From THE WALK BOOK
Day 21: Cumberland
A mile or so out of Cumberland, a guy pulls over, offers me a ride into town. Sort of hippy-looking, rocking a dirty knit cap over natty, near-dreaded hair. Cartilage piercing. Says he hitchhiked to the Southwest back in the day, five or so years ago, before getting stuck down there. “Sucked into the Phoenix meth world.” Since, he’s just been working, paying child support for his two kids who stayed in Phoenix with their mothers. Is also paying off bills for over $2,000 in dental work. Fuck meth, he tells me.
Takes me right into downtown Cumberland. Nice little area, he says, take a sec to check it out. Before adding, You get really stuck, what I’d do is, check out this mission, this homeless shelter, right there in town.
Word, I say. Just might. It is supposed to rain tonight.
Find a McDonald’s, post up for a good while. Charge the flip-phone, check the emails. First internet in almost a week. When it starts getting dark, figure Might linger awhile. Might not skip town just yet.
Start walking towards the rescue mission. It’s across the tracks, literally but also proverbially, based on the ramshackle crew I come upon on the other side: four, five guys, two girls, paper bag-covered beverages, cigarettes, a few other smoking implements containing I don’t even know what. A skinhead guy with a sunburned face goes Hey man, wanna get high? C’mere, c’mere! Wanna get high? I’m all, Eh, pro’ly good. He goes Hey man, you a hopper? You a hopper, huh? We take care of our own!
I’m like Nah. I’m a walker.
The entrance to the rescue mission, turns out, is right next door to this crew, so figure Hm, maybe not really digging the shelter vibes after all. I got gear, I’m probably good.
Head back over the tracks, thinking exploring the outskirts of town is the move, although also not entirely sure what my plan is for tonight. No need to panic though. While I’m here, in a city, might as well hop into a bar.
Enter the first one I come across. The Canal Bar. A little divey, big rectangular bar surrounding a central countertop. Two pairs of flat screens back-to-back, facing out. Men drinking alone, watching the Orioles game. Have a seat, order a $2 PBR. Thinking, Just drink a bit, I’ll figure out where to sleep when the time comes. It’s all good.
Guy to my right, middle-aged, balding, stocky, sees my pack. Starts rambling on and on about this trip he took back in the day. Like, Lemme tell you, me and my buddies, we flew into fucking Utah. Camped out for months! Eating nothing but bacon grease! Makin’ fires! Look at my pack, bro, my pack was sick—showing me on his iPhone—how sick was my pack?! My friend Jeb from Nebraska, he was my bro! We were badass!
The thing he keeps repeating is: You don’t even know, man. You don’t even know!
Finally, I’m all, Well, as it turns out, I might actually have some idea—
But then he cuts in like You don’t even know man, we were big time! My friend Jeb from Nebraska, not even gonna lie, sometimes I’d be scared, it’d be cold and dark, and I’d sleep next to Jeb. I’d be like, Jeb, no homo, I’m not gay! But gonna sleep next to you because I’m kinda scared right now.
When I finally redirect the convo out of this redundant loop, he tells me his name is John and he works for the Department of Defense, is basically an auditor, focusing on military businesses. From Pittsburgh. Just here for the night. “A couple Cumberland businesses are fucking up, gotta go handle them in the morning.”
Finish my beer, roll a cig, and am about to make moves, to look for somewhere to sleep, when he’s like Wait! Don’t leave! Let me buy you a drink! I go, Okay, sure. He buys another round.
It’s not until we go out for a cigarette that he finally starts listening to what I’ve been saying. He’s like, You walked here from Philly? Yeah right, I don’t believe you. He starts smelling me, going Nope, nope, you didn’t do that.
A few more beers in, I’m like, Look man, gotta make moves, figure out my shit for tonight. I’m getting up to go, when he’s like Hold on, you want a place to stay tonight? I’m like, Really? Not asking. He’s like, Yeah man, got a suite with two queen beds all to myself. You could crash!
Talking to him more, it turns out he’s got a wife, who’s currently pregnant with their second child.
We’re out on the sidewalk when this scraggly couple comes by. The guy’s got emo bangs, is in a hoodie; the girl, dark black eye shadow, also hooded. Teenagers. John, out of nowhere, goes Heyyy fatty! Here fatty! Barking at the girl. The guy she’s with turns and goes, The fuck you say? You’re seriously gonna talk to a 17-year-old girl like that? John’s like, What are you gonna do about it? I tell the kid, Dude’s wilding, he’s drunk, sorry.
The couple shuffles off into the night. John’s giddy, like Oh man, we woulda kicked their asses! I’m all, Okay bud, settle the fuck—
Like 11 p.m. by this point.
—
We leave the bar, walk beneath this underpass. There’s a gas station right there. John says he wants “real” cigarettes, asks what I smoke, then goes inside.
I’m sitting out front, watching over the half-full pint glass he snuck out of the bar and stashed in the grass, when I see him come out. He’s hunched over, like running down the street.
I’m all, What the fuck is this guy doing? Almost call out to him, before realizing.
I look over to where he’s running, and there’s a Marriott right there.
Dude got shifty. Ditched me!
Stand there beneath the dimly lit underpass in disbelief, laughing out loud but also wanting to cry a bit.
I snap out of it, wander behind the Marriott, where I find this little boardwalk. I can tell it’s gonna rain, and there’s a bridge there, so thinking maybe I can crash beneath it.
Start trolling beneath the bridge. It’s somewhat concealed and enclosed at its base. But it’s a foot bridge, only maybe fifteen feet high, and dotted with circular perforations that, even though nighttime pedestrians are unlikely to be peeking through, still feels too sketchy for comfort. Something suddenly Gollum-y and swamp creaturish about squatting down there, even considering this spot. So book it out of there, terrified by “what I’ve become.”
Walk the twenty-or-so yards back towards the Marriott where John is likely watching TV, or puking his brains out, until the ramp is low enough to hop up onto the bridge.
Consider crossing it, back towards the towpath, before traversing it widthwise, vaulting over the railing, onto soft grass. Book it away from both the town and the woods, high-stepping across the marshy field and into a small copse on its far side, just shy of a highway on-ramp. Crash out. It was supposed to rain hard but ends up not being so bad.
SEAN THOR CONROE is the author of Fuccboi (Little Brown), The Walk Book (Little Engines), and Savior, out next year from Dalkey Archive.
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