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| There's magic 'neath that old roof. Photo by Joe, 87 years ago |
As a fake expert on fake hoboes, I'm often asked by no one about the famous series of hobo speed-dating events that took place from 1934 to 1938 in the B&O's Baldwin roundhouse in the Mt. Clare section of Baltimore. If you're one of those who have previously asked me about this, you needn't read on, for no new information follows. If, however, you fall into the category of literally everyone, here's a peek at a typical encounter at one of these meet-ups.
The events were held on Sunday evenings, the only time the roundhouse and surrounding Mt. Clare shops weren't crawling with workmen. There were two night watchmen, but as luck would have it, they had a soft spot for lonely hoboes - and a rather startling addiction to hobo wine. With the guards outside drinking their bribes, the hosts (Sausage Patty and Gummy Miles, a married hobo couple) would arrange pairs folding chairs and crates on the turntable in the center of the cavernous roundhouse. Attendance varied, because hoboes, but on most nights there would be about ten to twenty single 'boes, ready to mingle. They paired up for five minutes at a time and hurriedly familiarized themselves with each other. Hookups often followed, as well as fisticuffs, and - rarely - a real connection.
Sausage Patty yelled, "Gentlemen, switch," and all the men switched stations.
Chelsea Bacon looked up at the exceptionally tall, wiry man as he approached and lowered himself onto the crate opposite her chair. When he sat, his long legs creaked and bent, and he looked like a grasshopper. But his freckled face was kind, and his tired eyes smiled - and he clutched his ratty hat to his chest, minding what manners he could remember from his time before. She offered her hand and he took it, gently but confidently. "Chelsea Bacon," she said, "Charmed, I'm sure."
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Craine T. Eyebrow-Smell-- er, sorry. I'm Craine."
"Eyebrow what?" she asked, head tilted quizzically.
He looked away for a moment. "Eyebrow-Smeller. It's not what it sounds like."
"Well that's lucky, because it sounds like maybe you have a penchant for sniffing people's eyebrows."
"I'm just tall, is all. When I became a hobo, they gave me a lot of guff about how my nose was right at the height of everyone's eyebrows, and, well... you know how stupid men are. It doesn't make a lick of sense, but it stuck. As God is my witness, I've never smelled an eyebrow."
"What's your given name, then?"
"Craine Thomas Browsmellier."
"Huh."
"Enough about me. We have so little time. Let's talk about you. Is your name as silly as mine?"
She stared at him for a moment, fighting the urge to pout. "Chelsea Beacon is my real name."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I like bacon," he offered nervously, "and Chelsea is pretty. So, where are you from? How did you come to be a hobo? Sorry - I'm not very good at this." She smiled and he fell in love a little.
"You're doing fine. I grew up in Cincinnati. My parents died not long after the crash, when I was seventeen, and I hit the road with a couple of girlfriends from school who were in similar straits. They've both died since then, as well."
"Good Grief!" he gasped. "That is a lot of loss for one person to endure. I lost my parents, too. Mine were taken."
"Taken?"
"By President Hoover's gypsies, yes. What happened to yours?"
"My pa was a shoe salesman. One night, while stocking his backroom shelves with the latest shipment, he stepped on a wooden shoehorn and it snapped, sending splinters of wood flying. One zonked him right in the eye, and he died three weeks later, of getting hit by a streetcar."
Craine frowned thoughtfully while his brain struggled. "Gee whiz..."
"And my ma, she was a school nurse. She kept working after Pa died, but little did my brothers and I know, she was taking all sorts of drugs from the school, and one night, she drank a whole bottle of ipecac syrup, and she vomited to death."
"I'm so sorry," he said sincerely. He thought for a moment and added, "This is a strange date."
"Indeed. So, Craine T. Eyebrow-Smeller, the man who doesn't smell eyebrows but is merely very tall - what were you before? And are you ever going back, or are you a lifer?"
"I was a freelance lightbulb changer in Richmond, but after the crash, jobs went from scarce to nonexistent, so I hit the rails and I've been doing the best I can, ever since. I take whatever day jobs I can find, and I try to keep to the code and avoid stealing any more than absolutely necessary. Mostly, I just keep walking. I have this fear that if I stop walking, I'll stop hoping, and if I stop hoping, well that's that, isn't it?"
"What are you hoping for?"
"Something better. I don't know if that means a way back to the world, or finding peace with this life, or just finding someone to walk with. You know - something good."
Her eyes widened and she drew a profoundly long breath. "That's exactly why I keep walking," she whispered.
"Which one - the something better, or--"
"All of it," she said. "Just - all of it. I keep walking. It's what I do. I've seen so much loss, as you say, so much despair and dirt and sickness and godlessness and hopelessness. I cling to my hope like it's my own newborn baby and jackals are trying to grab her. It's all I have left. I guess that sounds silly."
"That sounds anything but silly, Chelsea. I see Sausage Patty is checking her watch. Our time is up. If I may be so bold - would you like to walk a while with me? I've only my hope left, as well, but I'd be happy to share it with you."
She smiled again. He fell in love a little bit more. She stood and took his hand, and led him toward the door. They walked a while together and pooled their collective hope.
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