by Adam Shepard
Scratch Beginnings
Me, $25, and the Search for the American Dream
Adam Shepard
For Derrick, who knows what he wants and goes for it.
And for BG and Marco, who are almost there.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Disclaimer and Author’s Notes
Introduction July 24—Setting Up
One Welcome to Crisis Ministries
Two EasyLabor
Three Another Day, Another Dollar
Four Big Babies
Five Sundays with George
Six Hustle Time
Seven Job Hunting 101 with Professor Phil Coleman
Eight Put Up or Shut Up
Nine “First and Last Day”
Ten Adventures in Moving
Eleven Movin’ On Up
Twelve Workers’ Consternation
Thirteen Winter with Bubble Gum
Fourteen Culture Shocked
Fifteen Fighting for Respect
Sixteen One Last Move
Epilogue A Year Later: A Didactic Look at What I Learned and Where I Go from Here
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are a number of people that deserve more than a simple “thanks” for their assistance in the writing of this book.
First shout-outs to Amy Brust and Nicki Jhabvala, who turned an amateurish first draft into a respectable second.
To Dan Strone, my agent, who breathed new life into a book that I figured would remain self-published forever. And to my editor at HarperCollins, Serena Jones, who brought a passion to this project that parallels my own.
To the rest of my review crew, who should not by any means be discounted for being “the rest of my review crew”: Molly Beam, Angela Caira, Neil Cotiaux, Sarah Haynes, Jen Golojuch, Jaime-Lyn Pickles, Jan Richards, Surry Roberts, Erik Shepard, and Michael Thomas. A special thanks to Iain Levison and Fred Hobson—authors much more skilled than I will ever be—who kept me grounded.
To Teresa Pierrie, my ninth grade English teacher, who sparked a passion in writing that I may not have discovered on my own. And then showed me how to do it.
And, most importantly, to my parents—George and Joanie Shepard—who instilled in me the knowledge to conceive such a project and inspired me with the courage to complete it.
DISCLAIMER AND AUTHOR’S NOTES
Please be forewarned that my story does contain some profane language. I considered censoring the entire book in an effort to reach a wider audience, but, in the end, I decided it would take away from some of the people that I met along the way. Submerged in a world that used cursing as a form of expression, I wrote it like they said it, even toning it back somewhat with guys like Phil Coleman and Brooklyn Bonesy.
It is NOT recommended that the reader repeats the exact actions contained herein. By reading this book, the reader agrees to release the author, the publisher, the book seller, and all other interested parties from any liability stemming from events related to the contents of this book.
The truth is that I wouldn’t wish my experience—especially the first seventy days—on anyone. Go to school, find your passion, save your money, live your dreams.
Finally, last names have been changed in order to protect the privacy of the people with whom I was associated throughout my year. Additionally, some of the names of the organizations with which I was associated have been changed.
INTRODUCTION
July 24—Setting Up
My mom is nervous. My pops seems more excited about it than I am. My brother anxiously awaits my departure so he can take possession of my bed and all of my clothes after I leave.
My friend Sana is merely curious, while my friend Matt thinks I may have simply gone mad.
And maybe he is right. I am very frustrated.
I am frustrated with the whining and complaining.
Frustrated with the lethargy and lack of drive that seems to be overcoming a younger generation in particular.
Frustrated at always hearing how it “used to be” when people talk about the good ol’ days in the same breath as their perceived demise of America.
I am really, really frustrated with the poor attitudes that seem to have swept over my peer group. Frustrated with hearing “I don’t have” rather than “Let’s see what I can do with what I do have.”
So, I have decided to attempt to demonstrate that it doesn’t have to be that way.
There are many ways that I could go about this. I could work my way through years and years of school, and when the time came for me to write my dissertation, I could turn my teachings into a book worthy of being published about the science of change or the science of attitude. I would write a comma and PhD next to my name on the cover and, based on my experience, people would know that whatever I had to say was inevitably true.
I could become the subject of a psychological case study on change that would highlight the importance of adopting a new way of thinking. I would find myself at the mercy of one of those aforementioned PhDs, hoping that he or she knew enough to use my talents—or lack thereof—productively.
Or, I could take matters into my own hands. And that’s what I have decided to do. I have had the idea in my pocket, itching to come out, a plan that I have been toying with since high school. And now that I am fresh out of college, broke, and bordering on homelessness anyway, it seems like as good a time as any to let it out.
Here’s my premise:
I am going to start almost literally from scratch with one 8' × 10' tarp, a sleeping bag, an empty gym bag, $25, and the clothes on my back. Via train, I will be dropped at a random place somewhere in the southeastern United States outside of my home state of North Carolina. I have 365 days to become free of the realities of homelessness and become a “regular” member of society. After one year, for my project to be considered successful, I have to possess an operable automobile, live in a furnished apartment (alone or with a roommate), have $2,500 in cash, and, most importantly, I have to be in a position in which I can continue to improve my circumstances by either going to school or starting my own business.
There are a few ground rules that I need to establish in an effort to keep some critics at bay. On paper, my previous life doesn’t exist for this one year. I cannot use any of my previous contacts, my college education, or my credit history. For the sake of this project, I have a high school diploma, and I will have recently moved to my new town. Additionally, I cannot beg for money or use services that others are not at liberty to use.
Aside from illegally sleeping in a park or under a bridge, I am free to do whatever I need to do within the confines of the law in order to accomplish my goal.
Well, that all sounds simple enough. Now for a few disclaimers on my behalf.
First of all, I feel it is necessary to establish that I have no political affiliation—right wing, left wing, conservative, liberal, Republican, or Democrat. For the next year, they’re all the same to me. Socioeconomically speaking, my story is a rebuttal to Barbara Ehrenreich’s Nickel and Dimed1 and Bait and Switch,2 the books that speak on the death of the American Dream. With investigative projects of her own, Ehrenreich attempted to establish that working stiffs are doomed to live in the same disgraceful conditions forever. I resent that theory, and my story is a search to evaluate if hard work and discipline provide any payoff whatsoever or if they are, as Ehrenreich suggests, futile pursuits.
Second, I am not an author or a journalist. I only mention this to establish that my intent in this project is not to produce a divine work of literature where carefully comprised prose dances sublimely off the page.
I’m just a regular guy, so whatever you read is straight from my thoughts to the paper. In a way, I believe that my untapped mind will add to the value of my writing. After all, I’m going into this without drawing conclusions or stereotypes about the people I expect to meet along my journey, which will hopefully lead to unbiased reporting.
Third, it is important to note that evaluators of this project are going to call me on all sorts of technicalities. Whether it is the absence of a family to tend to (as may be the case for many in the real world living in similar circumstances), or my innate sense of adventure, or my overall health that plays to my advantage—all are fair criticisms and worth noting. However, my hope is that these thoughts will not take away from the tedious task at hand or the theme that I intend to represent.
I also want to point out that I am not going to attempt to strengthen my story by flooding you with a wide range of statistics and information from books or magazines or other periodicals. While this is certainly a research project of sorts and there are points to be made, I feel it is important that I draw only from my own experience.
As you’re going to see throughout the course of my journey, this is not a modern-day rags-to-riches, get-rich-quick story. “I made a million, and you can too!” Nope. That’s too cliché, and, coincidentally, too unrealistic. Mine is the story of rags-to-fancier-rags. I’m not an extraordinary person performing extraordinary feats. I don’t have some special talent that I can use to “wow” prospective employers. I’m average. My story is very basic—simple. My story is about the attitude of success. My goal is to better my lot and to provide a stepping-stone over the next 365 days for everything else I want to accomplish in my life. I aim to find out if the American Dream is still alive, or if it has, in fact, been drowned out by the greed of the upper class coupled with the apathy of the lower class.
So, here we go. You, my audience:
The dad who can use this book when his twelve-year-old is complaining about not having the latest video game.
The fifteen-year-old who doesn’t quite understand why he or she has to study so hard and take “all of these worthless classes that I’ll never use in real life.”
The recent college grad who—drowned in student loans and limited opportunities (and, of course, living at home)—is searching for any little bit of strength and direction.
The seventy-two-year-old grandfather who already has a firm grasp on the concept of my story and has doubtless lived many of these same experiences.
The thirty-two-year-old mother of two who is working multiple jobs just to get by. The one making the sacrifice so her children can have a shot at the American Dream that she gave up on long ago.
You, the underdog, sitting behind the eight ball, wondering when your number is going to be called.
And me, with $25 and my personal belongings on my back, ready for the craziest adventure of my life.
ONE
WELCOME TO CRISIS MINISTRIES
Tuesday, July 25
There was nobody there.
There has always been somebody there to greet me. After every trip I’ve taken, it’s either been Ma or Pops, a friend, a girlfriend, or, once, even a professor.
But not that night.
Nope. All that welcomed me was the humid evening air of Charleston, South Carolina, the rancid smell of urine leaking from the stalls of the train station’s restrooms, and a scruffy looking man gripping a plastic cup half full with coins. That night, I was greeted by a totally new world.
But that was to be expected. I had been preparing for the unpleasant insecurity of this first night ever since my brother had dropped me off earlier in the day at the Amtrak station in Raleigh on his way to work. I had been preparing for my first moment of freedom for far longer than I could remember.
There are plenty of ways to get from Raleigh to Charleston, the city that I had randomly picked out of a hat of twelve other southeastern U.S. cities. You can drive or fly or hitchhike or take the bus. The ambitious, I suppose, could bike or run, but this wasn’t that kind of journey. I chose the train because, economically speaking, it was the most efficient choice. And really, I chose to ride the rail for selfish reasons. I didn’t want to have to bother with good-byes once I got to South Carolina’s premier port city. Surely whoever dropped me off would have hung over my shoulder for a while to make sure everything was okay.
And I’m glad I chose the train. Even if I had somehow known ahead of time that the ride would be uncomfortable and would arrive three hours late in Charleston, I still would have chosen the train. As it wound along Garner Road, the slow pace of southbound train number 5630 gave me an opportunity to say farewell to my previous life. Yep, that’s the same Garner Road that takes you past the YMCA where I lifted weights with Bill, Charles, and Rod and where Jack had taught me how to shoot three-pointers with remarkable precision when I was just twelve years old. It goes past Rock Quarry Road, which takes you to Southeast Raleigh High School where Mr. Geraghty had inspired me to maintain my dreams on the basketball court but to also hold on to my education as a safety net, and past Aversboro Road, which will bring you to within fifty feet of the front doorstep of the home where I grew up. It goes past a collection of fast food joints and retail shops where I ate and shopped, but never worked, and past the sun-tanned tobacco fields that represent a lifestyle far beyond my comprehension, even for a boy from the South.
And now, here I was, alone in Charleston at the corner of Rivers and Durant, wondering if it would be wiser for me to go left or right or if pitching camp under the overpass for the night would be my best option. After all, it was getting late. At least I assumed it was getting late. The actual time? Couldn’t have told you. But it was well after dark, and I hadn’t seen one person since I had walked away from the train station.
A big-body, black Oldsmobile with tinted windows glided by with a suspiciously high regard of the speed limit.
The tattered map of Charleston that I had found on a vacant seat at the train station was going to prove to be useful. With it, I could more or less find my way on my own. Without it, I would be left to rely on the advice of strangers for guidance.
My first order of business was to find a comfortable place to sleep. Shoot, it didn’t even have to be a comfortable place to sleep—just a place, a relatively safe place. As far as I could tell from the assortment of landmarks dispersed throughout the peninsula on the map, the action was happening south of my current location. Perhaps I was being naïve in what could have been a crucial mistake, but I figured that the excitement and opportunity of my new homeland were directly correlated. With excitement came opportunity, and I was looking for opportunity. Left it was.
After walking down Rivers Avenue, and walking some more down Rivers Avenue, the notion of time still hadn’t hit me, especially with the expected 6:47 P.M. arrival time of the train prolonged. All I knew was it was dark out—pitch-black dark—and Murphy’s Law had thrown off my mental preparations for the trip.
A guy asked if I had any spare change.
“No, sorry,” I said. I thought about retaliating with, “Do you have some for me? Cuz, uh, I’m actually running a little short myself.” But, of course, I didn’t. I had always accepted and even appreciated the vagrants that strung a guitar or blew on a saxophone or showcased some other talent at the park or at a subway stop underground, but I had never had any respect for the laziness of beggars.
The sign under Johnson’s Chiropractic Clinic illuminated 10:14 and eighty-one degrees. Wendy’s and Captain D’s Seafood appeared on the right, and my nerves began to ease. Finally! Something familiar. With a little more bounce in my step and determination in my mind, I made the executive—yet uneducated—decision to keep hiking toward downtown for my first night of sleep.
The nagging barks of dogs cooped up in distant neighborhoods didn’t bother me as much as the cars whizzing by at blistering speeds. But then again, even the cars didn’t bother me as much as the lightning. Terrific! Lightning. Murphy wa
s on a roll.
Or was that just heat lightning? What is heat lightning anyway? Is that the lightning that strikes between clouds or between a cloud and the air? Is it going to rain?
What did any of that matter? Such thoughts were superfluous. It’s lightning. If it rained, it rained.
The clock at the gas station at the corner of Rivers and McMillan read 10:30, and I was approached by a woman boozed up well beyond coherence. She counted out four quarters and ordered me to fetch her a bottle of King Cobra across the street. I didn’t realize until later that she had been banned from this particular convenience store and denied similar purchasing services from the locals. To everyone else she was “Diane the Drunk,” the notorious target of ridicule and laughter. But not to me. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have thought twice about denying her request, but my current need to collect friends didn’t allow me the luxury of passing moral judgment.
“You said you wanted a forty?” I asked.
“Yea, baby,” she muttered. “A forty.”
The gas station was filled with ordinary people loading up on vodka and cigarettes. From the looks they shot my way, I sensed that they were puzzled by the sight of a youngster purchasing a quart of cheap malt liquor late on a Tuesday night. Almost as puzzled as I was.
But never mind that. Diane was waiting for me, and more importantly, for her King Cobra.
The $1.48 total came as a nuisance as I had to dip into the five-dollar bill of my original $25 to make up for the 48¢ that Diane had shorted me. If you had asked me three hours before how I planned on spending my initial $25, I would have handed you a list riddled with underwear, toiletries, bread, and, if completely necessary, a shirt or two. Dipping into my fund to pay the overage for forty ounces of malt liquor for Diane would not have found its way to that list.