I hadn't intended to write much detail about my time in Washington. Though I met some great people, and did enjoy myself quite a lot, I will always reflect upon this time with a bit of morosity. Until now, I have only shared with a few close friends the fact that I spent nearly three months living in a vehicle, effectively homeless.
There she is in all her glory. A 1988 Ford Bronco 4X4. I managed to work one decent job as a timber cruiser in the Pacific Northwest, buy that 4X4 with some of my paycheck from a month's work, and then basically had to move in to it. To explain, I'll have to step back a bit. And step into this:
"I dunno bout this." I was frowning at the poor heap of a truck before me. I had returned from my second trip to Ireland to find that my old business partner - you recall me telling you I was an engineer in a previous life? - anyways, he had basically never made a payment on the truck I let him borrow while I was away. Instead of returning and picking up my old truck, I was informed it had been repossessed. This also meant my credit was ruined. "I know someone who owes me a truck" the ole partner tells me. Needless to say, my mood wasn't great. He then proceeded to lead me to a neighborhood I normally would avoid...
Before me was a 1992 Ford F150 extended cab pick-up , black and with more than it's share of rust. 136,000+ miles on the clock. "and poorly maintained from what I can see."
"Ahh, don't be that way. Listen, I'm awful sorry bout your truck, but there's nuthin can be done now. Let me at least give you some wheels now and we'll see about upgrading later?"
I had no choice. It was a set of wheels. I didn't want to stand around arguing in the oppressive muggy Texas afternoon. In any case, nearly the moment I got the truck home to my bud's pad, we had a huge argument, much of it stemming from him owing me far more truck than he delivered, and I ended up leaving that night for the Pacific Northwest where I knew some forestry folks I could work with.
I had less than $600 to my name having just landed after a stint in Ireland, 2,200 miles to travel, much of it across the Rockies, to a job I was promised near Seattle, and no place to stay once I arrived. I piled everything I owned in to the truck, which was mostly clothes, one revolver, and one Greyhound, and went gently in to that good night.
Five hours later, on a lonely Texas road just north of Fort Stockton, TX, I had a puncture. It was 3 in the morning. I pulled over, got out, and took a look under the truck. I still remember the dusty smell of desert as I crawled under the bed of the pick up. "Please don't let there be any fire ants or scorpions..." To my surprise, there was a spare, and no ants. I managed to remove it with some effort in the balmy night air only to find it, too, was flat. I spoke a few choice words for my ex business partner and resigned to do something about it in the morning. It was a lonely stretch of Texas country road I was on, and it was early Saturday morning. I assumed I would have to walk back in to town if there were no traffic. I wanted to be rested some since daylight was only a few hours away. I let the hound out briefly, did my own business behind a drainage ditch, and then crawled back in to the cab for a nap. Not a single car passed me the entire time I was trying for sleep. In the distance, I could hear a lone coyote in the wind.
The hottest temperatures I had witnessed the last 9 months of my life in Ireland were maybe in the low 20's Celsius. When I awoke, it must have been close to 30*C. The good news is it had gone mostly dry. The bad news is I slept until late morning. The sun was nearly directly over head, baking us in the cab of the truck. I let the hound out and reached for the drink left over from last night's fast food in the console of the truck(I think it was a Sonic Burger). It was not 1/4 full - maybe 3-4 ounces of water was in it. It was then that I realized I had no other water in the truck. All I had was half a hamburger and those few ounces of water. I took a quick look at the map. Almost 10 miles from the nearest town. If I hurried, I could make it before most shops closed. I gave Carlow, my hound, all the water, and half the hamburger. I 'drank' a couple packets of ketchup I found in the console. Carlow would need the water more than me. I checked my mobile, and old flip phone - no signal. I put on a baseball cap, locked the truck, and began walking as briskly as I dared in the Texas sun with Carlow at my side. The road stretched for miles from horizon to shimmering horizon.
I counted my money. $578 and some change. Please let this tire be cheap. I have several more states to go before reaching the Pacific NorthWest.
It had been a while now. The sun was still directly over my head, refusing to move. Carlow was panting furiously. Not a shade tree in sight on this part of the road. Not a damn thing in sight. I had no idea how far along I had come. I only had a cheap old phone with no GPS. I dragged it out of my pocket. Just passed 3PM. No reception. I quickened my pace and wiped the sweat from my brow. I was starting to feel dizzy. I need to get to town and find some water. I had not been so parched in such a long time. I started to cough.
Carlow gave out a bark. I assumed she saw another jackrabbit in the distance, and paid her no heed. When she gave out another bark, I could hear the sound of vehicle approaching behind us. I placed my hands above my brim as I turned.
"Ya'll alright?!", a dusty old man shouted from the cab of an even dustier pick-up truck as he gazed down upon me and the dog.
I was squinting, trying to focus on the man in the blinding sunlight. "That y'alls truck a ways back yonder?" he asked.
"Yessir. Uh, good to know it's still there." I started to cough a bit.
"Ain't no one stealing that thang, mang." he gave a wry smile.
"Yeah, uh, luck ain't my strong point." I could hardly speak. "Ah, y'all got any water?"
"Sure, here..." I walked across a lane of boiling tarmac as I approached the truck. "There ya are", he says as he held out a can from the cab.
"Well, you are a life saver." I smiled down upon the can of Budweiser in my hand. Not my usual favorite, but certainly my favorite beer that day. Every time I open a can of beer to this day, I remember that can of Bud.
"If you'll give me one of your bad spares, I can let ya have my good one here." He smiled.
I coughed up a bit of beer. "Pardon me?"
"We got the same truck, son." He held out his thumb and index finger like a gun, pointing directly at the dashboard in front of him without taking his gaze from me.
I hadn't even noticed. He had nearly the exact same truck as I did. Maybe even the same year.
"Uh, wow. I'd be obliged. How much do I owe ya?"
"Pfft! Ain't nuthin'. I didn't come here to take nuthin'."
Less than two country music songs later and we had returned to my wreck - same as I left it. As the man went to remove the spare from his own pick-up, he decided to tell me his life story. Turns out the old man married a Tejano woman who stays at home while he runs a small ranch. They'd both been in this part of Texas all their lives. No children around any more, no real education, just a house, a barn, some cattle, goats, and some cactus and the occasional deer for dinner. Sometimes he goes to town. Sometimes he went to church. It was a wondrously simple life. Not once did he complain about how much the times had changed, or how much people had changed. Because, in this part of Texas, nothing has really changed much for generations.
I tried again to offer payment when he handed me his spare. He sternly refused, as I suspected he would. That's OK. While he toiled and talked, I had stuffed a $20 bill in to his fuel flap. It was the least I could do.
He stood by, offering his point of view on life and coyotes as I installed the spare tire on to my own vehicle.
"There's a coyote was here." He stated calmly as he points at a set of tracks in the dirt near me with the tip of a worn leather boot. "I got a dog, too. Keeps the 'yotes away mostly."
I rose after letting the Ford down from the jack and shook the old man's weathered hand. We both wished each other luck. I made it a point to tell him I envied his life and what a good man he was. He tipped his hat, said he was already late for something, kindly saving me from any awkwardness in parting, and drove off in a cloud of dust. Late for something? Out here?
I wonder how many travelers he'd helped. As I started my pick-up, I began to wonder if the last 24 hours of my life were a dream.
