Jerry Wilson walks and walks.....

Jerry Wilson is at work. His particular and peculiar workplace this day is an intersection in Hardy, Arkansas. Hardy is just the latest place that Jerry has worked.
Fifty two years old, the diminutive Jerry is from Missouri, although he spent a lot of time in his younger adult life in California and Oregon. His family, a brother and two sisters, live in Arkansas, though, and he is ostensibly on his way to see his brother. He is close with him. His sisters, not so much.
But mostly, Jerry is just walking. For about five years he has just walked. Unlike a lot of “travellers” Jerry seems to be in good health. His teeth are mostly good and his physical appearance is generally good, although his skin has a perma-tan from too much sun exposure and his thin hair is completely white, as is his neatly trimmed beard and whiskers. He takes care of himself, a good sign that he is at least good mentally in that regard.
He used to have a house, and “what could be called a decent job”, he says. He lived a stable life for the most part until about five years ago when he and the woman he was living with split up, and he just decided to hit the road. His brother pleaded with him not to go, but he felt an oncoming bout with depression and decided that it was better for him to get away, and he did.
He has been a lot of places. When I mentioned my walk, he seemed impressed, but if he has really been walking for five years, my little jaunt is a pittance compared to his mileage.
We talked a bit, there at his intersection, where he was holding a sign that said “Homeless—every little bit helps” and while I was standing there with him, a car stopped and the driver almost apologetically gave him a buck.
Talk about guilt: I had actually met Jerry while on my way from my motel room to a country cooking restaurant down the road a piece. He was walking along with his big backpack and I thought maybe I could commiserate a bit, but misery didn’t see, to be a part of his outlook. After introducing myself we chatted about things for a minute and he continued on his way to McDonalds for a burger and coffee whiel I headed to the fancier restaurant. After I ate, I realized that I could have afforded to feed him as well, and failed to even make the offer. And timing being everything, as I was walking back to my room, there was Jerry leaving McDonalds. We met in the intersection where he produced his sign and went to work.
Talking to him, I get the feeling he is a lost soul. He doesnt seem to have any drug problems, is clean and well groomed, has family that loves him, and he told me his brother and he have grown especially close in recent years and he want Jerry to come off the road, and Jerry says he is willing to think about it. He adds that he is getting a bit tired of the life, but has not figured out what he wants to do. He hasn’t really kept up with the world, catching bits of news from passerby or the front pages of newspapers the boxes outside of gas stations. Like most travellers, the weather is his biggest concern, and he keeps a close eye on the clouds and the forecasts when he can see them. He has a good and sturdy tent to keep him dry on wet nights.
Tonight, Jerry Wilson, homeless by choice, is sleeping under a bridge. I’m cozy in a motel room, not homeless by choice. I did invite him to drop by in the morning to grab a shower, but I have a feeling he won’t show. But then again, maybe he will.