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.