Rude Awakening Road Trip (Part 2)
- gdurrschmidt
- Feb 23
- 12 min read
A Bitter Taste of Homelessness
We found ourselves stuck in Biloxi, Mississippi, with only a week's worth of food left on Vinny van Go, eleven dollars between us, and three weeks until payday. In movies, miracles usually happen in situations like this, and to our surprise, one did! Unexpectedly, Stephen's parents called to check on how the cross-country journey was progressing. Naturally, he didn't tell them the full truth. Excited about their son's chance to explore America, they insisted on occasionally sending him some "mad money" through Western Union. Normally, he would have refused their generosity, but this time he accepted with eager gratitude. It felt like winning the lottery! For us, it was substantial and couldn't have come at a better time. As soon as he hung up, we laughed uncontrollably and acted like two kids on Christmas morning.
Our joy was short-lived as the reality of our situation sank in. With only sixty-one dollars, we faced a difficult decision: 1) remain in Biloxi, where we felt unsafe, had nothing to do without money, and where the beaches were inferior to those in Florida, but where we could use all our cash for food, or 2) fill the gas tank to return to Florida, where we felt safe and could enjoy beautiful beaches with clear water while being poor, but then have only twenty dollars left for food until June 1st. Having learned to be resourceful with our money during the trip, and already in retreat mode, we chose "creativity." We located a Western Union at a Shell Station, conveniently filled the tank, and made a late afternoon dash to Ft. Walton Beach, Florida. It was a bold move, we realized, but we were satisfied with the choice. After all, it brought us 150 miles closer to our retreat destination – Key West.
We embarked on our road trip in the Keys with immense excitement and a sense of adventure about the endless possibilities of meeting new people and exploring new places. However, just 1,000 miles in, after a few simple calculations, it became painfully obvious that the trip was destined to fail. The high gas prices, low MPG of the VW bus, and unexpected mechanical issues quickly depleted our resources, preventing us from going much further than Panama City Beach, Florida. Our fantasy bubble had burst. Driven by stubbornness and foolishness, we continued to Biloxi. There were signs from the very first day that we chose to ignore. We were in denial from the start, blinded by the romance of the road and the idea of traveling America in a vintage VW hippie love bus.
The bus had been outfitted for sleeping and living in during the journey. We planned to sleep in it for most of the trip on shorter stops and use the tent and camping gear for longer stays. Before leaving the Keys, I told Stephen that we would be visiting some of the most untouched beaches in America as we traveled up Florida's western coast. I described the endless miles of beaches with public access where we could simply park and spend the night wherever we wanted. However, when we were ready to stop for the night on the first day, we couldn't find a spot. Endless miles of beach and nowhere to park for the night! Thirty years ago, when I traveled this route in my youth, I did it all the time.
Not anymore. Now, we encountered ominous "Thou Shall Not" signs everywhere: No Overnight Parking…Beach Closed 11 PM until 8 AM…No Public Access…Enforced by Law...Violators Will Be Towed. The barrage of signs continued for the entire 1,000 miles to Panama City, and further to Biloxi, Mississippi. With overnight stays along the beaches in our large, bright orange VW bus no longer feasible, we had to find more discreet shelters, such as behind hotels, in the secluded corners of their parking lots.
Upon returning to Ft. Walton, we quickly realized that the town and all the hotel parking lots were intensely and obsessively patrolled by police. It was so excessive that it felt as if the President of the United States himself was visiting! While we felt safer being back in a hotel parking lot, we also worried that at any moment, we might hear a knock on the window and be told to move along. I dreaded that situation because, in such a small town, once the word spread, there would be nowhere to hide, and we had no way to leave for another three long weeks.
Stuck in Ft. Walton Beach, it was evident that the place was overrun with a homeless population, with numerous panhandlers occupying street corners and sidewalks. But for the grace of Vinny van Go, go we! However, why did we have to be in a bright orange VW bus instead of a white Toyota sedan? How can we ever really blend in? Needless to say, I hardly slept, staying alert while Stephen snored, glancing out the bus curtains whenever patrol car headlights appeared in the parking lot. Even though we knew we weren't, the situation made us feel like criminals, turned into unwelcome trespassers, akin to homeless vagrants.
We unexpectedly found ourselves in a situation where we became less than exemplary first-class citizens. Our days were consumed with planning and scheming to figure out where we could go and what we could do to blend in with the regular tourist activities here, avoiding any appearance of poverty. We soon realized that the homeless were the reason for the intense police presence. It was almost poetic that the Florida panhandle was so overrun with panhandlers. Just as you recognize a cockroach infestation in a home when you see the insects out in the daylight, so it was with the homeless in Ft. Walton Beach.
Everywhere you glanced, there were groups of homeless individuals roaming around, sitting on benches along the sidewalks, and panhandlers occupying street corners. They were perceived as nuisances, interrupting traffic, requesting handouts, and causing public disturbances. They created an unattractive image for a town that depended heavily on tourism as its main source of revenue. With Memorial Day weekend signaling the beginning of the summer tourist season, new signs were being installed daily. The homeless were seen as pests, and the police were viewed as the solution. Again, but for the grace of Vinny van Go, go Stephen and me.
How were we ever going to be truly invisible, or at least blend in? Like the homeless, we found ourselves out of sync with the materialistic system driven by consumerism. We could no longer "purchase" or contribute to local merchants, restaurants, and hotels. Like the homeless, we had to find a place to hide at night. We needed to "be somewhere" during the day. We had to survive as best we could, even if it meant sacrificing personal dignity. And, like the homeless, we were not criminals; we were just down on our luck, doing without, but still human beings! Our situation was about to teach us a new lesson by pushing us into a completely different lifestyle paradigm.
Who were Stephen and I, really? I was a retired military officer who had held high-responsibility positions in national security. I married and successfully raised five sons, was active in my community and church, worked as a consultant for defense and intelligence clients, and became a college professor. Now, I am a writer living on a modest retirement pension, but I once was influential, a money maker—a "contributor" to the system. My traveling "boy Friday" came from a stable, upper middle-class family with two parents who both had graduate-level education. His father is a thirty-year veteran of notable federal service in Washington, D.C. Stephen himself is a third-year college student, highly academic, and a diligent worker. Yet, at this moment, we are homeless, and aside from the big orange bus, no different from other individuals seen as nuisances by the local community and law. Our lives have adopted new priorities: survival priorities.
Each night, the homeless sought refuge in parks and nearby wooded areas, hoping to avoid being discovered and arrested. We moved from one hotel parking lot to another, discreetly settling in after 10 PM, securing our space, and trying to sleep, all the while hoping not to be disturbed. At dawn, the homeless would pack up their bedding, hide it, and quickly leave areas they knew would be patrolled. Every morning, I would be up and driving out of the hotel parking lot by 7 AM, before the hotel staff's morning shift began. While Stephen slept in the back of the bus, I would drive to McDonald's to use the restroom and linger for a while. Outside, there were rusty bicycles loaded with personal belongings. Inside, the homeless sat at tables, sipping coffee, reading free newspapers, and simply passing the time.
Following the daily schedule, we would head to one of the town parks, as they were available, it was permissible to be there, and like the homeless, we needed a place to be. A park by the water was an ideal spot for cooking and having dinner. However, this appealing location quickly lost its allure. We simply wanted to be left alone, to dine in peace, to connect, meditate, console each other in our dire situation, and to endure another day until relief arrived - payday. But no, they refused to leave us in peace. Each day, the situation worsened. While daytime was manageable, at dusk, the parks resembled a scene from a zombie movie: ragged, weary individuals carrying bags, backpacks, pushing shopping carts, gathering in large numbers. Food! They saw and smelled our food!
We had very little and rationed every meal to last the three weeks. The homeless approached us asking for food, and we had to keep refusing them. It was awkward, to say the least. We felt terrible, but we were in no better situation than they were. Most were understanding, while some were quite indignant. Word spread among them. Soon, there wasn't a park we could visit without the bus attracting them, asking for food, money, or a ride to their "work" - their personal street corner. After three days of this, Stephen and I stopped going to any parks. It was a good decision – a clean break.
We found a fantastic public beach to relax at across the bridge on Okaloosa Island, which was too far for the vagrants to walk or want to bike in the heat and humidity. We were so relieved! Despite its appeal, the beach had its own "Thou Shall Not" signs as well. Go figure. It opened at 6:30 AM and closed one hour after sunset. So, we would leave our nighttime hiding spot early each morning and head to the beach. We spent our days tanning and playing in the surf. We ate lots of bread with peanut butter and drank Kool-Aid, saving our one good meal for dinner. In the late afternoon, we drove across Highway 98 to a less frequented beach on the bay side. There, we washed up in the bathroom facilities and had a picnic. The Coleman stove came out, and we would whip up a hot meal, clean up, and be packed up and gone before the ranger came by to lock up.
The challenge was figuring out what to do between 8 and 10 PM. We addressed this by visiting Walmart, which was air-conditioned and offered an inexpensive form of entertainment—people watching. On some nights, we would simply sit inside a McDonald's, share an ice cream cone, watch TV, and charge our phones and laptops. Naturally, we weren't alone. Some of the others were there too, and we started to be recognized with nods and waves. It was both strange and oddly cool.
Visiting the beach started to feel repetitive, so we sought a different option. The public library became our new spot, situated between the beach and MacDonald's. It was air-conditioned as well and provided a sense of personal dignity. Stephen and I entered each day with our laptops, and I carried my trusty notebook, as if we were there for some high-minded academic endeavor. Yet, we were not alone. Outside were the rusty, heavily loaded bikes. Nearby on benches and sprawled on the lawn in the shade... there they were. Inside, seated in chairs, scattered about, hidden behind daily newspapers and magazines... there they were... and, indeed, there we were too.
As we entered our second week in Ft. Walton, we acknowledged that we had become fugitives, focusing our thoughts and efforts on evading capture; not just from the authorities, but from hotel security personnel, and most importantly…the homeless. We were them, and they were us, and we were all together. See how they run like beggars in the sun…we’re crying. But coo-coo-cajoo, we never fully embraced them. Our situation was temporary. Theirs was more lasting. We feared that embracing them would mean we would be like them forever.
Eventually, the news spread about the orange bus. With 10 days left until "deliverance," the local authorities increased their surveillance. Now, when we arrived at McDonald's in the morning, a patrol car would show up within a minute or so, park directly next to the bus, and just sit there... waiting... observing. We decided to ignore this and continued with our activities. After some time, the police would leave. This became our daily routine. No, we were not becoming paranoid.
At the beach, a similar incident occurred, but this time it involved a sheriff’s patrol car. In a vast parking lot, the Sheriff vehicle would park near us, stay for a long time, and then leave. I also started noticing that police were following us while we drove between our daily locations. We were never stopped or approached, but it was clear that the police wanted to make their presence known and send a message that, whatever we were doing, we were being watched. Although we weren't doing anything illegal, this situation was increasing the stress in an already tense situation. Sleeping peacefully at night became nearly impossible.
As time passed, the police presence increased. I decided to use the remaining gas to travel 16 miles west to Navarra Beach. The bus was unfamiliar there, and I hoped we could enjoy a few days of peace and anonymity. It worked! The beaches were excellent, and the public park just over the bridge allowed for overnight parking. We thought we had found the perfect spot, but even though overnight parking was legal, we received special attention from local law enforcement each night. Patrol cars drove by all night, and despite at least a dozen vehicles scattered throughout the large parking lot, they would choose to circle the bus, park nearby, and wait. On our last night, I risked running out of gas and drove back to the mainland, parking behind a Comfort Inn. It was very secluded, and no patrols came by. I slept soundly, and rightly so, as there was a long day of driving ahead in the morning.
At dawn on May 31st, just one day before my payday, salvation arrived! I reached for my phone and went online to check my bank balance. For the past twenty-six days, it had been a mere $1.21. Today, I discovered that Stephen and I had finally been rescued; the direct deposit had come through a day early. While Stephen slept (I’m sure you’re noticing a pattern here), I quickly got dressed, drove to the nearest gas station, and filled up the tank. With a refreshed debit card in my pocket, I returned to Ft. Walton Beach to McDonald’s for coffee AND a big breakfast. Like clockwork, a patrol car showed up and stopped. I didn’t care anymore; I did as always and just ignored it. Forget the police. This was going to be our best day ever!
After grabbing a bite to eat, we went to Walmart to stock up on food supplies for the trip home. I parked in a shady spot away from everyone. A security vehicle suddenly appeared and parked next to us. So, who cares. When I came back with the groceries half an hour later, the security guard was still at the bus, peering into the windows. Stephen was still asleep in the back. I startled the guard. It was an awkward moment. With my best sarcasm, I suggested he should go after shoplifters or members of Al Qaeda instead of snooping around my bus. He left without saying a word. After Stephen got dressed and used the store facilities, we headed out.
As we neared downtown Ft. Walton Beach, we drove past the park on Highway 98 where we initially spent time, unaware it was a gathering spot for the homeless. Passing the library, we saw our former companions sitting on the benches. One flashed a peace sign, while others waved as the too familiar orange bus drove by. Traffic slowed at the intersection before the bridge to Okaloosa Island, and we waited through three lights to pass because of the persistent panhandlers, and the driving public, who blatantly ignored the signs.
After crossing over the bridge, we drove past the line of hotels we had once used as as a nighgtly refuge. We passed the Boardwalk where we had been abruptly reminded at 3 PM that overnight parking was not allowed. We continued past the beach where we had spent days sunbathing, and once shared a slice of Domino's pepperoni pizza from a box discarded in a trash by a well-dressed woman and her chubby adolescent son. There was the secluded beach where we enjoyed tranquil dinners and outdoor showers.
Within minutes, three weeks of impoverished hell was suddenly behind us. We were on the road with a full tank of gas. We had money. We had money!! We cranked up the music, rolled down the windows, and breahed deeply as our dignity came rushing back in. No longer were we the fugitives, the unwanted, the undesirables of society we had become during those miserable three weeks in the Florida panhandle. Once again, we consumers! Once again, we were upstanding, contributing, members of society. Unlike many we encountered during our stay, we had a home, and we were never more thankful to be heading back to it!
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