The Kindness of Strangers: Penniless Across America Read Free Page A

the white noise is broken by the sound of the engine.
    We’re moving again. The man says something about the trees, how good they smell. Yes, I agree, inhaling deeply.
    He drops me by the freeway and asks how long I plan to be on the road. I tell him about two months.
    “Well, have a good trip.”

    I’m too unnerved to get in another stranger’s car today, so I let my shaky legs carry me into town. There’s a farmers’ market in the city parking lot. Free samples, I figure. I make several passes down the line of produce stands, smiling and nodding at the vendors, but nobody shoves food in my face.
    A clerk at the Chamber of Commerce hands me a list of lodging options in the area. Accommodations fall in the categories of “expensive,” “moderate,” and “budget.” There’s no category called “free.” But I see there’s a campground, and I ask for directions.
    I walk six miles to the campground, not knowing if the owner will let me spend the night. The country road winds through the Alexander Valley, part of Sonoma County’s famed wine region. Neat rows of grapevines stretch out to the mountains. A sagging wire fence is all that keeps me from the clusters of plump, juicy fruit. It’s been eight hours since the Elvis Scramble, but I’m not yet desperate enough to commit trespassing and petty theft. I walk on, my stomach cursing my conscience.
    A sign at the campground entrance tells me a campsite costs $5. Another sign hanging from the nearby trailer tells me the man to see about a deep discount is named Chief. I knock on the aluminum siding. A large Indian appears in the doorway. Chief, I presume.
    “I’m Mike McIntyre. I wonder if I could stay here, and I’ll do some work for you in return.”
    Chief gives me a long glance from behind the screen door.
    “For how long?”
    “Just for tonight.”
    “Pick yourself out a spot.”
    I say thanks and ask what he needs done.
    “I can’t think of anything right at the moment. Go ahead and spend the night.”
    The campground sits on what was once a Wappo Indian reservation. “Everyone left to go work for the white man, and the government took it away from us,” Chief says. Now he works for the white man who bought his boyhood home from the government. He’s petitioning Congress to return the land to his tribe.
    He was a big city cop before he tired of the politics and corruption and turned in his badge. His old lieutenant, now with the police department in another city, wants Chief to quit the campground and join the force. But Chief won’t hear it.
    “I like it out here,” he says. “When I wanna take a piss, I just walk outside and take one. You can’t piss in the city.”
    It’s the day after Labor Day weekend, so the campground is nearly empty. I unroll my sleeping bag beneath an oak tree. I didn’t bring a tent. My lack of shelter might be the excuse wary strangers need to invite me into their homes. Especially when it rains.
    I sit on the picnic table and write in my journal. I look up to see my site’s idle barbecue taunting me. A man a few sites over grills chicken. The family across the path cooks steaks. Long after nightfall, I sit in the dark, listening to the belches and sighs of happy campers. Then I go to bed hungry for the first time since I was a kid.

    The next day, a trucker carries me to the Ukiah exit. I walk the mile from the freeway into town, passing every fast food chain in existence. I get the shakes when I wait too long between meals. But I’m all shook out. What’s left is a headache that could split an atom.
    I study the downtown restaurants like a robber casing banks.
    I know my next move. But where? When? I circle the block three times. When I screw up enough courage, I slip through a doorway. Inside, I find a cafe still under construction. Stupid! I stammer my rehearsed offer to work for food, anyway. “Sorry,” the owner says. Her look tells me that in the span of 24 hours, I’ve turned into one pathetic