"Vet Stranded, Broke, and Hungry "

Earlier this week I got a call from my wife ten minutes after she’d left to go grocery shopping. She had a strained, intensity to her voice. “There’s a guy on the corner with a backpack and a cardboard sign - ‘Vet - stranded, broke, and hungry.’” “It’s a crime!”

We’d seen variations on the theme play out so often, that we almost had a protocol.

Photo by Mark VanLaeys

I grabbed a few protein bars, my motorcycle jacket, and headed off. Even though I’ve probably reached out to more strangers than the average bloke, it’s always a little unsettling. We’re not used to talking to those outside our typical circles.

When eye to eye with someone who lives on the fringes, it’s easy to default to - we probably don’t have anything in common. But as the years roll by, I’m finding more times than not - we do. I just have to dig deeper sometimes than others.

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Ten minutes later I pulled up and parked in a nearby lot. There he was, a guy “pushin’ eighty,” with a worn-out hat, the requisite backpack, and dark shades. I introduced myself. “So how are you doing today?” With a toothless grin and a heavy Tennessee drawl, Miguel responded, “doin’ pretty well.”

“So, where are you headed?” He said something about his sister, Nashville, some arranged ride, Washington, Dakota, and Nashville. My BS meter flickered. He definitely had a southern accent; but between that, his lack of teeth and occasional traffic, I was confused at best.

I tried to get him to clarify. “Can you tell me again where you said your sister lived . . . and where you’re headed?” He looked at me, his face tightening, and went silent. I grabbed for a lifeline; it was not a long stretch. “When I graduated from college back in the late seventies, I hitch hiked a lot - close to fifteen thousand miles. I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for people on the road.”

Sensing I wasn’t going to run off, he slowly explained how he’d gone from his home in Nashville to visit his younger sister in Washington state. The trip was going fine until the ride that she’d arranged for his return trip fell through. He’d managed to get a ride to one of the Dakotas but then had to collect a number of rides to work his way to Wisconsin. At this point he was headed south toward Nashville where his 17-year-old dog awaited his return.

And he opened up. “Back in 1972, I had just gotten back from Nam. I didn’t get the welcome I was expecting, and my head was really fucked up . . . I ended up on the road for seven years goin’ nowhere . . . till I finally stopped drinkin’.”

From an otherwise empty front pocket, Miguel pulled out his AA medallion commemorating his first year of sobriety forty plus years ago. He held it for me to read. “This is my reminder to never go back. I don’t need the drink, I got rid of my demons.”

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We shared our experiences riding the rails and though mine was short and hair raising, his was a protracted ordeal. He learned how to work the system in the process. There were actually maps that included all the main freight routes across the U.S. And they were available to anyone for a fee. Who would have imagined?

Miguel also pointed out: “Even hobos can be generous.” One had given him the prized government map when they had crossed paths on a freight car. Gone were some of the unknowns and risks of rail travel.

I talked with him for roughly a half hour and though not one tooth ever made an appearance, he certainly did laugh and smile. I felt we had made some connection, but the truth was hidden behind those dark glasses.

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We both shared memories of those years where we each traveled physically to find ourselves - me after sixteen years of trudging through books, and him after two years of trudging through hell. All of those experiences shaped us, and for better or worse our futures. There were opportunity costs we each paid for the choices me made back then. Unfortunately, he keeps paying for his.

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One of the highlights of my short time with Miguel was seeing a woman in her mid thirties walk over from the lot next to my motorcycle. She offered a bright smile and heartfelt words of encouragement. She then placed some folded bills in his hands and returned to one of the most dilapidated cars I’ve ever seen.

We were both touched by her kindness and generosity. We shook hands and he thanked me twice for my travel money. “I’m going to remember this as coming from my brother who’s gone on - his name was Mark, too.”

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