Tanck credited Reinke for helping him survive in Williston. He was grateful for the hospitality Reinke showed him his first month in town and had attended Concordia Lutheran Church ever since, volunteering for the Overnighters when he could. “When you’re coming from 1,300 miles away and you don’t have anyplace to go, to have the security of a parking lot with other people like you around—as opposed to being on the side of the road—the comfort that brought was tremendous,” said Tanck. “I couldn’t put a price tag on it. It was a godsend. It was the answer to my prayers.”
In the church’s gathering room, Reinke stood behind three long tables with his back toward the wall. Outside, sheets of rain poured onto the sidewalk and the wind hissed. There were severe storm warnings for the night, with 40-mile-per-hour winds expected. Reinke’s gray hair was matted down from rain, and he wore glasses low on his nose.
Reinke had called the meeting to answer his neighbors’ questions about the Overnighters. He hoped to garner their support because the city’s Planning and Zoning Department was threatening to shut down the program. It sent Reinke a letter detailing the requirements to continue operating. Reinke needed to have the same features as a homeless shelter: showers, an emergency sprinkler system in the building, and a designated sleeping room, and he had to hire a full-time social worker. But Reinke didn’t want the church to become a homeless shelter. He hoped to apply for a temporary housing permit to keep it running and planned to argue his case for the Overnighters at the city’s next Planning and Zoning meeting, which was closed to the public.
Reinke explained his plans to Nancy.
She crossed her arms and said she had concerns. “There was a guy staying in the building who was talking on his phone outside about the good hookers in Williston,” she said, her tone combative. “It sounded like he was telling his friend to come here for the hookers.”
Reinke held his chin and nodded. “I encourage you to speak up when you see that,” he advised.
Nancy was not pleased with his answer. “Well, I’m a neighbor being offended by someone staying here.”
“Was he a black guy?” Reinke asked.
“Yes, he was black-skinned.”
“Was he African?”
“It didn’t sound like he had an accent—I could understand what he was saying,” she said.
Reinke nodded and begin talking about Christ and redemption. He could guide these men to the word of God, he explained, and they could change their ways.
Nancy pursed her lips. “You’re bringing in the wrong part of life here to Williston if you’re promoting illegal activity like that.”
Reinke didn’t address her comment directly but gave her examples of how he was standing up against the unsavory activities around town. Reinke said one entrepreneur started a “Fun Bus” in Williston, for example, which drove bar to bar with strippers, picking up patrons. “I met the guy who started it and told him, ‘This is not good for women or men.’ I don’t think it’s functioning anymore,” he said. Reinke also discovered that the local college received funding from the pull tabs at Williston’s strip clubs. Reinke confronted someone at the college about it. He remembered asking: “Is that the message you want to send young women who are trying to find a place in society?”
Nancy didn’t seemed convinced. Reinke tried a different argument: “These are husbands and fathers who are here to serve their children,” he said. “They’re people who need an income and want to work, and it’s our duty to serve them.” He paused and leaned against a table. “It’s messy, though. I had to kick a man out the other night because he hit another man. One thing I can do is I can tell them not to talk on their phones outside. How does that sound?” Reinke asked Nancy. “I want the neighbors to feel as comfortable as possible.”
Nancy nodded but didn’t smile. Her arms remained crossed. She had another concern: “How can I prevent people from knocking on my door asking ‘Is that the church that lets people stay there?’ It’s not my job to be the receptionist for the church. My property value might go down. When I bought the property, I had an understanding that I was living next to a church, not a homeless shelter, not a hotel, not a hostel. If I had wanted that, I would’ve bought next to one. To me, a church is a church, not a place for sleeping.”
Reinke nodded, absorbing her argument and preparing his rebuttal. “Okay. There is St. Peter’s Episcopal that I know has AA meetings. This is what churches are involved with sometimes. I think it’s just part of—and one of the burdens—of being a neighbor. There’s no way for us to prevent people knocking on your door. But I would ask you to consider it as an opportunity to serve. These people are trying change their lives and need our help. It might not be what you expected, but the whole boom is nothing we expected.”
We heard a knock on the door. A woman with red curly hair poked her head into the room. “Hi, I’m looking for a place to stay tonight,” she said. “I’m willing to clean or help out in exchange.”
Reinke asked her to wait in the hall and he’d be right with her. When she closed the door, he turned back toward Nancy. “I wish I could solicit other churches to help,” he said. Reinke had asked other churches in town if they’d take one or two already-vetted Overnighters, but not one had agreed. “Imagine having to turn people away in this?” he said, gesturing to the door while the storm raged outside and hail pummeled the narrow windows.
After Nancy left, Reinke came over to where I was sitting, placed his hands on the table, and leaned forward. “Can you believe that lady?” he said, pointing to the door where she’d exited. “That’s the same lady who called the cops on children in the parking lot. They were doing a craft project using matches. For a craft project. And she called the cops! They call her the playground Nazi at the park. She says she didn’t sign up for this. Well, welcome to Williston!” he yelled, throwing his arms out wide. “It really pisses me off, excuse my French,” he said. “There’s just so much fear. I wish people would stop making decisions based on fear.”
It was nearly 9 p.m., and Overnighters were arriving at the church for the night. Men huddled by the back door waiting to be let in. Reinke unlocked the door, and a half-dozen shuffled in, removing dripping-wet coats and hats. They unrolled sleeping bags and blankets to claim their spots on the ground. They tucked their bedding between tables and hung wet T-shirts and socks on the backs of chairs. One man kept his clothes in a black garbage bag. A few men had purchased fast food and ate their meals quietly at the tables. I met Derek MacDonald, a skinny 28-year-old with glasses, who came from the small town of Smith Center, Kansas. Before coming to Williston, he took care of his sick grandfather and struggled to find steady work. He’d snag the occasional construction gig, but it wasn’t enough to support himself. He also had a DUI on his record, which dissuaded many employers from hiring him. “I only had a couple jobs the whole year,” he said. Broke and unsure of what to do next, he had packed up two duffel bags, a sleeping bag, and a tarp and bought a one-way bus ticket to Williston. “I found a job within the first hour of being here,” he said.
Reinke invited in Carol, the redhead who’d interrupted the meeting, and a young man named Brian, who had arrived earlier that day and needed a place to sleep. Brian looked to be in his mid-20s and wore a baseball cap over bleached blond hair. Reinke sat down at a table across from them to give an orientation.
He handed them the list of rules, printed out on computer paper. “This is not a luxury hotel,” he said. “We’re a church, so we’d like you here on Sunday morning. It’s very difficult for women here,” he said, looking at Carol. “Women sleep in the hallway. It’s some privacy, but not much.” Carol had red-lined lips and dainty hands. I found out later she came to Williston from Maine to produce a radio news show.
Reinke continued: “You’ll sign in each evening, and we’ll give you a name tag. Lights out at 11 p.m. No drinking. Anything I can smell or find with a Breathalyzer is grounds for you to leave. No profanity. If your feet stink, I will tell you. You
need to wash them. There are no showers here. You have to use the sink. For showers, there’s the community center, or for private showers, Elite Gym for $60 a month. Shirts need to be worn at all times. We ask you to do some cleaning in the mornings. You can use the microwave but no stove. The city doesn’t want us to do much cooking. Don’t eat or drink by where you sleep.
“And. You. Have. Got. To. Be. Looking. For. Housing,” he said, punctuating every word with his pen pointed at their faces. “It’s a hard life here,” he said, softening his tone. “Two guys who stayed here have committed suicide. Another one has gone missing and I think he’s dead.”
Carol said she brought her own bedding, but Brian didn’t have anything. Reinke handed him a blue blanket and a quilt. He said the blankets were first come, first served.
Reinke stood up suddenly, as if he’d forgotten something. He walked to the edge of the room. “Gentlemen, I have a new rule!” he yelled. “Weeee! A new rule! We had a neighbor that heard one of you talking about prostitutes in Williston.”
One guy in the room let out a snort of laughter but silenced himself quickly.
“No more talking on your cell phones in front of the church!” Reinke said. He asked them to make phone calls in the rear parking lot or off church property.
He returned to where I was and sat down, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. Reinke discussed Brian’s chances of surviving in Williston, even though the man sat nearby. “He seems like a good guy. I think he has a chance of making it here. But I’m not sure about Carol,” he said. Carol was no longer in the room—she likely left to set up her bed in the hallway. Reinke was concerned about her mental state—but from what I could tell, she was fine, just a little quirky.
Suddenly, Reinke remembered he wanted to give Brian and Carol a speech. He couldn’t find Carol, so Reinke sat across from Brian. “This is a hard place,” he started. “When things go south, plan B means plan Blessing. Jesus was broken on the cross, and that’s how he saved us,” Reinke said as he grabbed Brian’s arm and looked him in the eye.
Brian began to cry. “I used to be a bad alcoholic, things were really rough,” he said as he wiped away tears. “I’ve crisscrossed the country at least a dozen times trying to find an opportunity. I just want someone to give me a chance to see what I can do.”
Reinke took Brian’s shoulder and told him it was going to be okay. He held Brian’s gaze. “You are welcome here.”
32. TOM STAKES
Tom Stakes passed by Concordia Lutheran Church often. He knew the church offered a warm place to sleep, but he never went in. For one, he heard the pastor didn’t allow drinking, and he wasn’t willing to follow that rule. He also hadn’t attended church in a long time. His church-going friends often invited him to sermons, but he declined. “I don’t feel like I deserve to be there,” he told me once. He felt embarrassed about his drinking, and the longer he stayed away, the harder it was to return. He still had faith in God, though. His oldest possession was a worn leather Bible that he kept zipped away in a black protective case. Inside, the pages were well read, with highlighted passages and notes scribbled in the margins. Stakes liked to read over his favorite verses at night. He didn’t miss the responsibility, stress, and packed schedule of being a pastor—always preparing for sermons, performing baptisms, marriages, and funerals, and visiting members in the hospital. It had taken a toll on his family life. But at the same time, he missed feeling needed.
One summer evening, I picked up Stakes from Fox Run RV Park, and we met Greg Mackie near the train station at Mackie’s yellow school bus. They planned to get tipsy on cheap beer before going to the bars downtown. Inside the bus, the floor space had been converted into a giant sleeping area, with old couch cushions piled together. A sticky fly strip with dead flies hung by the entrance, fishing rods leaned against the window, and piles of clothes were scattered near the bed cushions. Stakes, Mackie, and I sat at a small table near the front.
Stakes lit a cigarette, and Mackie cracked open three Miller Lights for us. As we chatted, a young man, barefoot and wearing overalls without a shirt, poked his head through the bus’s open door. He asked if we were on our way to the Rainbow Gathering in Heber City, Utah. Stakes said no, but he invited the young man inside for a beer. The man ducked into the bus and sat down on the couch cushions. He said his name was Eric and he’d hitchhiked to Williston from Utah a few days before. He aspired to be a roustabout on an oil rig, but in the meantime he was applying to fast-food restaurants.
As the sun set, the streetlamps cast dim spotlights on the asphalt parking lot. We sat and talked in the faint light. Every so often a car drove by, and slowly more people walked by on the sidewalk near us. The strip clubs were located across the street, and people congregated outside. This part of downtown Williston, typically deserted during the day, was waking up for the night.
Suddenly, Stakes cried out, “Girl! What the hell you doin’ over there?”
We all stopped talking and looked over to where he was facing.
“No, this ain’t right,” Stakes said, shaking his head.
“Who is it?” Mackie asked.
Stakes pointed through the open door to a girl in the distance, a few feet away from the train tracks, slouched against a cement wall with a red duffel bag next to her. She looked young, with long brown hair, a black T-shirt, and fitted jeans.
“It looks like she’s hurt,” Stakes said. “She got her hand over her face. It looks like she’s been cryin’.”
Mackie, Eric, and I stood up to see better.
“No no no, girl. You havin’ a hard time, but dammit, girl. You ain’t alone,” Stakes said as though she could hear him. “If you need help, we’re gonna help ya however we can. We ain’t gonna mess with ya.”
Mackie turned to me. “We see a lot of this. People get dropped off at the train.” He said he often saw couples fighting—sometimes people would yell and scream at each other in front of onlookers. He thought maybe that was the case with this girl. “I’ve seen more fights up here than probably in my whole lifetime.”
Stakes interrupted. “Ah, fuck, she’s over there cryin’. I got to go see what it is.” He left the bus and made his way over to her, with the rest of us close behind. As we neared her, it was obvious she was crying. Her face was in her hands and she was sobbing.
Stakes approached her slowly. “Hey, how long ya been here?” he asked gently.
She looked up at him, her eyes red and puffy. “Like … an hour,” she managed to say before crying again. “I’m scared.”
Stakes knelt down and spoke to her softly, as if she were a young child. “Well, I’m Tom. You want to come over to the bus? We’re just sittin’ there drinkin’ a couple a beers.”
She sniffled. “The boys over there were yellin’ at me.”
Stakes stood up and raised his voice. “Who was?”
She burst into tears again. “I don’t know,” she said in between her sobs. “The guys at the strip club, or whatever that is.”
“What?” said Stakes, becoming angry. “They were messin’ with ya? Well, nobody’s gonna fuck with you ’round me. Nobody.”
She continued crying, trying to catch her breath. She wiped her damp cheeks.
Stakes softened his voice again. “Girl, it’s okay, it’s all right,” he said, trying to console her. “Just breathe a little bit. We’re not gonna hurt people. We love people. We take care of each other. We all been in the same boat. Come on over there and we’ll figure somethin’ out. You ain’t gotta sit out here like this with all these wild motherfuckers runnin’ around.”
Eric, who’d been standing by quietly, chimed in. “Yeah, this town gets crazy at night. That’s why I don’t hang out over here.”
She wiped away more tears and sniffled.
“What’s your name?” Stakes asked.
“Tori.”
“Aw, like Tori Amos. I like Tori Amos,” Stakes said, and patted her on the back. “Come on now, nobody’s gonna mess with ya. You
only been here for like an hour. You don’t even know what the hell’s goin’ on ’round this town. How old are ya?”
“Twenty-one,” she said, her sniffles becoming quieter.
Stakes coaxed her to stand up and we all walked back toward the bus. Tori looked suspiciously toward the bus and stopped just outside of the entrance. We stood around her in a circle. She told us she was from Waterloo, Iowa, and had boarded the train yesterday. She was supposed to have a job waiting for her in Williston and planned to get picked up by her new boss, a man she’d never met. “I texted him at 8:30 p.m. and told him I was here and he’s still not here. Then the guys at the strip club were screaming at me, saying ‘Don’t get raped’ and all kinds of shit.” Her voice became mouselike as she held back more tears. “I don’t want nobody to get me,” she said, bursting into tears again. She heaved, trying to breathe through her tears.
“You came up here by yourself?” asked Eric. “You need somebody else. Because there’s like 12 guys to one girl out here,” he said confidently, seeming proud he knew such information.
Stakes glared at Eric for his comment, and Eric shrugged. “Don’t worry about it, Tori, it’s gonna be fine,” said Stakes. “Take a breath, let it go, ’cause we all been here before. We’re all scared sometimes, and you’re a young woman. You say you’re 21? You ain’t even lived life yet. I know it’s a scary proposition to walk into an oil town and they got all this crazy crap goin’ on. And you don’t have a clue what you’re gonna do. You got no money, you got no job, no place to live. It’s tough. I only been here a year and a month. I had to sleep in my truck, had to make do. I found a job there, a job here, tryin’ to make it. This guy’s been here for three years,” he said, pointing to Mackie. “But we figured it out. You got a place if you need one. Even if you gotta stay at my place, I’ll sleep on the floor outside. You can have my bed. That’ll give you somethin’ for right now. Nobody’s gonna mess with you, I promise you. I won’t. I’m 60 years old.” He chuckled. “But I tell ya, ain’t nobody gonna bother ya.”
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