Someone
I met her at work. She’d gotten a ride in with one of the truck drivers. It was near impossible to tell her age. She was spry and lively, but her hair was dusty gray and her skin wrinkled as could be.
She talked a lot. It was obvious she truly had something to say. My co-workers smiled awkwardly and nodded as she told us of the people she’d encountered on her journey across the country.
“I can always tell,” she said matter-of-factly, “when they start asking about where I came from, how many children I have, what my full name is… I know they’re just trying to get some information they can give to the homeless shelter. It’s the one’s who can’t have a nice, normal, non-intrusive conversation about the town or the weather…”
At first everyone seemed nervous around her, but after a while it turned into annoyance. Did she not understand that we were trying to work? They pitied her, as she was apparently homeless and without a family. They tried to be charitable.
“Where do you sleep?” my co-worker Susan asked, concerned.
“I sleep wherever I feel like. They’ve got some campsites here and there, or sometimes I decide to go associate with the homeless, see what their lives are like.”
“You’ve got to be careful these days,” Susan cautioned, “a woman traveling alone is so dangerous.”
“Psh! Is that what they’re trying to tell us? Is that what the news is putting in your head? I’ve done my research. A woman, on average, is in more danger in her own home than anywhere else.”
“Still…”
“Oh I’m perfectly fine. Don’t tell me I’m in danger. I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?” then she went outside to check on her things.
“So whataya think about her?” my co-worker motioned outside, “sad, huh?”
“I don’t know. She seems so passionate about what she’s doing…” What I didn’t tell her is that the woman moved me. This nomad (whether homeless or not) was a sparkling example of someone who cared. Did it matter that her teeth were all but rotted away? Did her for-lorn appearance make her desires any less meaningful? This woman was someone.
The part that caught my attention most was when she began to speak of the emotions of the people she’d seen. Some with smiles on their faces but dark, sad eyes; others with a fresh glow of happiness. As she talked, I felt a connection with her, as if we shared a secret that no one else knew. A secret about humanity and it’s tendencies. It’s not that no one else was allowed to know; it’s just that they wouldn’t listen.
She claimed she was a scholar, studying anthropology, “I was studying some records in Boston when I decided it was time to leave the books. I needed to study people. So I started a journey across the U.S. I mostly hitchhike, see who’s willing to give me a ride. The best is when I can find a senior-citizen bus, though. Did you know they have those now? Back in Montana they got me one of those. The bus driver was one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met. He offered to drive me around to some local historical sites, kind of a tour of the area…”
And you know what? I believed it. I can’t say I was 100% sure, but I whole-heartedly accepted her story. I wanted to believe her. And why shouldn’t she be believed?
The day rolled on and she eventually dragged her 6 suitcases out to the middle of the parking lot to try and find another ride. I wanted to help her. Her plan was to get a ride about 30 minutes down the road to some historical places, and I would have loved to take her. The time came when I was off work and it was time to go. I clocked out, grabbed my things, and headed out to the car. There she sat, in the open parking lot, surrounded by her extensive baggage. Now was my chance to offer. But I missed my husband. I wanted to see him. I didn’t want to be away from him for over an hour and have to drive back all by myself. I wanted him to be with me on the drive. If only he were already with me, I thought. I decided to run home and get him, then we’d go pick her up and bring her where she wanted to go. I drove home excited. As I walked in the door my stomach growled. I was starving. Just a quick bite to eat…
By the time we got out the door and back to my work parking lot, she was gone. Someone else had beat me to it. I was disappointed I hadn’t been fast enough, but on the other hand I was happy someone else had been willing.
The memory of our anthropologist traveler sticks with me, always in the back of my mind. There was no big award or widely-known accomplishment; she wasn’t a celebrity by any means. Just a real, motivated, passionate someone.
Based on a true story. (By this I mean it IS a true story, but the quotes aren’t her exact words. I just wrote what I could remember.)
