Chapter 4: Feeding America

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Yang Liansheng returned to the convenience store, and the clerk looked at him in surprise.

“Brother, why are you back? Did you leave something here?”

“No, just some water. Have the police finished questioning?” Yang Liansheng walked over to the shelves, glanced at the price tags, grabbed a gallon of water, and returned to the cashier. After paying, he asked, “Do you have a map? Could I take a look at the nearby roads?”

(The water at the convenience store was ridiculously expensive—about a dollar for a 500ml bottle, but a whole box of 24 bottles cost only five or six dollars. The gallon-sized bottles were quite cheap, around a dollar each.)

“Today’s been awful. Here’s a map, take a look yourself. Just consider yourself unlucky. Who knows when they’ll catch that damn robber,” the clerk said, casually pulling out a folded, worn map from the counter and handing it to Yang Liansheng.

“Thanks.” Yang Liansheng unfolded the map and felt a chill run down his spine upon seeing the place names: Arkansas, Pulaski County, Little Rock.

He glanced at the larger map of the United States on the back—Arkansas lay in the southern, slightly eastern part of the country, while California was on the West Coast, leaning southwest. That was so far away. How had the original owner come here? And as a homeless person, no less.

“Thanks. One more thing—are there any Chinese restaurants nearby?”

“Let me think... Definitely none nearby, I don’t recall any.”

“Alright, thanks.” Yang Liansheng placed the map on the counter, turned, and left the convenience store.

...

When paying earlier, he had glanced at the newspaper on the counter: September 7, 1999, Tuesday. The paper was likely the latest issue, confirming the date and location, though it took Yang Liansheng by surprise.

When he first woke, he had assumed that since he was originally from San Francisco, California, even as a homeless person he would still be local. California’s bustling atmosphere was deeply ingrained in his memory; finding a lively spot would make survival manageable. But now, having arrived in a place he barely knew—Arkansas—he had no choice but to take things step by step.

Back at the tent, the homeless people had mostly gotten up, and their numbers had grown considerably.

“Jimmy, come on, it’s time to go to the bank. If we’re late, there won’t be any food left,” a white man called out to Yang Liansheng as he returned.

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“That name ‘Jimmy’ feels strange—I guess I’ll have to get used to calling myself that. An English name. From now on, it’s Jimmy Yang,” Yang Liansheng thought with a hint of resignation. He had been used to his Chinese name and, after rebirth, had first given himself a Chinese name. Now it seemed he lacked experience.

“Okay, let me put the water in the tent first.” He opened the tent, set down the water, then stood up and said to the white man he had greeted earlier, “Let’s go.”

A few people gathered and headed toward an open-air parking lot in the distance. Jimmy said nothing along the way, listening carefully to their conversation. He needed to learn their names, since he had no memories from the original owner and was entirely unfamiliar with those around him.

The man who greeted him earlier was Jerry—last name unknown. Among the others, he only heard one person called Hunter. Those were the only names he could confirm.

“Jerry, do you know if there’s any short-term work nearby? Even a few days’ job?” Jimmy asked. He only had about twenty dollars on him and felt unsafe without money.

“Huh? What’s going on, Jimmy? Why would you want to do temporary work?” Jerry was surprised. The homeless here didn’t think about working; they had food banks providing free meals daily, tents to live in, or temporary shelter at churches or relief centers—there was no need to work.

“You know, I’m from California, and I want to go back. Need to save up for the trip,” Jimmy said.

“That, I really don’t know. I’ll ask around for you. Missing home, huh, Jimmy?” Jerry looked at him and nodded. Jimmy was different—he was nearly fifty, but Jimmy was still young, probably only in his twenties, though he hadn’t said so.

“Thanks, Jerry.” Jimmy patted Jerry on the back.

...

At the open-air parking lot, Jimmy spotted their destination. Quite a few people were already lined up near a large sunshade by the wall, with the words “Feeding America” emblazoned on it. Underneath, many boxes were stacked, and staff were packing food.

“Hey, Mike, what’s in today’s bags?” Jerry seemed familiar with the staff, greeting an elderly man who appeared to be a supervisor.

Mike was white, likely over sixty, balding with only a gray halo of hair left.

“Hey, Jerry. Today it’s still hamburgers, but there’s a small amount of tomatoes and cabbage too. Are you guys cooking for yourselves? If not, it’s just hamburgers.”

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“Hamburgers are fine; none of us can cook for ourselves,” Jerry replied, turning to the back of the queue without trying to cut in line.

Watching their exchange, Jimmy hesitated before asking Jerry, “Jerry, are you on good terms with Mike?”

“Of course, we’ve known each other for years. He’s been working at this food bank the whole time.”

“Got it.”

After receiving a packed paper bag, the group returned to their tent. Jimmy sat down with Jerry, each eating a hamburger to fill their stomachs, then packed the rest away.

“Now, tell me, Jimmy, were you thinking about asking Mike something earlier?” Jerry, with his worldly experience, could tell what Jimmy was pondering.

“Yes. Does Mike’s place need people? What do you think of me working at the food bank?”

“Don’t even think about it. They’d probably take you if you signed up now, but listen, you’d only be a volunteer. Besides the food, you get nothing—no salary,” Jerry shook his head, crushing Jimmy’s hopes.

“Feeding America and the food bank only pay their official staff. Everyone else is a local volunteer. Of all the workers you saw today, only Mike gets paid. It’s hard to get in; these organizations have requirements for employees. People like us, without a fixed home, can’t pass their screening. Also, don’t disrupt their order—we all need them. Unless you’re willing to live in a church. You’re not a believer, are you?”

“No, I’m not.” Jimmy gave up on the idea of working at the food bank. “Then what else can I do? Work as a waiter in a restaurant?”

“That depends on the chance. Give me some time; I’ll think of a way.”

Jerry stood and walked back to his tent. Jimmy, unsure of what to do next, crawled into his tent to rest.