain now. He had so little, but he offered something, and I didn't accept or deny very gracefully. Maybe Pat purchased the coffee just for me.
After 10 minutes he went back into the bushes for the last time, not glancing over his shoulders. This would be how our short friendship would end.
Thirty minutes later, a passenger truck stopped and I was finally leaving this truck stop area. I would have waved or said good-bye if Pat was around, and for much of the day, I contemplated my injustice. Apoligizing should have been more important than standing there repeatedly hoping the next vehicle would stop, but I chose the wrong path again this morning. I wish you the best of luck my friend and that one day you'll guide yourself out of the homeless life.
