Mike McIntyre - The Kindness of Strangers: Penniless Across America

Praise for THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

Could you survive a cross-country trip relying only on the kindness of strangers? Well, Mike McIntyre did. He put our country to the test, and what he found out sure surprised me.

Oprah

A superb writerSomething about McIntyre and his quest makes people want to feed him, pray for him, reveal their innermost torments to him.

Los Angeles Times

An incredible journey.

CBS News

A page turner.

The Detroit News

A captivating first book.

San Jose Mercury News

I could barely put the book down.

Donna Kelley, CNN

Fascinating. I wish I had thought of this.

Bill OReilly, The OReilly Factor

A book that could provide a dozen scripts for Touched By An Angel .

USA Today

When Mike McIntyre quit his job and went looking for the real America, something amazing happened. He found it.

Salon.com

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS:

PENNILESS ACROSS AMERICA

By MIKE MCINTYRE

Copyright 2010 by Mike McIntyre.

Revised e-book edition published by Mike McIntyre.

A slightly different trade paperback edition was published in 1996 by Berkley Books.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without permission in writing from the copyright owner. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy. Your support of the authors rights is appreciated.

CHAPTER 1

My head throbs from heat and hunger as I wilt on the side of a country road in northern California. The cardboard sign I level at oncoming traffic reads, Eureka, though my latest discovery is that Im out of water. I dont have two dimes to rub together, let alone a lucky penny. I ate my last meal two nights agoin a dream.

The summer sun roasts my face. I feel like Im hitchhiking inside an oven. My baseball cap would bring relief, but I leave it in my backpack, giving drivers a clear look at my eyes. No matter. Nobody stops. And who can fault them? Its 1994. This is America. Land of the free and home of the serial killer.

I stagger around the bend in a futile search for another road that feeds into Highway 101. When I return, someone has taken my place. His dark eyes fix me through strands of greasy, black hair. I dont have the strength to fight, or run.

You mustve just got dropped off, I say, squinting at the stranger. Where you coming from?

Jail.

The man laughs. He doesnt have a tooth in his head.

He says his name is Rudy, and the judge gave him three weeks for unpaid traffic tickets. He says hes heading home to Leggett, about 50 miles north, to check on his gold mine.

Im anxious to get back up there, he says. I just found a big vein supposed to be worth half a million dollars.

Yeah, I know, Rudys a dreamer. But like they say, without dreams, you got nightmares.

His red backpack is torn and frayed. Papers poke through a busted zipper. I wonder what else is inside.

Hey, you dont have any food you could spare, do you? I say. I havent eaten in days.

He reaches into his grimy jeans and pulls out two pieces of candy, each wrapped in cellophane.

Its the only food I got, he says, holding the candy in his palm.

Theyre frosted gumdrops. One orange, one grape. I eye the sweets as my saliva glands do back flips. I settle on the grape one.

Go ahead, take em both, Rudy says.

I grab the orange one, too.

Well, Im gonna walk up the road a bit, he says. They see two of us here, they wont stop. With two of us, they figure were gonna pound them into the dirt.

Before hes around the bend, I tear open the wrapper of the orange gumdrop. Its heaven to wedge something between my bellybutton and my tailbone, even if only a lump of sugar. I plan to save the grape one for later, but I gobble that down, too.

I fish a black felt pen from my pack and lower my sights. I scratch out Eureka and write in Willits. Its only a 17-mile ride. But the motoring public blows by me like Im waving a sign that says Homicidal Maniac.

I pace circles in the dirt, my knees ready to buckle. If I drop in the road, will somebody stop for me then?

Theres a noise behind me. I whirl and see the disheveled figure of Rudy. Hes got something in his hand, but its not candy.

Hey, I got to thinking up there on the freeway: He doesnt have any money .

Rudy unfolds two one-dollar bills and smoothes them flat against his chest. He irons out every wrinkle, as if the notes were shirt collars bound for church. He extends the money toward me.

I stare at the greenbacks. Two dollars. I know what that will buy. A loaf of bread and a pack of baloney. Or maybe a jar of peanut butter. I wont have to worry about food for three, four days. In God We Trust, it says. Hallelujah! Im born again.

Go on, take it, Rudy says.

I reach for the cash, then pull back.

I cant, I say. Im crossing America without a penny.

Last summer, I drove from my hometown of Tahoe City, California, to New Orleans. I spent much of the trip on U.S. Highway 50. Its called the Loneliest Road in America, and for good reason. I raced a hundred miles an hour across Nevada and rarely saw another car.

East of Ely, in the middle of the desert, I came upon a young man standing by the roadside. He had his thumb out and held a gas can in his other hand. It was obvious the guy needed help.

I drove right by him.

Someone else will stop for him, I reasoned. Besides, hes not really out of gas. That red can is just a ploy to flag down a car and rob the driver.

I drove on into Utah, however, then Colorado, still thinking about the hitchhiker. Leaving him stranded in the desert didnt bother me as much as how easily Id reached the decision. I never lifted my foot off the accelerator.

There was a time in this country when you were a jerk if you passed somebody in need. Now youre a fool for helping. Gangs, drugs, murderers, rapists, thieves, carjackers. Why risk it? I Dont Want to Get Involved has become a national motto.

I flashed on my final destination, New Orleans, the setting for Tennessee Williams play A Streetcar Named Desire . I recalled Blanches famous line at the end: Whoever you areI have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

The kindness of strangers . It sounds so quaint. Does such a trait exist in America anymore?

Closing in on New Orleans, I wondered: Could a person journey coast to coast without any money, relying solely on the goodwill of his fellow Americans? If so, what kind of America would he find? Who would feed him, shelter him, carry him down the road?

The question intrigued me. But I knew it was a question without an answer.

Who would be crazy enough to try such a trip?

What? Rudy says. You cant use two bucks?

I appreciate it, but I cant accept money.

Rudy wanders off, shaking his head.

Im not sure I get it either. I set out on this journey three days ago from San Francisco. Im now actually west of where I started. Only 3,000 miles to go.

I walked out the door a pilgrim. But today I feel like a refugee from the world of common sense.

CHAPTER 2

Three weeks earlier .

Im sitting in my car, parked in a condo complex down the road from my office near San Francisco. Its lunchtime, but the turkey sandwich rests untouched on the passenger seat. I barely notice a doe and her fawn step by the window. Its a golden California day, and Im crying.

I turned 37 this week. Ive been a newspaper reporter for a decade. The pay and perks are good. Ive traveled all over the world. I live in a nice apartment with a beautiful girlfriend. There are people who love me.

But all of that is little consolation when you know youre a coward.