A to Z - 9. Houghton

June 3

It’s been a week, and I’m a wreck. A hungry, stinking, dirty wreck. At least some of my cuts and bruises are healing. My limp is better. I have no idea how far I have walked so far, but I know I am a long, long way from home.

Question for tonight: what if I had just stayed there – stayed home, stayed in the principal’s office, stayed in Carlsberg? Would it have been that bad? Is it worth looking over my shoulder every few minutes to see if anyone is watching? To see if there is a police car approaching?

I’ve gotten a few looks, but honestly, the roads I’ve been on have very little traffic on them. The cars don't slow down for me.

I left the United Brethren behind. I felt bad taking clothes and food from them, but I didn’t feel I could part with what little money I’ve got. I stole two other things from the church that I stuffed into my pack: a partial roll of toilet paper, and some wooden matches I found in the kitchen. I figured they’d come in useful. Anyway, I chickened out and slipped an IOU under the door marked “Pastor’s Office,” with a note saying I’m sorry for having been a thief. If I ever get any money, I’ll have to try and send them enough to cover what I stole.

The road over the mountain was long, and it seemed to go up and up through a canopy of fresh green leaves forever. By the time the sun was overhead, the day was hot, and I was glad of the shade. I wanted to take off my jacket, but my pack was full of my new clothes and stolen food, so I really didn’t have any place to put it. The road up the mountain went from pavement to dirt near the top, and then back to pavement as the road started going down the far side.

I was now officially away from Carlsberg – out of the wide, flat lands and into the mountains. A whole different place entirely.

By the end of the day, when I walked into a tiny village, I think I might have passed a dozen cars. At the crossroads, I chose the road that looked less busy, and which led to the west, toward the next mountain.

The food I took didn’t last more than a couple of days. My pack was lighter, at least. Another corner store, another box of cereal, which is now about empty. I still have my trusty water bottle, kept full by sneaking around darkened houses and getting a fill-up when I can find an outdoor faucet.

I walked for four days, I think. The road I took runs through a valley, so there are mountains to my left and right – west, and east, roughly, by the direction of the sun in the morning. I must be heading north, pretty much. Big farms and little houses dotted the way. I try to look like I belong whenever a car goes by – and I’ve been pretty inconspicuous, I hope, but I must stand out like a sore thumb on a lonely road like the one I’ve been on. I’ve tried a few roads leading west, up into the next mountain ridge, but they’ve all been dead ends.

I’ve passed a few cars parked on the road, and one guy who was fussing with the engine of a sedan. I passed a crew working on replacing a house roof. They were mostly young guys, and they had their shirts off in the heat. I couldn’t help looking. I don’t think they noticed me staring at them. I slowed down, maybe a little, but I had to keep walking.

Last night, as the sun went down, I just walked off the road, and out into a hay field full of long grass and lay down. The road was quiet. Hell, nearly everything was quiet. I just lay there, trying to forget how hot and hungry and dirty I felt. The stars came out, one after another. A quick green flash overhead startled me. I sat up. There was another, off to my left. Then another. I soon realized that the whole field was alive with green flashing lights. Fireflies. I’ve seen one or two of these before, but not a meadow full of them. They danced before me, sparkling swirls of effervescent emerald green. I sat and watched at them for hours; I couldn’t stop. In fact, I don’t really remember getting tired enough to sleep, though I must have.

Today, my road brought me to a bigger town. I got here around midday. I passed a bank with a clock and temperature on the sign – it said 1:22 and 82 degrees. A good time to explore, maybe find a place to spend my last $5 on dinner. Or lunch.

I followed the road across a bridge into a pretty scruffy looking area – crumbling houses, railroad sidings, warehouses. Over on my left, I heard a happy squeal of laughter, and I stopped to look. Kids played in a big swimming pool surrounded by a ferocious looking fence; I heard the splashing now. A building stood next to it, painted with big bold letters “Town of Houghton Aquatic Center.”

So. Now I had a location.

Another hundred yards down the street, I found myself crossing a long wide bridge over a sizeable river, the largest I’d seen so far. Houghton seemed nicer on this side of the river.

I ambled along to a busy traffic circle. I could see signs pointing me in one direction towards the town, and in the another direction, I could see indications of a built-up area of bigger stores and other developments.

I headed into town. A few blocks later, I passed a house with aging paint and an overgrown lawn, and I got an idea. Yes, this was a risk, but I realized that I would have to eat sooner or later.

I turned right, off the main street, and soon found myself in a residential area. I kept going until I found another house – with a decent paint job this time - with a lawn in need of cutting. I felt incredibly nervous. I’d avoided all human contact for over a week, hiding out from humanity, and here I was, heart in my mouth, knocking on the door of a complete stranger.

A stranger whose lawn needed to be cut.

A middle aged man with a moon face, pronounced beer gut and a crew cut answered the door.

“Yeah?”

“H – hi,” I stammered nervously, “I’m looking for work. I was wondering if you wanted your lawn mowed?”

The homeowner scowled at me and shook his head.

“Naw. Don’t need you. I gotta kid of my own to do that kinda shit.”

I retreated quickly as he shut the door in my face.

Back on the curbside, I thought about it. The man hadn’t looked suspicious or scared. He had no idea who I was, but that didn’t matter much. He just didn’t want to deal with me. I was safe enough, at least for now.

I walked through the neighborhood, going up and down a couple of streets. I tried two more houses, with pretty much the same result. On the next street, I tried an older, two story house. This time, an older lady answered the bell.

“Hello, I’m looking for a little work,” I started off. I was getting better at this. “Would you like your lawn mowed?”

She hesitated, gracious and tall in the doorway. I had to look up to her.

“Well,” she mused eventually, “it is getting long, isn’t it? And my usual fellow hasn’t come this week.”

I stood there, waiting, not daring to speak.

“Oh, all right. As long as you can be done quickly. Meet me around back, and I’ll show you where the mower is.”

I walked back down the walk and up the driveway, to a large detached garage. My benefactor emerged from the back of the house, dressed immaculately in skirt, blouse and heels. She reminded me of my elementary school principal.

“In the back of the garage,” she pointed, “you’ll find the mower, and some gasoline for it. And over there, you’ll find a rake and a bag for the clippings.”

I nodded. What had I gotten myself into?

“Everything clear? Knock on the back door when you’re done.”

I made my way around the Chevrolet sedan parked in the garage and found the gas can. I grabbed the mower and rolled it out into the sunlight.

It looked kind of oily and covered with old, dry grass, but it would probably work. I checked the gas level, the oil level and the sparkplug. I tested the levers and lifted it to check the underside. Not very clean.

Since I didn’t know this lawn at all, I walked around the yard, looking for plants that should be left alone, or sticks and rocks that would harm the mower.

The machine started right up once it was filled with gasoline, and I was off. There really wasn’t much to it – the lawn was not much bigger than the one I mowed for ten years in Carlsberg. Once or twice, I caught a glimpse of my employer peering out the window at me.

The raking was fussier than the mowing. Before I could rake, I made sure to sweep the driveway and sidewalk clear of clippings. Then I raked clippings and bagged them up. Finally, it was time to clean the mower. I obviously don’t know who mowed this lawn regularly, but I do know that Dad would give me a beating if I didn’t leave our mower spotlessly clean.

I got the worst of the dirt and grass off, and then looked around for a rag or a cloth of some kind. I walked up to the back door and knocked. The woman appeared quickly.

“All done? Really?” She stepped out.

“Not done quite yet, ma’am,” I answered. “Would you have a rag I can use to clean up the mower now that I’m done with it?”

She looked down at me with surprise.

“To clean the mower? Um, yes, I believe I do.”

She returned with a rag swiftly, and I went back to getting the machine clean. It wouldn’t be as good as if I had done it at home, but I could at least make it look better.

As I wiped down the mower, she stalked regally around the yard, checking my work. I looked up when I saw a pair of pointed dress shoes arrive in front of me.

“I must say, you did very fine work,” she stated.

I didn’t know what to say. Dad never complimented me on my work, and it just didn’t feel right. I could have done better if I’d taken more time, I knew. Still, I couldn’t just stand there blushing in the heat.

“That’s OK, ma’m. Where would you like me to put those grass clippings?”

When I returned from depositing them in a compost heap in the back, she was waiting for me.

“Here,” she said, handing me a folded bill, “perhaps you might stop by again.”

She didn’t smile, but she didn’t frown at me either.

I thanked her profusely, stuffing the money in my pocket. I was so flustered, I almost forgot my backpack lying on the ground inside the garage entrance.

When I made my way back onto the street, I realized the afternoon was largely gone. I decided to head back toward the main road. Even though I felt absolutely exhausted, I couldn’t help experiencing a bit of pleasure. Someone thought I did good work. I stumbled along. I was more tired than I thought. Time to look for a place to lie down and rest for a bit.

I passed a big school complex. Because it was a Saturday afternoon, nobody was there. I walked out back, saw the baseball diamond and found a calm place in the outfield grass. I lay down. And closed my eyes.

“Hey, do you want to throw around?”

I woke up with a start. Standing over me was a kid, small, freckled, backlit by the sky.

“Are you awake?”

“What?” I asked stupidly. I sat up. The sun was clearly lower in the sky now. “I’m sorry, what did you ask me?”

The little boy held out a baseball glove.

“Will you play catch with me?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t going to run, and besides, this was his home turf.

“Sure.”

I hadn’t thrown a baseball in forever. My partner giggled when I threw the ball way wide the first time. And the second. He could catch the ball barehanded, while I got the glove. I still had some difficulty catching, and it wasn’t just all my natural clumsiness or recent weariness. I’m just not very good at baseball, I guess.

Still, I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it. No one ever asked me to play or hang out or do anything. Yet, now I was tossing around a baseball with a nine- or ten-year-old who seemed pleased to have found a practice partner.

Now that I had time to look at him, I could see that he would be pretty cute one day. He could break some hearts. But right now, his innocent, boundless enthusiasm for everything baseball, and his unconscious grace in playing made me wish I could have known him when I was his age. We could have been friends.

“Wanna hit balls to me?” he asked, hopefully. Maybe he thought I’d have better luck at another activity. He hustled over to find his bat, and I handed over the glove when he returned. He backed a good distance away and looked at me expectantly.

I got the ball and tried to hit it out to him.

I swung the bat uselessly, missing the ball completely.

I tried again. Same result. My small partner shifted from foot to foot impatiently. I tried a third time, and the ball glanced off the bat, rolling off to the side.

“Foul ball!” he cried out, grinning.

I walked over, picked up the ball, and tried another time. I connected this time, and blooped the ball out in his general direction. He sped toward the descending ball and managed to catch it, holding up his prize like a pro.

We did this for a little longer, but I kept hitting maybe every fifth ball somewhere out towards my new companion. I know he was dissatisfied with my batting average. Eventually, he got bored with me, I think.

“Listen, I gotta get going.”

“No problem. Thanks for asking me to play.”

“I don’t know you, but it was fun. Hey, I’m Howie. What’s your name?”

I hesitated a second. I had to think back and remember my new name.

“I’m Eric. I’m not from around here.”

“I knew that. I come here every day. Maybe tomorrow we can work on your hitting,” Howie grinned.

My stomach was really hurting by now – not just growling, it roared.

“So Howie, if I needed to go to the grocery store, which way would I go?”

“That way – cut through the parking lot, and you’ll come out near there.”

I looked in the direction he pointed and saw moving traffic. I picked up my backpack and waved. My new friend waved back, and we parted ways.

As I walked, I pulled out my money from lawn mowing. I was shocked to find I had been given $20. That lady must be loaded. I’d hardly done anything, and I felt like I'd won the lottery.

The store was a big, bright new grocery. Everything looked cheerful and clean. I immediately felt out of place. I was dirty, and I still smelled bad. But I was hungry enough that I really didn’t care too much. The store wasn’t crowded, and I looked as if I had been working. I had. I took a cart and thought I would fill it up. I had to slow down; $20 may have felt like a lot, but it wasn’t going to go that far, not really.

I got some apples and raisins, a bigger box of cereal, some bottled juice, some pepperoni sausage and a big bag of baby carrots. And a candy bar. I got all of 87 cents back in change.

Well, this would have to hold me for a while. Darkness fell while I had been shopping. I retraced my steps back to the school parking lot without much trouble, and sat down on the curb to eat my supper. I unpacked my knife and cut off some of the pepperoni, ate an apple, and devoured some baby carrots. I guzzled down a whole bottle of fruit juice. My brain finally kicked in. I stopped, forcing myself not to eat everything in sight. I reminded myself that I have to make this stuff last.

I’ve come back across the river since then, repacking everything carefully. The Houghton Aquatic Center is empty now, but it doesn’t look if anyone will mind if I camp out here beyond the back fence near the railroad tracks. Even though the security lights shine pretty brightly here, I'm out of the way enough that nobody will see me. At least, that's what I'm counting on.

Maybe this spot isn't perfect. But if I’d stayed in Carlsberg, I’d have had no better luck finding a place to camp out. I doubt there would be any shelter, really. And I still don’t think I want to be in prison, even if I get fed more often. And I’m still damn sure I don’t want to be anywhere near creepy Uncle Ray.

On the other hand, today I did some work that someone thought was worth a compliment. I played ball with a little kid who was way better than me. It was fun, anyway. So I think the answer to my question for today is: I’m better off here in Houghton than back in Carlsberg – even if I’m a stinking, tired, dirty wreck.