Homeless

   Kansans all warn me about the same things: hills, bad drivers, heat, and wind.  However, the only one that seems real to me is the heat.  The “bad drivers” are the most courteous I have come across on my trip, and all of them wave to me as if we have known each other all our lives instead of the flickering moment that we can barely make out each other’s facial features.  The wind, well, yeah it sucks but that’s a part of bike touring, and it certainly isn’t insurmountable.  The hills, I refuse to call them hills, they are long gradual inclines that pale in comparison to what I have already ridden.  They are more like sweeping undulations of wheat and corn that expose the beauty of nothingness, and are the perfect canvas for the insanity that ensues after long days on the bike. 

   Without a doubt, Kansas has been good to me.  Even with this scorching heat, she’s been good to me.  The small towns here are fascinating, an oasis of civilization in a very harsh climate and unforgiving land.  On my route, they are about fifteen to twenty-five miles apart, but not all of them have services, so it requires some planning for replenishment. 

   A few days ago, I pulled into the town of Oberlin.  As I came into town, I saw a small park and knew that if I asked the city officials this is where they would tell me to camp for the night, so before I even reached Main Street, I knew I wasn’t going to be asking anyone where to camp.  I have camped next to the highway too many times at this point and know that it doesn’t make for a restful night. Highway 36 seems to be the preferred route for eighteen wheelers and RVs, and they don’t stop driving just because I’m trying to sleep.  Shit, even when they do stop driving it doesn’t necessarily mean they are going to turn their engine off for the night. (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!!)

   Every time I pull into these islands of country folk, I feel like an outlaw cowboy entering an unknown town.  The wide streets welcome a leisurely roll to the heart of the wind trodden downtown.    I took a lap or two to get more familiar with Oberlin and decide where I would eat.  

   Once I knew the lay of the land, I picked the Re-load Bar and Grill.  I would take the time to describe it, but I feel like with that name you know exactly what it looks like, and I’d rather let your imagination get carried away than type another word about it.  The bartender was short, squatty, and had a face that betrayed her sweet nature.  The food, unfortunately, tasted just how it looked, but I didn’t care. 

   After an hour I was joined by a man named Dane.  He was much taller than me (it doesn’t take much) and had brown curls that you usually only see on a toddler.  The conversation started out pretty tame as we gave our introductions and backstories, but after a while Dane got comfortable and as he got more comfortable his language grew more colorful.  Now, I fucking swear all the time but out here it’s not that common so I have curtailed my natural instincts in order to be well received in these communities.  Dane, however, had not, and every time he swore the sweet old bartender’s shoulders tightened as she turned away. 

   To break my association with sunburnt Dane, I decided it was time to leave. 

   “I’ll take my check please,” I said

   “You’re all settled,” the bartender responded. 

   “But I haven’t paid yet.”

   “Don’t know what to tell you,” she winked.  “Have a safe ride, hun.”

   “Thank you, ma’am,” I smiled and put down a few dollars on the bar that she didn’t acknowledge. 

   It was getting late in the day and I needed to scout out a few places to camp.  I found another park attached to the local school and figured I would lay my blanket down and read for a bit.  About fifteen minutes into my new book, I was interrupted by a young voice. 

   “Hello,” the young boy said.

   I don’t want to do this right now.

   “Hello,” my voice fell flat on the ground between us.  I didn’t want to invite a lengthy conversation with the young boy.  I look like the vagrant that I am and conversing with a lone child in the park isn’t going to help me out any. 

   “What are you doing?” He asked.

   “I’m laying here reading my book.”

   “But you’re all by yourself.  You must be pretty lonely.”

   He’s a good kid, but still not doing this.

   “I’m not.  I’m pretty happy with where I am.”

   The boy shifted around my blanket but never stepped on it.  His bright yellow shirt with a batman insignia was probably too big for him last year but he hasn’t quit on it just yet.  He walked around to the side of the blanket that I was closest to and leaned over with his arm extended.  

   “My name is Clayton.  Clayton Redding.”

   His hand was barely big enough to wrap around mine but he did his best to give it a proper grip and shake.  

   “My name is Mark.”  

   Clayton leaned in to catch my last name.  When he realized that he was only gettin my first, he continued.

   “Look. I’m not trying to be mean, because, well you know me, I’m a nice guy.” 

   I couldn’t help but wonder who he was emulating.  His hands danced around like a pair of charmed snakes while he delivered his speech.

   “So, don’t think I’m mean, okay?” he asked.  

   “I won’t think you’re mean.” I said with a wry smile.

   “Okay, good! Are you homeless?” As soon as the words darted from his mouth he turned away like weight of the question was more than he could handle.  

   I laughed.

   His serpents began their dance again and he started to speak again but then changed his mind.

   “In a way, Clayton, I am very homeless right now.”

    “I thought so.”

   “You are very confident young man.  How old are you?” I asked

   “I’m twelve, sir.”

   He started to ask another question about my vagrancy but I interrupted. 

   “So you’re going into seventh grade then?”

   Clayton looked over his shoulder as if he was looking for help, but there was no one there.  His eyes didn’t meet mine.

   “I’m in the fifth grade.” He put down the plastic bag of food that he was carrying and ran his hand through his buzz cut.  He studied the grass then my red blanket.

   “Did you just get out of the pool?”  I asked hoping to shift the mood.

   “Yeah,” he said.  “So, you’re really homeless.  Why are you here then?”  

   “This is a choice that I made.  I’m biking across the country.  I’m doing this because I want to.” My voice grew softer.

   “Oh! This is a choice! I thought maybe this was because you had problems with the bank.”

   I couldn’t help but chuckle a bit.  

   “Nope, this is by choice,” I said.

   “Every morning I go to the city hall and they give me food.  Maybe tomorrow you could go there and they would give you some or, you know what, I will ask for a little bit more, so I can give it to you.  They know me.”  

   “That’s really kind of you, Clayton, but I’m going to be leaving early in the morning.”  

   “Oh, you don’t want to stay in our town?  That makes sense.”  

   The wind rattled the plastic bag at his feet.  He looked down at it and got an idea.

   “Here.  Have this then.”  He went to pick it up and pass it to me.

   “That is incredibly kind of you but I don’t need any food—I have plenty, but thank you so much.”  

  “I feel like I should help you.  You look like you need help.”  Clayton found his lost confidence and looked me in the face when he spoke.  

   “That means a lot but I don’t need any help,” I said.  

   He looked at me, my bike, the bags, my scraggly beard and must have seen enough to think otherwise.

  “Are you sure?” He asked.

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” I said through a loving laugh.

   “Alright, well I tried!”  Exasperated Clayton started to walk away and then thought of something.  “Do me a favor, okay?  Try to get a house one day.  This isn’t good for you!”  

   “I will do my best.”