Morning Songs

Now that I'm closer to attaining true hobo status--a title reserved only for the most hard-scrabbled, single, homeless men--I feel compelled to share this little nugget of a tale about being shat upon--or rather, nearly shat upon.

So, as stated in my previous entry, I'm sleeping under the stars, and waking with the rising sun, in concert with all of God's creatures and all of that happy horse hooey.

Well, one thing about God's creatures is that they're sometimes lacking in manners. Birds in particular. Take this morning for instance. My tent is a one person tent reminiscent of a coffin with a little extra face room. So, my face is maybe six inches from the tent roof. And that's where the birds like to perch when they first wake up and are going for their morning fare. As you might imagine, when a bird lands six inches from your face and screams its favorite morning song when you're fast asleep, why, then you'll know what a proper alarm clock is. But when that alarm clock comes within an inch to shitting on your face, why, then you'll know the meaning of a hobo with a shit eatin' grin.

photo by This Person

The Purpose Driven Tent

Sleeping in one's car is somewhat overrated, particularly once the greenhouse effect kicks in. For that and other reasons, I hadn't been getting good sleep for a long time. Now the real hoboing begins.

My new home henceforth shall be upon my bicycle or in my tent.

It's great. The bike has been outfitted with a rear rack and pannier bags so I can haul just about anything a hobo might need, including insect repellent (I stopped counting at 40 mosquito bites).

I've spent two nights under the stars. While most folks are sweating out the night in sun-baked houses, I am gazing up through mosquito netting at the night sky, with nary a concern about the god-awful heat. Nature's central air is unbeatable.

It's the showers that'll get you, though. And I've got to prepare for that. Some extra plastic throw-sheets are in order to protect my bike and stuff. A nice pine forest would be nice for such a storm. And I hear there's no beating pine needle floor bedding. Sigh.

This morning, before the sun turned the corner, a bird perched itself on my tent, a few inches from my face and hearkened unto the others, "WAKE UP YOU SONS-A-BITCHES!!!! IT'S WORM-THIRTY IN THE MORNING!!!! LAST ONE OUT'S A ROTTEN EGG!!!!"

Well, that's just a rough translation. To the lay-birder it may have sounded more like "pft pft, three-three-three....pft pft, three-three".

In other transient news, I saw a freshly killed skunk mother on the road with all six teats pointing to where her skunklings will never suckle. So, I bowed my head in silent meditation and peddled on.

In addition to 100 million Americans or so, a good many wild animals lose their lives driving to and from work. Surprised by the number? Note, death is not required to lose one's life.

There's got to be some balance between making a living and making a killing.

Feeling Good Feeling Bad Blues

There's a certain sweet sorrow in life
which is just.
And we can feel good about its justice.

The subtle masochist sways in the blue.

The child says 'comfort me.'

And the old man, resting on his death bed,
on his soul-pillow--
finds no mother there.

So it was; so it shall be.

In Hobo Ye Shall Find Shelter

Picked up a prostitute last night, though not for what one would consider the usual reasons.

I think she was a prostitute.

It runs like this:

3:47 a.m. Dainty white neighborhood is fast asleep. Hobo chugs through in a jalopy with a hole in the exhaust looking for a place to bed down for the night. As he takes liberties with the usual stop signs, he sees, to his surprise, a man with two dogs on the sidewalk, just standing there. And as the hobo-mobile saunters through the intersection at a near-stalled pace, he sees opposite the man, a woman, standing in an odd place.

Something is surely amiss, our hobo thinks.

"Are you ok?" inquires the hobo to the woman.

The woman replied with sobs and words which could not immediately be disentangled from one another.

Supposing the man with two dogs to be a menace to her, hobo allows her to enter his vehicle, which she had begun to do anyway. More sobs and words as she sits on hobo's belongings and other detritus.

At this point, our hobo is aware that he has just invited a likely prostitute into his car, a deed which he had only occasionally allowed to foment in his imagination, much in the same way young boys imagine they will perhaps one day go to the moon.

Wadded paper is being un-wadded. "Pay you" and "Gas money" are whimpered. Even this hobo had never seen money so wadded before. He would hear nothing of payments or favors, for he was a noble hobo--or so he thought--endowed with certain scruples, among which were not taking candy from children or money from prostitutes in distress.

Soon, the car, his home, is filled with casual swear words, more sobs, and the unmistakable smell of an inebriant emanating from deep within the soul of a binge drinker.

There was mention of three guys. Somehow they'd done her wrong. Was hobo to assume she was raped by them and left with $15? Or was this a crafty sob story meant to elicit a ride home or some other variety of "service contract"?

Lesser hobos, prone to back-sliding, might have taken to cavorting and carousing with this poor woman. But not our hobo-in-rusting-armor. No--he was all business, full of gallantry, nobility, politeness even. Why, he even allowed her to smoke in his house, if it would help her straighten out her sentences and join meaning to her babble.

Soon, our hobo-cum-counselor ("cum" comes from latin, and here means "along with", you snickering little perverts!)...soon, our hobo-cum-counselor was taking in a life history wrought with adversity, hard times, and the profane. "Don't worry. You're in good company," thought the hobo out loud. But just as a counselor wouldn't tell his client of his own suicidal tendencies while the the client recounts his--so too, would our hobo not disclose the precise locality of his residence or his hardships while this woman sobbed on and on about hers.

About her hardships: they were many and sundry. But, at least, she let hobo know, she didn't have any of the more worrisome sexually transmitted diseases. Not this or this. But maybe this.

"Oh, ok." hobo said, with the reassuring smile of a proper church lady in over her sweet little head. Reflexively, he wanted to mention his non-communicable skin fungus, but didn't, thinking in this context it might sound like a come on.

Hobo could give her a ride home. Where did she live, hobo asked. 'Such and such avenue' she replied, 'in York'. Hobo was truly in a bind, he thought. He was without sleep, the hour, wee, well nigh early, and the sun cometh shortly, he thought. Well, she was here and he couldn't leave her. Calling the police was out of the question, having himself no good alibi for the crime of seeming to gallivant with a seeming prostitute, not to mention the crime of vagrancy. So, off to York they went--she, regaling him with harrowing and incidental anecdote, and he, smiling like a church lady, hoping she would not look for work in his car.

She was 36, not much older than hobo, himself. And that's where the similarities pretty much ended. A grandmother several times over, mother of 8 or 9; her oldest, 21, was in jail, which was apparently her reason for being in hobo's neck of the woods, "upstate" as she put it. There was casual mention of armed robbery, pimps, drug dealing, and a father figure who takes pleasure, apparently, in pissing on his kids. How she was connected to any of this, hobo had no idea. He could only understand every 5th word or so.

As our dynamic duo careened towards York in the earliest blue dawn of day, hobo noted how grotesquely I-83 was littered with fresh deer carcasses. Should he ever in need be, he thought, swerving to miss a rib cage.

"See that Rutter's" she said, "a man there, he says I can come by anytime."

"Oh. Want me to drop you off there?" hobo asked, not knowing what to make of the non-sequitur.

"No. He's a coke head."

"Oh."

Small talk, he guessed. The Joneses have hedges and hedge funds to fritter over. Hobo and prostitute had coke heads.

They arrived in downtown York, where hobo was instructed to drop her curbside. The police, she said, would be happy to see her getting a ride from someone rather than by one of them. Hobo truly did not know what to make of this.

She offered gas money once more.

He refused one more time, happy to serve and protect on his own dime.

Brother, would you spare one?

Fears of the Fair-Weather Hobo

One thing I think about while sitting or lying in the comforts of my home on wheels is that I might be in danger of becoming the sort of hobo whose luxurious lifestyle is more befitting that of a "houser" than a tramp.

With that in mind, I resolve to set about "ruffing it" pretty soon. Or, I'll just get an apartment and call it quits. Because there's nothing worse than being a half-way hobo, earning neither the full disdain of town folk, nor the full respect of true transients.

Shiftless Retiree Discovers Shiftless Hobo

Well. We knew this day had to come sooner or later. And though it was inevitable, I didn't figure it would come with such little fanfare.

This morning I was found out. My cover was blown while I was still under it (7:10 in the morning, if anyone's keeping records).

It started just like any other modern gypsy caravan morning--waking to the sound of my alarm clock (which happens to have a cell phone feature, by the way); wondering for a few moments, while I lay there gathering my wits, where exactly I might be on this particular morning; the early sun beating into my once frozen--now rapidly heating--greenhouse of a car; my bladder pleading with me to find a port-o-pot very soon; and finally, my waking anxiety that there may be someone near my car doing lawn work or taking a morning walk.

Well, it was a normal morning--normal by hobo standards, anyway. But then came the outline of a figure into the frame of my upside-down window gaze.

Rats!!! Busted!!!

That old man in his mesh hat and flannel shirt looked right down into my nook of a car. I laid still as a whip-poor-will, wishing I were as camouflaged, too; then that man could've almost stepped on me and been none the wiser. But as it was, he passed on the street side of the car. And therefore, I think he was out hunting himself a hobo. Well, he found himself one.

Not a word passed between us, and hardly a glance. But neither did it matter; for his mesh hat and flannel shirt said it all.

"Get a job and shave, ya bum!!"

I didn't move for a minute after the retiree buzzed my car. When I finally and cautiously poked my head up to see, he was gone--either inside or around the corner. Then, I heard his wife nearby, taking in some target practice:

Photo by NGOA&ENGAF

Hoarse 'n' Hocked Hobo Blues

Round about the third week of my journey into voluntary displacement, with my blasted allergies somewhat improving, my body decided to try out some, as yet, unknown variety of pestilence. It's not enough to sneeze for one-and-a-half years straight, I guess.

Oh well. I figure if I want to do this hobo thing right, I should at least keep some semblance of haggardness with me at all times, lest I be accused of charlatanry or some other form of yellow-bellied dishonesty.

So, I took up a fever with some chills one night. Wasn't nothing. The aches got me soon, though. And I was beset with a low groaning after some time in the parking lot of the local grocery store.

It wasn't until a few days later that my tubes and pipes started in with the sort of hacking, hocking, and coughing that seems absolutely essential if one is to be a genuine hobo. So I was glad for this.

And it's with a considerable measure of satisfaction that I now can walk down the street, five shades darker than 'respectable' white men, breaking into sporadic spasms and convulsive fits of deep, phlegmatic coughing which produce great quantities of what one friend calls “lung butter”. Gingerly working these globules up the pipes and heaving them onto the pavement with a perfunctory splat, and then producing a greasy old rag from a hidden pocket to wipe one's mouth is high hobo art.

photo by Black Dove

Now, if only I could construe some way to get the smell of dried urine on me, why, then I'd know authenticity.

Incidentally, it's an old superstition out of hobo lore that if a hobo plays with any manner of child younger than three, illness ensues.

So, moms, just remember this. I know you may see a hobo and think, “Why, my goodness! Look, dear. It's a hobo! We must have little Toby play with him. If only he touches him, it'll bring him three months of good luck!”

But restrain yourself, woman--for the good of child and hobo alike.

Unless your child can pass on the smell of dried urine.

Then, exceptions may be made.