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.

Sauna Etiquette 101

On a cold and damp spring morning, a dry heat sauna is a hobo's haven. It is a place he can seek refuge and warmth; a place where the blood may be brought back to his extremities.

But the one thing about a sauna is that it's small. Quite small. Enough for maybe two Americans--maybe four Europeans. Of course, one could fit a dozen or so hard-scrabble hobos into it, once their many layers of clothes are shed--sorta like a clown car. In fact, it's probably no accident that our early clowns have been hobos, too. They're practically cousins.

Photo by Tyler Sample

But a hobo likes his space. That's half the point of being a hobo.

The sauna is all wood inside, which probably sounds like some perverted innuendo to a certain number of you dirty-minded readers. Well, it's constructed of wood, anyway. And it's at least thirty years old. So there's been a fair amount of sweat, oil, and god knows what else stained into the seats and walls.

TIP #1

Even a dirty hobo like myself knows better than to bake himself in the sauna without an effective barrier between my skin and the tarnished bench. After all, it is like an oven in there. And the last thing you want is to get your skin baked onto that dark spot of mystery matter. If you don't have or can't get a non-stick Teflon baking sheet, then I guess a towel will do.

TIP #2

A sauna is a clothes-optional place. For the hobo, any chance to shed the many and sundry layers of crud-ridden clothes is a chance not to be missed. That being said, however, there is still a modicum of modesty which ought to be adhered to. This tip can be expanded to the locker room at large.

A fine balance must be struck. On the one hand, one does not want to seem ashamed. On the other hand, one does not want to seem too proud.

It is ok to admire the ancient Greeks' attitudes toward the male figure. But it is also important to remember that one is not in an ancient Grecian bath house.

Hence....

TIP #3

Under no circumstances, while at a YMCA, should you--upon spying a handsome young hobo sitting alone in the sauna--and naked--wander in after you've already had your shower. And after wandering in, you should at least wander the whole way in--not stop in the doorway and ogle the prone and defenseless naked creature. Then, for goodness sakes, after you've sprawled your nakedness across the bench and into his private space, after he has clearly and unambiguously grunted in response to your "good mornings and hellos", you should not spread your legs in any way which might be construed as a beckoning fashion. He will not be your love toy. No thank you.


Furthermore, at no time, and in no way, unless you have already been ogled, spoken to, caressed, fondled, patted on the buttocks, fellated, or at the very least, made eye contact with this--or any--hobo, should you say with a creepy laugh and nervous anxiousness "...So...heh-heh...Do you...heh...come here often?...heh-heh...", followed soon after with "...do you like to come in the sauna before or after you work out?...heh-heh..."

And after you've done these things, and I've left in discomfort to shower the scuzz and filth from my virgin spirit, and to escape your constant gazing on my glistening loins--after I've done this and you've done that, you should at least stay in the sauna for a sufficient amount of time to give the appearance that you weren't just in there to ogle me.

Incidentally, this is a purely hypothetical scenario, made only to illustrate TIP #3.

By the Dawn's Early Light

Washington Heights.

It's 9 a.m.

I've been to the YMCA, played some basketball, sweat out yesterday's beef jerky in the sauna, showered, and now sit here, at the park, enjoying the myriad song of morning bird while watching steamy tendrils pour out of a cooling pot of red lentils and quinoa.

It's a heap of fun being a hobo; and an even bigger heap of fun being a hobo of the 21^st century. Gone are the old and backward days of stick and sack, of jaw-harped ballads, of pan-handling even. Here now are the heady times of EEElectricity, free inter-webs, and pre-paid cellulose phones!

So here I sit with my laptop plugged in to one of the handy pavilion outlets, allowing me to charge my battery while I type this and enjoy my breakfast in my “room with a view”.

photo by Allie's.Dad

Maybe I'll charge the pre-paid cell phone while I'm at it. Did I mention I have a cell phone?

I bet you're thinking I'm a pretty crafty hobo. Well, stranger, pretty ain't the word.
It's my 11^th day as a hobo. And I'm as prickly-faced as a porcupine. But I couldn't feel any better.

And who wouldn't, with such a commanding view of the entire river valley over a piping hot breakfast? Almost makes a hobo want to break out the guitar and belt out Woody Guthrie's celebrated “This Land Is Your Land”. If only I could remember more than the refrain...

Hmmm. Then again, it almost makes a hobo of the 21^st century want to break out his mp3 player and cue up an old Leadbelly tune or two. Or better yet, the gypsy jazz of Django Reinhardt.

MMMmmm....curried red lentils and quinoa. Don't mind if I do...

Did I mention the steamy tendrils wafting curry and cumin past my nose?

Living life on one's own terms; I believe they call this “freedom”.

Socio-political elaboration on the use, misuse, and abuse of the word “freedom” begins here....excised here...

There is a saying from somewhere (probably the Bible or some other book I should have read)--a saying which says 'only when you give up everything can you gain everything'. It is a statement which scarcely makes sense today; a statement which will be completely unintelligible tomorrow, when we are thoroughly fettered (even we hobos) to our things.

And remember that song that went “...Freedom is just another word for 'nothing left to lose'...”

For now, the hobo-poet still commands the heights. No doubt tomorrow will bring new trappings.