The Road to Grace (The Walk) (23 page)

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Alan. Yours?”

“Israel. Israel Campbell.”

“And you’re a tramp.”

“Yes, sir. To regular folk, most homeless people look the same, but we’re not.” He held his hand out in front of him, extending his index finger. “First, you’ve got your mountain men—they’re easy to spot. They look like they just crawled out of a cave or something. They usually have a lot of facial hair and they only come out in public when they absolutely need something, then go back as soon as they can.”

He extended a second finger. “Then you have your crazies. I don’t mean serial killer crazy, but just a bit off, you know? Arguing with themselves. You can tell the elevator doesn’t quite reach the top floor.”

I nodded. “I’ve seen these people,” I said.

He extended a third finger. “Then you got your hobos.”

“Hobos and tramps aren’t the same thing?”

“No. Hobos give us tramps a bad name.”

“How’s that?”

“Hobos do a lot of panhandling—you’ll see them on off-ramps with cardboard signs begging for money. Tramps don’t beg unless we have to. Tramps work. It’s a point of pride with us. We just don’t have a home or vehicle, so we hitchhike.

“Hobos also ride trains a lot. I do that some, but only if I’m stuck somewhere. There are tricks to the trains. I’ve been thinking of learning the ropes.”

“Tricks? Like what?”

“What I know so far is that it’s the pushers, the engines
in the rear, that you want to get into. They’ve got bottled water, refrigerators, and a bathroom.”

“There’s no one riding back there?”

“Not usually. But even if someone’s in there, they don’t necessarily throw you out. Once a guy let me stay on with my dog.”

“You have a dog?”

“I did,” he said quickly, as if he didn’t want to talk about it. “The thing is, they don’t really care that much. Having someone ride the train isn’t any sweat off their back, but they have to act like they care. You know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“The most important thing is to stay away from the bulls. That’s the railroad police. Most of them are lazy and don’t bother to search the boxcars, but if they see you, you’re in trouble. But, it’s like I said, that’s mostly hobo stuff. Not that I hate hobos or anything. I’m sociable with anyone on the road. A lot of homeless don’t want you around because they don’t trust anyone, but I’m not like that. I try to give others money if I have any and I always ask if they’re okay. The other day I left two dollars under a bridge and a note that said, ‘Have a beer on me. If you don’t really need this, leave it for the next guy who does.’”

“So how does one start being a
tramp
?” I asked.

He rubbed his chin. “That’s a good question. In my case, it just kind of happened. It’s not like I was in career day at school and I said, ‘I think I’ll be a tramp.’ It just kind of snuck up on me. I had a crappy home life, so when I was seventeen, a friend called and said he had some work for me in the next state. I didn’t own a car, so I hitchhiked my way there. When I finished the job, someone else called with a job, so I hitchhiked again. Since
then I haven’t stayed in one place more than three or four months. I guess I’m always looking for greener pastures.”

“You’re always on the road?”

“If there’s work. But not always. Last winter, I dug myself a shelter six feet into the side of a hill. I even had a stove I made of three five-gallon steel buckets. It was kind of a nice place.”

“Where are you from originally?” I asked.

“I grew up near St. Louis.”

I looked at his sign. “Then you’re going home?”

“Not if I can help it. It’s just the next big city on my way to Arkansas.”

“You still have family in St. Louis?”

“If you call family a bunch of cutthroats who don’t care if you’re dead or alive. I have no need to see any of them again.” He looked down. “So, what are you, hobo or tramp?”

“Neither,” I said. “I’m just walking.”

“Hitchhiking’s faster.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

He nodded. “Where do you sleep?”

“Depends on the day. A lot of cheap motels. Sometimes in the fields.”

“There’s a trick to that too,” he said. “Ever been hassled by the cops?”

“Not yet. I’ve been mugged.”

He frowned. “Me too. Comes with the territory. But cops have been a bigger problem for me. The most important thing about sleeping on the road is to stay out of sight.”

I already knew this, of course, but I didn’t tell him as I wanted to hear what he had to say.

“Trees are usually your best bet for cover. I always scope out my sleeping spot from all angles to make sure I can’t be seen from the road. I always get up early, usually before the sun, to get back on the road. Nothing worse than having some itchy, tin badge wake you up at three in the morning to tell you to get going, regardless of the weather or how far you’re going to have to walk to get to the next exit.”

“I haven’t had that happen yet,” I said.

“You will. Another good place to sleep is under highway overpasses. There’s usually a ledge up top that makes a good bunk. Of course, first you need to check to see if someone else has slept there. Most transients leave a trail of beer cans, cardboard, old clothing, you know. If you’ve been on the road, you’ve seen it.” He shook his head. “Once I found a noose. Thankfully, there wasn’t a body attached to it.

“What you’ve got to do is make sure there isn’t any feces. That’s the big one. Also, if it’s cloudy, I check the ground for water trails, just to make sure that the bridge doesn’t leak.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I said. “So is it hard getting picked up?”

“Sometimes. Like anything, you’ll have your days when the fish aren’t biting, but not usually. You might say I’m good at it. Hitchhiking is all about psychology. For instance, I used to have a red sleeping bag. I had to get rid of it. Red, yellow, and orange signify danger and people are less likely to pick you up if they see that color. I’ve never seen like a research study on that, but I tell you, I’ve proven it.

“The truth is, most of the thinking that goes into picking up a hitchhiker isn’t logical. For instance, a lot of
people won’t pick up a hitchhiker with long hair and a beard because they think he might be a serial killer. You can thank television for that. But it’s not the case. Look at Ted Bundy, the Zodiac killer, John Wayne Gacy, Son of Sam, the Green River killer—all of them clean-shaven, respectable-looking guys. So you might say that your best bet of getting picked up is to look like a serial killer.” He laughed at this. “Bottom line, if you want a ride, you need to look like you don’t need a ride. I always try my best to look presentable. I’d never wear my hair as long as yours. Scares people away.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not hitchhiking,” I said.

“Another thing you should know about are truck stops. Truck stops can be lifesavers if you know how to work them. First thing I do when I get to a truck stop is put my pack in the weeds outside so they don’t know I’m a hitchhiker. Then I can blend in with the truckers and sit in the truckers’ lounge and warm up or cool down, watch TV, whatever.

“You learn tricks, you know? When truckers fill up at a gas station they get a shower ticket. I can spot them a mile away. I’ll ask a guy on the way to his truck if he has an extra shower ticket and most of the time he’ll give me one. Sometimes I’ll ask the truck stop management for a ticket. I tell them I’m not a panhandler and I’m not going to bother anybody and sometimes they’ll just give me a shower ticket.

“But no matter how decent and respectable-looking you keep yourself, some people are still going to look at you like you’re a piece of garbage just because they’re in a car and you’re not. I stopped looking at the people in the cars years ago just to keep from losing my mind. I mean, some people look at you like you’re stuck to the bottom of
their shoe. I’ve had people drive by me at forty miles per hour and lock their doors.

“And then there’s the head shakers. They look at you waiting on an exit and shake their heads no. It’s degrading. I look at their cars, so I don’t look like I’m spacing out like a weirdo, but I don’t look at the people. There are too many door lockers and head shakers in this world.

“Of course the best way to get a ride is to be a woman. Women can get rides from truckers no problem.”

That certainly seemed to be the case with Pamela
, I thought.

“Someday I’m going to write a book called
The Psychology of Hitchhiking
. What do you think?”

“I think it sounds interesting,” I said.

“You don’t know anything about publishing books, do you?”

I shook my head. “Sorry. No.”

“Doesn’t cost to ask,” he said.

We walked a moment in silence.

“Seventeen,” I said. “You must get lonely sometimes.”

He frowned. “Yeah. Sometimes. I mean, I wish I could find a wife, but finding someone who would live this way isn’t very likely. There are women who like the road, but there are ten thousand guys to every one of them, so they get snatched up real quick. Besides, to meet women you have to stay in shelters or ride the trains, and I’ve never liked either.” He sighed a little. “So, what’s your story? Why are you on the road?”

I thought briefly about how much to share, then decided to tell him everything. “I lost my wife last year after she broke her back in a horse riding accident. While I was taking care of her, my business was stolen from me. I lost everything. In a matter of weeks I lost my wife, my business, my house, and my cars. All gone. So I packed up and
started walking. Key West was as far as I could go without swimming, so that’s where I decided to go.”

“I’m sorry about all that,” he said sympathetically. “There’s a lot of bad in this world. What your brother doesn’t do to you, God will.” He looked around, raising his hands. “It’s dog eat dog out there. Those Sunday meeting minions will tell you that God’s beauty is witnessed in nature. But their view is selective. The truth is, nature is horrifying, red in tooth and claw.” He looked out over the corn. “Out there in that field right now there is death and terror.”

“I see a lot of corn to feed people,” I said.

“Sure there are sunsets and roses and all that crap, but there’s also the fly struggling in the web while a spider sucks the life from it. There are wolves hunting down a baby deer and eating it alive. These things were made by God too.”

“You don’t get invited to many parties, do you?”

He ignored me. “So what’s with this God who makes beautiful sunsets then soaks the ground beneath them in blood. If you ask me, I think God is the ultimate sadist. He’s like a kid who drops red ants and black ants together in the same jar just to watch them fight. I think this Earth is nothing more to God than a big cockfight.”

“That’s about the darkest view of God I’ve ever heard,” I said.

“Welcome to the real world, pal,” he said. “People going around saying that God is all just and good, but answer me this: how can God be just when according to almost every religion he damns sinners to an eternity of punishment for something that happens in a finite amount of time? It’s not a proportionate response. It’s not just and it’s certainly not good.”

I couldn’t answer him.

“Look at it this way. Let’s say a kid goes to a store where he sees a candy bar. He has no money, but he really wants that candy. So when he thinks no one is looking, he takes it. He’s broken the law. Of course he should pay—I don’t disagree with that. But what that poor kid doesn’t know is that the store owner has cameras everywhere and all he does is sit back in his office all day waiting to catch someone. So the store owner drags the kid out back behind the store, pours gasoline on him, and lights him on fire. That’s your eternal damnation. That’s your God. That’s your religion.”

“That’s not my religion,” I said. “I don’t believe in a God who created us to condemn us. I don’t believe that God is fear.”

“All religions teach God is fear,” Israel said. “Then they dress him up as the good shepherd. A wolf in shepherd’s clothing.”

“Sometimes good parents use fear,” I said. “To protect their children. It’s like a mother telling her child not to play in the road, because he might get hit by a car.”

“The difference,” Israel said, “is that God is the one driving the car.”

I nodded. “You’re right. That is the difference. You either believe in a God of grace and love or a God of damnation and condemnation, but you can’t believe in both, because he can’t be the same Being.”

“There is no God of grace,” Israel said. “You should know. He killed your wife.”

“He didn’t kill my wife. A horse did.”

“He could have stopped her from dying.”

“You mean he could have
postponed
her from dying. Because,
in the end, everything in this world dies. Everything. That’s why people look to God for the next.”

Israel looked at me darkly.

“Look,” I said. “I don’t care what you believe about God. I’m not even sure what I believe. The truth is, much smarter men than us have discussed this question for millennia, and still haven’t come to a consensus.