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Interstate 10 Exit 140 By Gloria Sanders Email: sanders14094 at comcast dot net (above email address formatted to reduce spam) June 26, 2008 The homeless wait here for a ride. I am a frequent observer. FRIDAY P.M. The man is sitting in a wheelchair behind the steel barricade. Another man is with him. As I drive by, I muse how a man in a wheelchair came to be there. SATURDAY P.M. The man is waiting in the same place. No companion, I note. SUNDAY NOON The man is sitting in the same place, doesn't look as if he has moved since I last saw him. There is a jolt in my belly and I wonder if he is dead. It is worrisome. I call the Gospel Mission for advice and a nice man tells me that the Mission opens at 5 P.M. and they can give him a bed and a meal. If I am concerned about his welfare, I can call the police. I do. The officer is damningly polite. "Is the man inebriated or causing a disturbance? It's not against the law to sit at the side of the road." Stupid, stupid. I had failed to assess the man's condition, had sought to shift responsibility. I drive back to the exit, make a legal U turn, park on the shoulder. The man is hunkered against the wind, wearing a heavy jacket, an overall, substantial boots, and a cap drawn over his ears. An upturned black plastic bucket holds a large plastic mug at hand. His eyes are closed and I lean near him and ask, "Are you OK?" He starts a bit and speaks, "Oh, yes, I am a tough nut, tough as the earth." "Where do you want to go?" "Florida." And he draws from the side of the wheelchair a square of cardboard with the black letters "FLO" and "oops" and an arrow to an "A" superimposed on the "O". "What is in Florida?" "Home." The word rings from the man's mouth. "Is there someone there who cares about you?" "Oh, yes, and I have my own room with an outside entrance." "Are you hungry? Do you need water?" "No, I don't mind much for food. People bring me sandwiches. And I have water," and he indicated a canteen hanging from his wheelchair. "May I take you to the Mission for the night? Get you out of this weather?" "No. Don't want to go to that kind of place. My stuff gets stolen." "And possibly worse," I thought, recalling a recent headline that a woman had been stabbed to death in the facility. "Is there anything I can do for you?" "Say a prayer for me. I know a trucker will stop for me." I go home and start talking to God. My conversation is irreverent, contentious, confrontational and conflicted. Upshot, I call the local bus station. No answer. I call the 1-800 number and am informed that a Greyhound bus leaves Las Cruces at 6:45 P.M., fare is $150.00, four legs to the journey: Las Cruces to El Paso, to Dallas to Jacksonville to Miami. "Thank you, God. I can do this." I go to an ATM, withdraw cash and return to the man at the side of the road and make him an offer. He refuses. No Greyhound bus for him. "They don't treat my wheelchair right, it gets banged up, and people on the bus don't want to sit next to me. I'll get a ride. Say a prayer." Tonight, the wind whistles, there is chill in my house and I am warm in my bed, and thoughts of a man wrapped in tarps and sleeping under an interstate bridge disturb my sleep. MONDAY P.M. I make the same offers: bus to Florida or take him to the Mission and the same adamant refusal. "If you are bent on helping me, find out about Amtrak." There is no Amtrak in Las Cruces. The train runs to Deming and then to El Paso. But, yes, I will find out. I rant at God, this is more bother than I want, and recall the story of the Good Samaritan for consideration. The Samaritan took the man, who was left for dead, to an inn, paid the innkeeper and went on his way. My man is an obstinate, opinionated mule with full faculties. TUESDAY P.M. I make my report to the man. Three trains weekly from El Paso, Monday, Thursday, Saturday. From El Paso to Chicago, to Washington DC to Miami, a far north detour to go south, four days journey, coach fare $300.00 to $500.00 depending on the days of travel. Not promising. I ask the man how many days he has been on this corner and he calculates about ten or twelve. The March wind has gusted all day, sucking the life out of man, beast, vegetation. The man's eyes and ears are rimmed with dust and he is worn. "Let me put you up in a motel for the night," and he does not refuse. He has a lot of stuff: three heavy tarps, a large leather tear shaped valise, a large knapsack, a weighty coat, the black plastic bucket and the wheelchair. Load it all, drive to a motel, give him money to get a room and help unload his gear. The room door is open and as I enter with the valise, I hear the flow of water in the bathroom, a full bore urgent stream from a distended bladder. I give him money for meals at the adjacent restaurant and leave with the promise that I will return in the morning to take him back to the interstate. WEDNESDAY A.M. He is waiting for me at the motel entrance, his gear neatly stowed in his wheelchair and secured with a bungee cord. We sit on a bench in the sunlight and talk. He tells me about the wheelchair. "I need it. I have a lot of metal in my legs and I can't walk far before I have to sit." We discuss the merits of the several interstate exits and decide that he is in the best place for visibility and a trucker's convenience to stop. THURSDAY NOON My eyes strain as I approach the ramp and I do not see the familiar figure. But I have the nagging feeling that he is still in town. FRIDAY A.M. The man is on the corner, standing against the rail. "I missed you yesterday," and he responds that he had gone back up on the interstate. He looks worn out and when I ask him if there is anything I can do, he asks me to take his mug up to the Fina station and fill it with diet Pepsi. "Make sure it's diet. I have diabetes." I make the run and leave him with a full mug. I am desperate to get this man off the corner; his presence is a reproach to me. He is going to die on this corner. God is testing me and I am wanting. Rampant thoughts, drama, I scoff at myself. I search airline schedules. No direct flights from El Paso; fly west to Phoenix to go east, or to Dallas where severe weather is canceling flights. Amtrak becomes my hope. Yes, the shuttle bus makes an early morning run and delivers passengers to El Paso Amtrak. There is still space available on the three legs of the journey to Miami. I have cash money to give the man for the trip and a credit card for the train reservation. I return to the corner and there is no trace of the man. He had been firm in his belief that someone would stop and give him a ride. God let me off the hook. I felt relieved and chagrinned. About the author: I am in awe of the homeless, their grit and resilience, and am reminded that Jesus was homeless during his ministry. I am an old woman who likes to write. | | | |
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