God Bless

Mathew 4:19

Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.

July 2002

Stuck in Stockton on Sunday. 

“No one's gonna pick us up,” I said shaking my head at the broken stream of cars filing past and up the ramp. No one glanced for more than a second at us, their faces morose on their Sunday routine.  We weren't even a spectacle worth emotion let alone contenders for a free ride. 

“And look at that guy, he's just stashing burgers in the bush. Should we ask him for one?” I asked Moses. 

“Dude, that guy is getting handed cash,” Moses said with a nod. “We should see what's up.” Moses kicked a piece of gravel across the lane.  He had marked two guardrail posts for his goal.  In the gaps of traffic he would choose a rock and slam it across the road with the toe of his boot.  

With little else to look at, we couldn't help but watch the man across from us on the opposite side of the intersection who was obviously having better luck. As the cars turned onto the east bound onramp, many of them stopped to hand him bills. He was about half way up the ramp and there was ample room for the vehicles to pull over.  Maybe that was the difference: more room for charitable hearts to do their good deed of the day. But then again, he had a sign and we only had our thumbs. A ride was much more of a request than a burger, and Moses and I could only mitigate our body odour with Speedstick without a shower.  But whatever the sign said, I was amazed by its efficacy?  We were too far away to read it, a creased piece of cardboard with faint black print scrawled in tall letters.

“Sounds good to me, I mean its got to have been at least a couple of hours we've been out here," I looked up trying to gauge the time by the slant of the sun.  Down the street the pavement was already beginning to ripple as it reflected the heat.  "But it's gonna get hot as fuck later, and I don't want to stand here all day."  I smiled and extended my thumb as a truck and two cars accelerated by us. "But at the same time, I don't think we should give up quite yet."  My stomach growled.  We had foregone breakfast in hope of a ride, and besides, there weren't any fast food restaurants or dumpsters that looked like they might have food.  The Denny's dumpster had a lock and the fast food joints were out of sight but obviously in the vicinity. The man with the sign was clear evidence as he received a steady stream of paper wrapped burgers.

“Well shit man, let's hack for a bit and just watch him,” Moses said. There were plenty of cars turning onto our onramp, and Santa Cruz was so close, not even a days drive, but the cultural differences between the two cities was immense.  Thus far all the drivers had been brown, and maybe it was our whiteness, or my dreads, that were too much for these church commuters, if that's what they were.

We started to kick the hacky sack and no longer tried to make eye contact with potential rides.  They weren't paying us mind any way.  Stockton California was a real shit hole. It almost had that stifling Fresno feel to it, but just across the mountains the Redwood trees of Santa Cruz beckoned. We had been on onramps in the arid climate too long. 

When I met Moses in Sacramento a week earlier, we both wanted to get out, but Stockton was full of empty warehouses and bars on every shop window.  It was hard to imagine a step down from Sac City, but this whole region was a downer.  And what was that smell? Some sort of industrial plant was up wind wafting its chemical flatulence in our faces.  The acrid odour was something that we hadn't adjusted to in the two days of trying to get out of this cesspool.

The sign man across the street continued to receive burgers and cash. He retrieved bills from the extended arms of drivers as they rolled down the passenger window to lean across passenger seats with their gifts of goodwill. The man would give a single nod and then back to standing there with his cardboard sign held chest high. Each time a burger was handed out he would stash it under the bush 20 feet away. The pile of burgers could have filled a grocery bag, and from our side of the road it looked like an orange and white pillow had blown under the shrub. All burgers. 

After a couple more minutes of watching the pile of discarded burgers grow I decided to walk down the ramp for a better look. I squinted my eyes and thought I could make out the words: Homeless Hungry God Bless. His sign was cliché, but if it ain't broke don't fix it. But maybe that hungry part could be redacted.  The man lifted is hand to me slowly in a cautious wave.  I waved back and walked back up to where Moses was trying to break his previous record of consecutive kicks.

We kicked the sack and had our thumbs up, just in case someone broke the passing trend, but if we were serious, we would have been attempting to engage the drivers with looks of supplication.  But there was no hurry.  Hacky sack was something we could both do for hours and onramps were as familiar as any other temporary home.  If it wasn't for that smell, and the rising temperature, this place might not be so bad.  Hacking was best practiced in rural areas between passing cars, but in a busy city, and on onramps like this, it was best to look as pitiful as possible.     

If they were church goers they certainly hadn't taken a good look at the Bible.  Maybe the story of The Good Samaritan wasn't worth preaching in a dangerous town like this, but I was pretty sure the moral of that parable was to help people on the side of the road.  But then again, I was stereotyping them all as Mexican Catholics.  Maybe Sunday wasn't a day off.  Maybe there were no days off for this poor community.  We were lucky enough to be in the process of getting out whereas they were probably stuck grinding away whatever textiles emitted that foetid stench.  

We had a good minute juggling the sack without it landing, but our attention was constantly drawn in by the man with the sign as a car would pull over to hand him something.  If vehicle interaction were a game, and he was a competitor, he was definitely winning.  

We looked across as a motorcycle pulled over to hand the man some bills and pat him on the shoulder. The sign guy gave his single nod of appreciation, and then back to his pose. Sign across chest, feet together, look of dejection.

“Yo man, how much you thinks he makes in an hour?” Moses asked.

“Well I think we've been out here two hours, and he came about an hour ago, and I'd say at least fifty cars--"

“More than that! I mean come on, there's been like hundreds,” Moses said extending his arms as wide apart as possible to illustrate, much like a child, the enormity of the man's prosperity. I wasn't sure if he was thinking of the total number of cars, or the ones that had pulled over. He was prone to hyperbole and exaggeration, but he could also have been right. I was focusing on the cars passing us, and there were more cars heading east than our way.

“Yeah, but that guy is brown like all these people," I said sweeping my hand across the traffic. "They'd never give us the cash, and besides, we don't have any markers."  Not only were we not the prevailing colour, but my dreadlocks might as well have been snakes, and Moses looked like a serial killer in his military fatigues.  But the glances of the passing drivers wasn't one of disdain or resentment. We weren't being snubbed, just ignored. 

“We'll just ask the guy,” said Moses. “He made his sign, so...” He kicked the sack on the instep of his right shoe repetitively. Nine kicks, one on the toe, and the sack flew over the white line into the lane of traffic.

"Foul!" I called out.  He lost the sack for three turns.  The white line was the only constant in our world of hacking onramp competitions, and crossing it was the one rule we had agreed on. Cross it and get penalized: three turns forfeited.  Sometimes we juggled together, but more often we tried to go for our personal best number of consecutive hits playing solo.  Once the sack hit the ground it was the other players turn.  For a while we tried to see who could hit fifty with the least amount of drops, then we changed the game to include more rules.  It was illegal to hit the sack in the same way after three kicks.  The left foot had to be used at least once for a score greater than 10.  After some heated debates about what could be interpreted as a foul and what the true score between us was, we decided to drop everything but the white line rule. Already a car had ripped apart one hacky sack as it ran over it and hitching without one seemed too dull a proposal.  The white line was a practical rule, and besides, weren't we out here to rebel against rules in the first place?  

A police car approached and slowed. The sign man jumped a little and folded his cardboard in half to conceal the message. The cop didn't even look our way and sped up as the sign man walked down the ramp and onto the side walk with his head down.

“Alright, breakfast time,” I said. “He just left a ton of burgers in the bushes!”

“Fuck that noise, let's follow that guy,” Moses said pointing at the sign man who was walking at a good clip down the sidewalk. I shrugged and shouldered my pack. Why not? We jogged on our side of the four lane road till we caught up and crossed the street at a traffic light. He looked at us with an uneasy smile as we waved to him in the crosswalk.

“Dude, I gotta fucking shake your hand,” said Moses half way across the intersection. The sign man frowned for a moment and looked at the extended hand as if it might be holding a knife. Then he looked up at broad smile of Moses and risked a tentative hand shake.

“You da man Dawg!” Moses was a little over zealous and slapped the sign man's back—a tad too hard for a complete stranger, I thought. The sign man was shocked by the sharp physical contact, but his smile widened and apprehension faded when he realized Moses meant no harm.

“Hey!” he said, sounding a bit like Cheech, “I know you! You're the hitch hikers! Yeah, I saw you guys kicking that ball thing.  Man you're pretty good!” He was laughing, our new buddy. “I'm Carlos guys, and I can tell you, ain't nobody gonna pick you up. I've been here for years, and ain't seen nobody picked up.  Not never,” he said accenting the statement with his hand that he flung outward from his chest.  But he was grinning.

It was impossible to not like Carlos, but his words weren't as uplifting as his friendly tone. Years, and no one picked up.  I wondered how many hitch hikers he had watched from his post.  How many had he seen give up after hours or even days?  

“Well that sucks,” I said, “Is there a better onramp or something?” I asked.

“Dude, who cares?” Moses said. He had dollar signs for pupils. “I want to know your trick man! I mean everyone is giving you,” he looked around and with a conspiratorial whisper said, “cash!”  He was now standing square with Carlos, a hand on each shoulder.

“Oh yeah guys, but that cop back there knows me,” he said. He too was whispering, as if the pedestrian crosswalk button next to us was an miked. “So I gotta get in and out, and I just do it a little, you know?" I nodded.  Moses was leaning in as if waiting for a secret lottery number.  "I can only do it once a week at the most, and Sunday is the best day, you know with the What Would Jesus Do thing, but I ain't greedy or nothing. I mean it's not like I'm out here every day or something. I just get what I need, and Sunday happens to be the best day for it.”  He shrugged out of the hands of Moses to face me as he said this.

“How much did you make? Like a hundred bucks or something?” Moses asked. Carlos studied his face, and decided not to answer.

“Tell you guys what, why don't you follow me and I'll teach you. You know, like teach you how to fish instead of giving you one and all that shit.” He took a sideways step away from Moses who was once more leaning in, invading his bubble.

“That's all I'm asking bro, shit I ain't gonna rob you or nothing,” Moses said taking a step back and shrugging his shoulders, palms up, apologetic. Carlos gave Moses his patent single nod, but reserved a reasonable amount of caution.  Moses was practically salivating with money lust.  

"I just want to know how you do it," Moses said.  "How to do it.  You can't be out there all day, and the cops have no beef with us... yet.  So take us to that water and believe me, we'll drink!"  Moses nodded with pride at his butchered metaphor that was lost on Carlos who frowned and shook his head.  Crazy hippies.

We walked a half dozen blocks before going down an empty side street. Whatever the smell was, we were now closer to its source. Carlos looked around before swinging a board sideways that was hanging on a single nail over a large broken window on an abandon red brick building.  The glass had been completely knocked out, and the window was two feet off the ground and big enough to lift a piano through.  Carlos held the board up as we ducked through, then after looking up and down the empty street to make sure we hadn't been spotted,  followed us in and eased the board into place.

Inside there were two stained twin mattresses and some candles in the closest corner of the enormous floor. The cement was swept with piles of broken glass and wood shavings in clumps every ten feet or so. Probably the work of Carlos. 

"Nice little door you got there," I said as Carlos made small adjustments to conceal our point of entry.  

"Yeah, I had to pry it all the way off first and then find a good balance point.  It took some doing, but one of the nails wasn't too bent up when I pulled it, so I just hammered it back in."  We stood in silence for a moment looking around the room.  Sunlight poured through upper windows that weren't all broken away, lighting up dust particles in a way that always reminded me of angels. Although it was dark and dusty, it was cooler than the onramp; cooler than outside.  The old mattresses were filthy with springs sticking out and dark stains that I tried not to focus on.  One lay on the floor with a felt felt blanket that looked as if it were comprised of laundry lint.   

“Ain't much, but,” Carlos sighed, “they haven't found me here yet.” He looked around and shifted from foot to foot. A host with the jitters unused to guests.

“This is bad ass bro, what are you talking about?” Moses said. He put his hands on his hips and nodded his approval. I winced as he slapped Carlos on the back again.

“Yeah, well." Carlos surveyed the room a moment longer and then turned to face us. "So you guys ain't never heard of the transient credit card?” Carlos asked. He took a step sideways out of slapping range. 

“Transient credit card? No, though I assume you mean your sign?” I asked.

“Dude, do you got a Sharpie?” Moses interrupted.  Maybe it was a lack of empathy or charm, but he seemed to be completely oblivious of his crude mannerisms.  

Carlos didn't care for his assertive attitude and gave him a flat expression before turning back to me.

“Moses, chill the fuck out, would you? Carlos said he'd help us, so stop being such an asshole,” I said in a whisper though Carlos was standing right there. 

 Moses took two steps back and looked at the floor.

“Got it man, you talk to Carlos,” He said the name with uncalled for derision, “And I'll just wait outside.”

“No man,” said Carlos, “You don't gotta wait outside, just chill a little.” He patted down the air in front of him with his palms like a school teacher telling students to settle down.

“Whatever man,” Moses muttered and unpocketed the hacky sack, walked a few yards away and started kicking.  I chuckled at his immature demeanour as Carlos took in a deep breath of relief.

Carlos explained that he needed the money for his habit.  Just a little bit to get him by: eight dollars worth of heroin a day wasn't much. He had his routine and wasn't hurting anyone. He just wanted to be left alone. He groaned as he explained that he wasn't hurting anyone, "But those fucking pigs won't let me handle my business in peace.  What do they want me to do, go out and mug people?"  I shook my head and frowned but I was thinking that they probably wanted him to get off the horse.  Carlos went on to explain that one cop had told him that if he had a sign that directly asked for money, he would be arrested. "Loitering or some shit, but you know man, I grew up in this town.  I ain't no loitering!"  God Bless was his answer. Up to interpretation.  Of course the cops would still harass him.  They knew he was a junkie.

He walked over and pulled a square of cardboard which had been stashed under one the mattress, and a thick fat black permanent marker from his pack. “Gotta have these,” he said and handed me one. At the sight of the marker, Moses stopped hacking and came over, an aloof expression of wounded pride in his eye.

“Now you don't need to be all fancy,” Carlos said, “I use the God Bless one on Sunday, but some of my friends try to be funny. Who knows? Maybe they're right, but this sign works and so does the simple Spare Change.  But I wouldn't do that one. You'll end up with pounds of nickels in your pockets,” Carlos erupted in a phlegm ridden laugh. “Spare change, I mean give me a break man!” He shook his head at the absurdity of pocket change. “I made at least $200 today.” I raised my eyebrows, impressed but unconvinced.  Moses made no effort to hide his eyes as they looked for the lumpy wads of cash he figured would be in the front pockets of Carlos.  “At least two bro, let me tell you,” he nodded with pride. “And I think it works better than the Spare Change one that the cops say I can't use no more.” He continued his loogie laden cackle that reminded me of Brer Rabbit.  Carlos laugh revealed nicotine yellow teeth and soon turned into a bronchial spasm of coughs.  His face went red as he gathered his breath and spat a yellow ball of goo which splattered on the brick wall.  

After wandering around the surrounding allies for a half hour, Moses and I picked up a couple pieces of cardboard that were relatively unblemished. My sign read: Broke as Jesus Traveling Home Homeless God Bless.  It was a mouthful but the truth. Moses was a bit more imaginative and drew a generic sad face on his square. On the other side he wrote, Help turn my frown upside down God Bless. The God Bless was the important thing, we both agreed, though I thought his cliché wouldn't bare fruit and he'd constantly have to flip the sign over.  He was stubborn, and in the end, we agreed that the intentions of someone holding a piece of cardboard on the roadside was rather obvious.  

Heaven descended back out on the onramp. It was like the ending of It's a Beautiful Life. The understanding nods, the extended arms with bills were now ours for the taking. It was hard to tell how much time had passed, but soon enough I found myself growing tired of receiving ones. The fives were what I wanted, and every fifth car or so would stop.  Soon I had my own pile of burgers behind my pack with my hoodie tossed over them.  In an hour the pile was almost as big as my pack.  The Mexican's might not pick you up in Stockton, but they'd help you with your financial situation and a nice meal. God Bless.

After an hour or two, Moses yelled a “Yo,” to me. He was at Carlos' post across the street and ran over to me in a small window between cars.  

“Okay,” he said, a little winded from the run, “So this guy got us breakfast at Denny's. We get anything we want, and he said."  He was grinning as if it were a golden ticket, but I was glad to have been too busy to wolf down more than one small burger. "They know we're coming.”  

“Hey, fine by me, I say we take a break for a bit and then--”

“Oh yeah,” Moses cut in, “The guy said if he sees us out here again he'll call the cops.”  He added this last part as if it were inconsequential. 

It was a mixed bag, but I had already made $45, at least, almost a dollar a minute, but some of those minutes were fives, so—I tried to calculate. My right cargo pocket was a puffed up pillow of bills. How long had we been out here? 

“How much did you make?” I asked Moses.

“A little under $100, I think. I was trying to keep track but the Denny's guy kinda freaked me out a bit."

“What, really?” I said, “I didn't even try to keep track, but shit, this is better paying than any job I ever had. What do we do with the burgers?"

"Fuck it man, just leave them," said Moses.  

"Shouldn't we at least try to give them away?"

"You see anybody out here?" I looked around at the empty sidewalk, the vacant buildings and bored looking brown people on the road.

"Man, it still kinda seems wrong to just leave them," I said.

"Hey you can take them, but I guarantee that some crows, or maybe even a vulture, will swoop down and have a nice meal.  It's our own donation to the cause."  The cause: Get Down with the Kick Down.  

"Fine, but damn, that's got to be a 20 pound pile."  I lifted up my hoodie, and we stared down at bright papered mound of sandwiches.  Chicken, beef and mysterious ingredients combine to release a sweet aroma that didn't come close to mimicking anything found in nature.  Scientists with vials of mysterious chemicals and preservatives had tried to manipulate the olfactory system just so to encourage spending, but I didn't want to walk around smelling like a cheese burger too long.  How long would it take for the smell to roll off my hoodie?  Laundry was a luxury we had never been able to afford, but with the magic markers and cardboard, maybe we were moving on up into the lower class.  Laundry, what would be next, showers?  The possibilities seemed endless.  Fresh underwear and socks sure sounded nice.  But still, it didn't seem right to let all that food go to the birds.       

"Yeah, well think how much is in the bush now."  We looked across the street at Moses' mound of burgers.  Such a waste, but what could we do?

Denny's was indeed informed about us, and as we walked in, it became quite apparent that they would serve us but wouldn't do so with a smile. The waitress scowled, probably thinking she wouldn't be tipped by two bums, and sauntered to a table in the corner that had been reserved for us.  

“Would you like some coffee,” she asked, in a sarcastic voice of gravel. She was old enough to be either one of our mothers.  

“Give me coffee and the most expensive breakfast on the menu!” Moses said with his foolhardy grin.  The woman rolled her eyes, and looked at me. 

“Coffee?” she asked.

We both had the Denny's Grand Slam. It was delicious and filling. After eating fast food burgers and drinking Steel 211 Reserve malt liquor for weeks, Denny's was high brow.  On our fourth cup of coffee, the manager came out, accompanied by a surly looking man in a white apron.

“Time's up boys,” he said. We weren't gentleman. Their eyes were grave and it looked like the cook was ready to dance if we were trouble.

“Thanks for the meal,” I said. Moses frowned. Maybe he wouldn't mind a little dance, but thought better of it as I picked up my pack and downed the remaining swig of coffee.

“I was gonna fucking give you a fat tip, but if this is the way you're gonna treat me, then fuck it,” Moses said. The man in the white apron was ready to pounce, but we were already walking toward the door.

A hot blast hit me as I opened the door. The air conditioning had been so soothing. At least we didn't have to bake out on the onramp. Maybe we'd just chill under an overpass and drink some beers till we figured out our next move. As we walked into town it seemed that providence had truly blessed us. A Greyhound bus station.

The tickets to Santa Cruz were $45 a piece. I had $123 left after the purchase. Apparently I had underestimated the potential of a cargo pocket stuffed with ones and fives.  I hadn't even noticed receiving the twenty that was crumpled up among the bills. Moses felt cheated with $61 left in his pocket.

“Well I thought your sign was cheesy from the get-go,” I said. “I think the God Bless plus Jesus on my sign gave me the edge. But hey, you can always make a new one. We got plenty money for markers now.”

If you liked this, check out my other hitch hiking adventure.
https://chapteronebananasplit.blogspot.com
https://chaptertwobananasplit.blogspot.com
https://chapterthreebananasplit.blogspot.com
https://chapterfourbananasplit.blogspot.com