by M. Blake

Beam tried to get a ride at the truck stop – for three hours that morning – and eventually he gave it up, realizing he might very well be there all day. He wanted to make some progress and not have to camp in the same place again. Most of the truckers, however, were heading in the opposite direction he was, toward the capital. Beam knew he would have to start walking and hope for a ride on the old highway that ran parallel to the Interstate. It was twenty miles to the next town, he’d been told in the truck stop diner, and the middle-aged waitress said, with a sad shake of her head, there was nothing between here and there – at least as far as a store or anything, which is what she assumed he wanted to know. Beam had offered to wash dishes the previous night, but the owner – with a sad shake of the head, also – nodded to the rear of the counter, where a young teenager in an apron set glasses on a shelf.

“Ernie’s all we need right now,” she said. “Business has been slow lately.”

Beam had been hoping the owner would offer him something to eat – some of them did – but pouring him a soda was as far as she would go. He asked her about the traffic on the old highway he’d been thumbing down and she just shrugged.

“Most people use the Interstate,” she said. “But if you do get a ride, they’ll most likely be going all the way to Williams.”

So now here at ten the next morning, Beam walked along the road (fortunately still shady on his side) with his small bag. It was because he sometimes ended up on long stretches of rural road like this that he traveled as light as possible. In this way, he kept up his fast, steady pace anyway, even if the rides were slow in coming. What kept him optimistic about making it to Williams sometime that afternoon was what the restaurant owner had said: anybody passing by was going there.

Which didn’t turn out to be true in the case of a road crew going slowly by on the other side of the road – two white trucks and a backhoe – with smiling and chattering Hispanic men in white hardhats. Some of the men nodded and grinned at Beam, who waved back. It was a pleasing sight to see men enjoying themselves on the job, and it seemed to be characteristic of the Hispanic, or Mexican, work crews he had seen in different places around the country – particularly in the southwest. Yet here he was on a rural stretch in Virginia, and here was a “Mexican” work crew attending to the roads. Beam heard the Spanish, for the trucks slowly made their way by, with some of the men looking down at the side of the road. In his wanderings, Beam had heard white people complain about Mexican “illegals” making it difficult for citizens to find jobs, though, when it came right down to it, these Mexicans were doing work most citizens wouldn’t even consider. Beam had noticed that the Hispanic work crews – usually landscaping groups or construction workers – were hardworking and quiet (one might even say good-natured). He also noticed, from being on jobs with some of these crews, that the workers seemed to have fun with each other or, in any case, weren’t as grim or serious looking as the white and black workers he’d been involved with. One thing Beam was sure of: as long as there were white employers willing to save money by hiring men for low wages, then there would always be opportunities for men just arrived from south of the border.

However, this work crew that just passed by must have been hired by the local community for some job, and how could they be illegals for that? Didn’t the men have to produce some ID when they applied for the work – for tax purposes? Or was the boss a subcontractor – a citizen who spoke English and had all the correct papers – and then hired men without green cards but desperate enough for any work? Beam had heard of that.

Well, he hadn’t seen a white face on any of the vehicles, so he guessed he wouldn’t stand a chance of getting any work there. Maybe in Williams he’d find something – an hour or two of work, at least – some odd job some elderly person needed doing. Beam knew that if he were persistent enough, something would come his way.

Another car came speeding along – they all went fast on this old highway that the Interstate had made into a “back road” for the locals – and it never showed a sign of slowing. Beam saw a young black face in the passenger window, grinning at him, shout something at him.    
 
The work crew went slowly by on Beam’s side now. They must have turned around at the truck stop, he thought. The three vehicles went slowly by at no more than twenty miles an hour. Again, some of the men looked to be scanning the roadside, and now Beam noticed that some of the brush near the pavement had been flattened by a large vehicle recently – no doubt the work of this crew.

The large truck bringing up the rear – a new vehicle with an extra large cab – stopped and a young, dark-faced man, smiling, gestured for Beam to come over. Beam instantly smiled and trotted over to the truck. These guys were going slow, but moving faster than he was nonetheless. There were two men in the backseat, but they made a place for him, all four men smiling.

“How you doing today, amigo?” the portly driver greeted him.

“I’m doing okay, my friend. How ‘bout yourself?”

He gave them all a warm smile, one that came automatically whenever he got a ride.  

“Working, my friend,” the driver said, starting the truck along again at its slow pace. “Where you going to?”

“Williams is the next place on my map. But Florida is where I’m going.”

“Florida?” The driver turned to look at Beam again, his brown eyes wide.

“Florida?” a young man sitting next to Beam said, smiling.

“Where it’s nice and warm for the winter.”

“Florida, that’s a long way,” the driver said.

“Well, it gets closer every day. It really seemed far when I started out in Massachusetts.”

“Massachusetts?” another young man said, looking at Beam as if puzzled. The others looked at him.

“It’s up by New York.”

They all recognized that name.

“But it’s too cold in the winter,” Beam said. “Mucho frio.”

They all nodded and smiled.

“You’re walking to Florida?” the driver asked.

Beam held up his thumb and the driver nodded. No one said anything for a couple minutes. A couple of the men laughed at another young man making faces at them from the truck ahead of them. 

Then Beam asked them about the work they were doing. The answer was that they were laying communications cable next to the road in this rural area; their company had been hired by the community to do the job over the whole county. The company was based out of Richmond. The crew had been working along this stretch of road the previous day and would be here for a few more days. Beam got this information from the driver, as he was apparently the only one who knew even minimal English.

“We’re not going to Williams,” the driver said. “We can take you up here a little way.”

“Every little bit helps,” Beam said.

They had gone three or four miles now, past the long driveways that led to farmhouses, some of them big and well-cared for. After about five or six miles of riding in the truck, a side road came into sight, turning west off the old highway. That truly was a back road to who knew where. Where that road went off, there was an old abandoned store with a big, cracked parking lot, and here the three vehicles pulled off the road. There was an old picnic table, and several men went and sat down, still chattering away in Spanish.

Beam shook hands with the guys from the truck and they nodded and grinned, and one clapped him on the back. The driver shrugged and said he wished he could take him further. He wished Beam good luck in finding work in Florida, for Beam had mentioned he would be looking for that. It was why – in answer to the driver’s question – he couldn’t afford a bus.

Beam waved to the group as he walked down the road, for they were a friendly bunch, and the ride had been appreciated, though it was short. He was in better spirits now on this day with the clear blue sky and the wooded countryside and green pastures to look at. It would get hot in a little while when all the shade was gone, and maybe he’d take a break then. He still had a granola bar in his bag.

He’d gotten about fifty yards down the road when he heard the shout. He turned and saw one of the young men running toward him. The man – no more than twenty – came up to him and held out his hand. Beam saw the green bills rolled up. The man gestured for him to take it. He looked back over his shoulder at his colleagues, and Beam saw a group of them standing there, waving and smiling. The young man turned back to Beam and held out the money, nodding his head. Beam, still surprised, took the money, smiled and nodded his head. He muttered thank you, but the young man had quickly clapped him on the shoulder and headed back to the gang.

As he watched the short, thin figure in a t-shirt and jeans trot back to the store, Beam didn’t actually say the words: I’ll be damned; yet those words went through his head. He waved again at the group.

There was sixteen bucks in all: one five and the rest ones, as if a collection had been taken up amongst the group. He suspected that none of them had more than a few dollars on them, and yet they had contributed, on the moment, without hesitation for a stranger who’d only been with them for a half hour at the most. Beam figured that most of them had just recently come to the States and probably knew what it was like traveling with little or no money, with just the bare essentials. They had simply recognized a fellow traveler in need; they had known his situation from what they had seen and the little they had understood. Perhaps it was the driver who had started the collection, for he kept looking back at Beam as they drove along, saying Florida and shaking his head. Well, bless him if it was, Beam thought, his day made now. Every little bit helped.

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