United States Route 264 snakes its way precisely one hundred and ninety-nine miles across the North Carolina Coastal Plain.  It has its genesis at the Beltline, the circumferential highway around the state capital of Raleigh, and crawls eastward before terminating a few hundred feet from the Atlantic Ocean in the scenic Outer Banks town of Nags Head, just down the road from the site of Orville and Wilbur Wright’s first successful experiments in powered flight.

One quarter of the way from Raleigh, just east of the throbbing north-south artery that is Interstate 95, lies the town of Wilson.  The seat of the eponymous county, Wilson is a town of fifty thousand souls; about seven percent are Hispanic, part of the surging tide of immigrants working its way ever and ever farther north.  There is a fledgling Native American community, mainly from the Lumbee tribe.  The rest of the population is equally divided between blacks and whites.

In its heyday in the early part of the last century, Wilson made its fortune in the bright leaf trade.  At one time, Wilson was the world’s largest tobacco market, and a stroll through downtown will reveal the display of Victorian and Classical Revival architecture that reflects its faded prominence.  But the town’s prosperity tracked the precipitous decline in demand for its principal cash crop over the past half century.  Today, one of eight Wilson citizens is unemployed, with more underemployed in part time jobs and some so discouraged at the lack of opportunity that they’ve essentially quit looking for work.

I met one of these people outside the Opportunities Industrialization Center in the Spring Garden section in the south of the city.  Ronnie Sugg walked out of the building and put a twenty-five pound sack of groceries in the back of his dented and faded Jeep Cherokee.  The Center distributed the free groceries to the needy on the day before Thanksgiving.

“Been standin’ out here since three in the morning,” Ronnie said as we climbed into the Jeep.  “It was cold, and it was drizzlin’ on and off, but I didn’t want to take a chance on missing out.  I need this food real bad, so you gotta fo what you gotta do.”  It was a smart decision:  the line for the groceries was stretched around the block.  Over two thousand people eventually showed up, the newspaper reported.

As we cruised along Highway 42 to Ronnie’s father’s house in the hamlet of Larkspur, about ten miles from the Center, I took the measure of the man.  He was in his early fifties, his hair in the male autumnal transition to silver-gray before disappearing.  His complexion was pale, almost pasty; his paunch pushed the plaid flannel shirt to its limits under his military surplus field jacket.  Worn but clean jeans draped over a pair of well broken in Red Wing work boots.

“I’m back to livin’ with my old man,” he said.  “I was living in a group home, but the county cut back on the money and they couldn’t keep it open no longer.  Shame they couldn’t get some of that Obama stimulus money they’re handin’ out.”  He shakes his head sorrowfully, grimly.

“You workin’, Ronnie?”

The creased lines around his mouth tightened as he shook his head once again.  “Naw, man.  Worked sixteen years for the roofing and siding company over there near where 264 and 301 merge, but they had to shut down last December.  I’ve been out of work since then.  Ain’t a durn person hiring roun’ here due to the economy.  Now the unemployment’s run out.  My wife Harriet left in the spring—went back to Mississippi and moved in with her mom and sister and them in Sparta.  Took my dog Roscoe with her.”  He paused, took a breath, and turned his head away from me at a stop light.  “Guess it was for the best.  It’s a sad thing when a man cain’t provide for his wife and dog.”

We stopped at his father’s place.  He dropped off the groceries, checked on his dad, and got back in the Jeep, heading back towards town again.  I’d promised to buy him lunch at Parker’s Barbecue on 301.

“I can’t live there past December,” he said, jerking his head back towards the house.  “Ol’ man’s startin’ to lose it.  He’s 76 come February, and he’s gonna  move into a nursing home in a coupla weeks..  His Medicaid’ll take care of that.  I’d stay, but I can’t pay the rent, and the landlord knows it.”

I glanced at Ronnie again.  I saw a man who was looking at the walls closing in on him.

“What’s your plan, guy?”

He glanced at me, then returned his eyes to the traffic in front of him as we pulled into town.  “Plan?  I don’t have a plan.  Been thinkin’ bout drivin’ down to Dallas after I get my dad put in the nursing home.  I hear the jobs might be better there.  Cain’t be no worse than they is here, right?”

I nodded.  “I don’t think they’re too great anywhere, but Texas’s supposed to be OK, I guess.” 

We pulled up to Parker’s and went in.  I ordered the family style dinner:  “All the Barbecue and Trimmings you can eat, with two pieces Fried Chicken Each,” the menu proclaimed, “Includes Brunswick Stew, Boiled Potatoes, Cole Slaw and Corn Sticks…   $8.60 Per Person.”  I asked for a pitcher of sweet tea and two glasses.

Ronnie and I dug into the great tasting East Carolina pork barbecue as soon as it arrived.  “So, man, this article you’re writin’—where you think it’s gonna end up?  Time Magazine or like that?”

I laughed.  “No way in hell, Ronnie.  I ain’t that good, and I ain’t got that kinda pull.  I’m going to try to get it into Metro Magazine.  Maybe one of the public policy magazines.  I don’t know.  Publication market’s kinda tight right now.”  I looked at him.  “Things are tough all over, huh?”

He flashed an ironic grin.  “Look,” he told me.  “If you tell my story, I want you to be clear on something.”

I looked up, a forkful of slaw poised in mid-air.  “Sure.  What is it?”

He looked me square in the eye.  “I don’t want to come off lookin’ like some pitiful charity case.  It’s tough right now, but I’ll survive.  I may not look like it, but I’m a church-goin’ man, Southern Baptist.  I believe God doesn’t put a burden on a man’s shoulders he cain’t handle.  And I believe He’s got a better plan for me.  I’m better off than a lot of folks.  I’ve got my health, thank God, ‘cause I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t.  I got a truck, and I got a roof over my head and food in my belly.  I’ll do the best I can, and the rest is in God’s hands.”

I paid the check when we were finished, and Ronnie gave me a lift back to my car in front of the Opportunities Industrialization Center.  Before we got out, I reached into my wallet and peeled off five twenties.

“Hey, man,” he said.  “I don’t want your charity, OK?”

I took the bills and stuffed them in his shirt pocket.  “It’s not charity, OK?  It’s an investment in your new future.  Use it to buy gas on the way to Big D.”  I handed him my card.  “Stay in touch.  I’ll collect the cash back next time I’m in Texas.”

Text © 2009, Kenneth M. Rhodes