The Road Less Traveled by D.A.Sanford - HTML preview

Poor man

Now, this is my second time seeing me dead in the road. I turn my attention away from the scene and pedal off. Wait, I was on a motorcycle. Now I am on a pedal bike? Looking at it as I coast, it is an assembly of mismatched parts. Most are rusty. It is obvious that this time, I am not that rich man. I stop and take inventory of myself.

All I have is an ID. No license and very little money in the well worn wallet I had. Obviously deposit can money. The bicycle has a cobbled up hitch with a salvaged baby trailer. My belongings are in there, what there is of them.

My leather coat if now a jean jacket that, like the rest of my clothing, is someone else’s lost or discarded clothing. I’ll stick with that because I now have the feeling that this life, this me, holds his head up. He does not steal.

I start peddling again. It comes naturally because I know that since the fire, that burned up the entire neighborhood, my insurance would not cover my loss. I used up what savings I had while walking. I noticed a bicycle in the river and retrieved it. Since then I have repaired it numerous times with those common water found bikes.

The first thing, when I hit a town, is to scout out the soup kitchen and food bank. Some even have used clothes that you can have. I always get one set when I can.

There is a stream so I fill up my large soda bottles. This, being a mountain area, has good water but I do have a pot and a flint fire starter. I find one of those road side rest stops that have fire pits for the passing tourist to cook out. I boil the water and put it in the bottles again. It may not be true but I have convinced myself that by pouring the hot water into those bottles, it kills any residue. I haven’t gotten sick, yet.

I find the kitchen and now have a warm meal. I ask those kind people if there are any day job employment centers in this area. There is and I spend a week here. I now have a really good amount of money. Well for someone that lives normally on deposit cans, it is a fortune.

The funny thing is is that I remember all of those two lives but I do not have any resentment. I do not think that it is natural but I don’t question.

Whenever possible, I will work for my money. I am not like those panhandlers at the strip malls that look too much like what normals think we look like. The latest is the violinists that really are faking it with a recording. I just shake my head and pedal on..

There are always people who make judgements on someone’s outwardly appearance. Many a time those people have made it known just what trash they think I am. Most just say, in so many words, that I need to get a job and pick myself up. Don’t I have any pride? Just get out of our town.

I may be living hand to mouth but I still have pride. I do not even address them but just say that I forgive them.

Day jobs, deposit cans, foraging for wild vegetables, I make due. I am not getting fat, I actually am fit.

It now is getting cold so I start my peddling south as I have done each fall. I pass the neighborhood that I used to live in and find that there are no more individual houses. Large complexes of “affordable housing.”

I found that I don’t qualify for it. No job. At least I still can hold my head up, I found their trash and now have at least enough cans to get some food for on the run.

I kind of like this freedom. I do get hungry. I do worry but I just know that there is a feeling that I need this.

Getting warmer, I can relax. At least I will not freeze to death in my sleep.

I start my morning trek when I hear an eighteen wheeler’s horn sound. I keep rolling until I reach the grassy curb. Stopping, there I am. Head split wide open, bike totally crushed. The trucker is looking around and sees no one. He takes one of my waters, cleans the blood off of the cab and drives off.

That is the final indignity of that short life.