Black-Footed Ferrets: It's Their World; We're Just Living In It

 

"We're not *quite* extinct. In fact, we're *quite* not extinct."

In 2013, I wrote a little novel about a young-- sorry, a *new* couple who befriend a 100-year old hobo. For reasons I can no longer remember, the hobo kept an unexplained endangered black-footed ferret named Bingo as a pet. Bingo steals several scenes in that story, and yes that's the one I should be working on publishing right now, instead of trying to do a blog post every night for a month. 

A couple of years later, I succumbed to the relentless direct mail fundraising campaign of the World Wildlife Fund when I saw black-footed ferrets in their catalog of "adoptable" critters. I threw money at the WWF, and a few weeks later I was the proud adoptive dad to my very own Bingo, and her brother Yahtzee. When they found out that I work for the Humane Society of the United States, and that we have a program focused on saving prairie dogs (their primary food source in the wild), they insisted on accompanying me to work. There, they...

...mooned everyone...

...ate all the candy...

...calculated things...

...listened to old-timey iPods...

...hogged the fan...

...demonstrated a bad attitude...

...engaged in shenanigans...

...and more shenanigans...

...got into the Christmas spirit...

...kept watch...

...embraced our brand...

...waited for Santa...

...inspected the new drop safe...

...and helped process donations.

 They also enjoy a bit of drink (or pretend drink)...

"This is a tin mug of lies!"

"Bombay Sapphire, straight-up, twist, very cold for Opening Day."

"Who says martinis can't have paper umbrellas?"

"What?"

They also like sports...

In 2019, they predicted we'd need a bigger schedule, and they were right.

2020 - "You call that a schedule? Why bother playing at all?"

Now, they are endangered black-footed cityferrets. They relocated from our unfashionable suburb to the moderately-fashionable "West End," in DC, where they are plotting to become the life of the office. They also keep me off the ledge, with their relentless and optimistic encouragement and support. It's mostly non-verbal.

"Is that the White House?"

Waiting For Buck Mope, or Jack Skunk's Last New Year

Remember Jack Skunk and Jack Skunk Fils, his son? And remember their New Year's tradition? I think it was something about how the father-son hobo duo made their way as far east as possible every December 31st, so that they could be the first to see the dawn of the new year. We last witnessed this feat as 1931 became 1932. Jack Skunk was twenty-seven, and his son was all of about twelve. 

Fast-forward ten years. Jack Skunk Fils, after missing two New Year's Eve celebrations with his father, has joined him at the muddy edge of the San Sabastian River in St. Augustine, Florida. They're camped beneath a few scruffy trees, wedged between Henry Flagler's Florida East Coast Railway and North Ponce de Leon Boulevard. Jack Senior's old friend Goofus is there, and is a welcome addition to the evening, as it appears that Jack and Jack Jr. have little to say to one another. We're not sure why.

"Take it easy on that wine, young man," Goofus said to Jack Jr.. "You don't want to pass out before the sun comes back."

Jack Jr. snorted. "Yeah, yeah. I know what I'm doing, old-timer - but do you really think it's fair to call this hooch 'wine?'"

"Oh, it's wine, alright," growled Jack Sr. as he dropped a freshly-gathered pile of sticks next to the fire. "You gonna do anything tonight besides complain, son?"

"Probably not, Pop." The younger Jack watched as his father bent over to poke at the fire for a moment, before groaning through the obviously laborious task of returning his body to an upright position. The old man was a couple of years shy of forty, but he looked twice that.

Goofus watched as Jack Jr. watched his father. He nodded sympathetically, and his customary jocular demeanor burned off like a morning fog in time-lapse. "Yep," he said softly, "yep."

"What's goin' on, Pop?" Jack Jr. asked. "Is it your back?"

Jack Sr. coughed out a dry laugh. "It's my everything. Say, Goofus - my cup is empty. Help me out, here."

Goofus obliged. "You see why we had to come to Florida for this New Year's, kid? Your old man never would have made it to the coast, up north."

Jack Jr. stared at his prematurely ancient father as if seeing him as he actually was for the very first time. "So, what is this - you're dying? What are we doing out here with the bugs and the damned gators and who knows what else? You need a doctor!"

"Let's change the subject," Goofus suggested. "I had the most glorious dream, this morning."

"Aw, nuts to your glorious dreams, you screwball!" Jack Sr. barked. "Let's list our resolutions. I want to be done before Buck Mope gets here."

Goofus gave an exasperated shrug to Jack Jr., as if to say "do you see what I have to put up with?" He cleared his throat demonstrably. "I resolve to get cleaned up and join the army," he declared. "Also, Buck Mope is a fictitious hobo who is not coming, tonight or ever."

Jack Sr. choked on his hobo wine (it was closer to a paint thinner than an actual beverage, but it did its job and seemed to take great pride in it). "You're fifty! I don't care how many Japs there are - Uncle Sam doesn't need fifty-year old infantrymen. And Buck is real, and he'll be here - you'll see!"

"I'm fifty-three, Jack. I'm not talking about fighting - much as I'd like to, after what they did to our boys in Hawaii. I think I could be a hell of a trainer."

"You couldn't train a monkey," Jack Sr. laughed. "Leave the war to the young men. That's how we win."

"That's how we lose another generation of men," Jack Jr. muttered.

"It's how we win, son."

"Anyway," Jr. said, "What makes you think Buck Mope would want to watch the first sunrise of 1942 with us? I mean - he's sorta famous, ain't he? He saved all those fellas from the Hindenburg."

"He gave his word," Goofus said. "He'll be here. So, you got any resolutions this year, kid?"

"You know it," Junior said. "As always, I resolve to survive."

"Ugh!" groaned Jack Sr..

"And I resolve to finish my hieroglyphic novel, scrawled in creosote on bridges, sheds, and telegraph poles from coast to coast. I think people are going to like--"

"That reminds me," Goofus interrupted, "I also resolve to write down all my best jokes and magic tricks, and find a worthy heir teach them to."

"What about you, Pop? Are you going to make yet another New Year's resolution to get cleaned up, find a job and rejoin society? Again? For the umpteenth year in a row?"

"Don't be smart, Junior. And as a matter of fact, I have a new resolution. I resolve to enjoy the hell out of this sunrise, and to relish the next breath."

Goofus and Jack Jr. looked at each other, then at Jack Sr.. "That's it?" they chorused.

"That's it. Sunrise. Next breath. Done. Look fellas - speak of the devil..."

"Buck Mope?" Goofus looked around excitedly - or perhaps in mock excitement. "Where?"

"No, you dolt. The sun. Ol' Buck Mope's gonna be sorry to have missed this. Look..."

Jack Jr. moved to his father's side and put a steadying arm around him. 1942 was dawning, and he recognized the magic in that first light. "It's nice, Pop. Real nice."

Jack Skunk raised his chin, as if sniffing at the glow rising in the southeast, over the river. He smiled the smile of the fully contented, then sat on the ground, leaned back against a tree trunk, closed his eyes, and thoroughly enjoyed his next - and final - breath.

Buck Mope arrived two hours later, with new hats for everyone. He was indeed sorry, but then, goodbyes never were his thing.

Recognizing...

Happy New Year to you all, and don't forget to check out some of my friends at Studio 30 Plus, who prompted us this week with "jocular."




 

Hither, Dither, and Yawn

Can you see where the weekends are?

Hither I come, returning to my cyber home, undoubtedly looking as dusty and bedraggled as I feel.  Over 27 July days (nights, mostly), I churned out 50,980 words for National Novel Writing Month - Summer Camp Edition.  I hear you - and the answer is yes.  Something is very much wrong with me.  I enjoy the pressure that these novel writing months put on me.  I'm quite comfortable being wordy.  Obviously.  And wordy I was, including 12,000 words during the final weekend.

So.  Over the past eleven days, I haven't written a word, and I haven't looked at what I wrote in July.  "Undead Drunk" is like a strange dream I had - full of booze and sex and snark - and a few zombies.  I've rested.  I've relaxed.  I've watched a lot of baseball.  I'm watching baseball right now.

But here's the thing:  What I should be doing, as always, is something else.  I now have SEVEN first-draft novels, and a couple of them might actually have potential.  I should be doing rewrites and edits, and reading "Getting Published - For Dummies."  Failing that, I should be writing something else - something new, something that, if not marketable, is at least a worthwhile exercise.  Failing that, I should be reading any of the half-dozen books in my to-read pile.  I should be finding a Jayson Werth garden gnome on eBay for my brother, who got to the Nats game too not-early-enough, on Tuesday, and missed out.  I should be working on my legal defense strategy for any of the myriad of lawsuits pending against me over that TV pilot I supposedly stole from Patton Oswalt and George Barry.  I should be trying on shorts.  I should be having someone take a look at that bullet wound.  It only grazed me, but it's awfully angry-looking - I'm worried that it might be infected.  Of course, I should also be shopping for new carpeting.  It's been over two weeks since the neighbors' washing machine flooded *our* dining room, and we ripped out the carpet in a fit of pique (And because we knew it was the only way to get us to replace the stuff.  We've been talking about it for a couple of years, now.), and there it sits.  Stupid concrete slab ghetto townhouse.  I should be figuring out what I want to do with this blog.  The Hobo Posts probably deserve their own blog, but that just sounds like work.  I suppose I could also be reading all my wonderful bloggy friends' stuff, and leaving them warm, supportive, and constructive feedback.  I should be emailing my handful of wayward friends.  I should be sleeping, perhaps.  [Baseball is over.  Stuff happened - what can I say?]

But I'm not.  Instead, I am dithering.  I think about all of the above and so much more.  And I think and think and think, and I come up with all manner of brilliant solutions to it.  It's like My Lost Revelation - gone before I can act.  It's not simple procrastination, though.  You ditherers know what I mean.  It's all there, but for the actual action.  Thinking about stuff is SO much easier than doing stuff.

Summer will end, and I'll not have even reread last year's novel - the one with potential - let alone edited, punched up, rewritten, fixed, sold, or otherwise pushed it toward publication.

Summer will end, and this wound will still be oozing, the legal team will have fired ME, and the garden gnomes will be gone.

Summer will end, and the house will still be in dire need of paint, carpeting, and if I'm being honest, cleaning.

Summer will end, and I'll not have reestablished connection with my very few friends, nor will I have rejoined the blogosphere - or even my teensy corner thereof.

yawn.

Summer will end, and that thumping in the closet will persist.  The thing that's not a bunny living under the shed will have had babies, and because I work at HSUS, there'll be nothing I can do about them.  So much for cutting the grass, I guess.  The Nats will have found a way to lose the NL East, but the O's will have clinched the AL East, and that will just have to do.  The 'Skins will have won all four of their preseason games, setting us up for the disappointment of another 10+ loss regular season, full of hypocritical bitching about the team's stupid name.  Yes - it's the 1890s N-word for native Americans.  If every non-native person who claims to be offended by it gave a dollar to a native American Nation tomorrow, we'd have the wealthiest indigenous population on the planet - but hypocrisy, as we know, is the greatest luxury.  Just ask the Disposable Heroes of Hip-hoprisy.

((YAWN))

Anyway.  Summer will end, and that's a shame.  But that's the great thing about not doing what you should be doing.  Fall will come, and all those things will be there, patiently waiting for you.  Well, my gunshot wound might not be patient, exactly, but still.  It will be there.  And if we still don't have carpeting, yet, then we can store perishables on the cold concrete floor, and save all kinds of money by unplugging the fridge.

((YAWN))

And there it is.  The second ((YAWN)).  I think it's time to tell you about another outrageously weird hobo, before you become as bored with all of this as I am.  Next time, that is - assuming that I'm not busy pitching "Undead Drunk" or "Falling Off The Universe" or "Buck Mope Catches The Westbound" to a big-time agent, somewhere...

Thanks for bearing with me, whilst I work this out...

Naturally, this post was prompted by my friends at Studio 30 Plus.  This week, our writing prompt, "Summer will end" came from a haiku by Laura at Bird Of The Forest. 

Is It Semi-permanent Self-medication If I Do It All The Time?

Callista burst into the apartment, somewhat short of breath, locked the door, and announced, "I'm back.  You ready?"  She turned toward the living room and found Edward waiting for her, grinning, with one hand behind his back.  "Oh - hi, sweetie!"

He held up a quarter.  "Hey - heads, we're drinking Patron silver."

She tilted her head, quizzically.  "That depends.  What's tails?"

Edward thought for a moment.  "Tails... Tails, and we're drinking the resposado, I guess."

"And that," she smiled, wrapping her arms around him, "Is why I love you."

"For my mastery of the win-win scenario?"

"Sure, let's go with that," she agreed, holding up a small grocery bag, "I may not have found Bingo, but I got limes!"

Tails.  Patron Resposado.  Two souvenir shot glasses from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame were produced.  The cutting board took its place on the kitchen counter, along with two small bowls - one with salt, for Callista, and one with sugar, for Edward.  In a skillful blur of kitchen knifesmanship, Edward turned lime number one into eight wedges.

He raised his shot.  "Here's to...."

"To Bingo?" Callista suggested.  "Furry little illegal pain in my ass."

"Hey..."

"I'm sorry, but she's been nothing but trouble.  Plus, she hates me."

"She doesn't hate you.  She's just a ferret.  Apparently, she's not ready to be BFFs, yet - with either of us.  But that's not tonight's first wedge."

"No?  What gets first wedge, then?  Blink, blink," she actually blinked, for once.

A wry smile crept into the corners of Edwards mouth.  "Happy anniversary, Callista Jane.  To us..."

She checked a mental calendar, which was more easily said than done, because it was blurry.  "Oh.  My.  God."

"What?"

"You're an anniversary rememberer."

"Huh.  Yeah, I guess I am.  At least, I think I am.  I'm pretty sure it's been one year since I used my best terrible pick-up line on you..."

"And it worked," she said, clinking shot glasses.  "It totally worked.  Okay.  My turn.  Wedge number two..."

"Whoa - no ten minutes?  Straight to the next wedge?"

"Yep!  Do not pass 'Go,' do not collect two hundred dollars, babe.  Wedge two is for Buck.  He may have been a grumpy, stinky old hobo, but I miss him."

Buck Mope's Ghost, and The Signals at Magnolia Cut

"To Buck Mope," Edward toasted.  "We should stick with one lime, though.  I gotta get back to looking for Bingo, and I need to stay sharp."

Callista nearly choked on her lime juice.  "Sharp?  Really?  You've been in a semi-permanent state of self-medication since she disappeared."

"Is it 'semi-permanent' if I do it all the time?"

She poured the third round, then stopped and looked at Edward.  "Of course it is.  As long as you don't do it forever, it is semi-permanent - pretty much by definition, actually.  You're fine.  I'll be the first to tell you when you're not.  Trust me."

"And that," he declared, holding the next shot aloft, "is why I love you.  Wedge three is for Bingo.  Wherever you are, little stinker, here's to you."

"To Bingo, the illegal endangered orphaned black-footed ferret!  Hang in there, sweetie."  Callista slammed her glass down for emphasis.

Edward poured the fourth round, took a few deep breaths, and shoved his final piece of lime into the sugar, which crunched deliciously.  "So.  What's wedge number four?"

"Four..." Callista cleared her throat.  "Four is... To you finishing the book, so the world can know old Buck and Bingo, and love them as we have."

He shook his head and chuckled, but eventually raised his lime wedge to her glass.

"Glass?"  She suggested.

"Oops.  Yes.  Can't clink with a lime wedge.  To the book!" he toasted.

"Cheers!"



Today, I was writing in response to another Studio 30 Plus prompt, the phrase "semi-permanent state of self-medication," courtesy of Katy's fine post Just Like A Dream.  Go!  Read it!

Doc Aquatic's Croc

"This time, for sure!" declared Doc Aquatic, as he plunged his rusty croc noose into the still black glass at the edge of Lake Surprise, turning it into whitewater in an instant.  In the darkness that lay eighteen inches beneath the chaos that was the water's surface, he had snared a large something which he desperately hoped against hope was not another alligator, or foot locker.

It was 1937, and the Great Depression showed no signs of relinquishing its brutish grip on either of the nations - the Americans' or the hoboes.'  Sully Irwin, aka Doc Aquatic, having fought and robbed and pickpocketed and unmentionabled his way from Hampton, Virginia to South Florida, was a man on a mission, nearly devoid of hope, but not officially resigned.

In life, back in the twenties, he had been a veterinarian.  Then the markets crashed, the banks were run upon, the machinery of commerce ground to a halt, and while Doctor Irwin's job technically was not lost, those of most of his clients were.  He let his assistant go, and then his secretary, and finally his office.  With his vet bag in hand, he was welcomed back into the Atlanta home of his parents in 1928.

Mr. and Mrs. Irwin were peanut farmers.  Well, Mr. Irwin was a peanut farmer.  His wife was the wife of a peanut farmer, as it was, in fact, the 1920s.  They were killed by a rogue family of elephants, who had noticed the scent of the Irwins' harvest as the circus train had passed the farm in August, 1929.  The once-majestic, now-captive pachyderms didn't mean to squash the Irwins' heads into the loamy Georgia soil like a couple of gourds;  the pair was simply in the way.  Sully held onto the farm for a year, but when the bank that housed the family's holdings - mostly in cash - closed its doors, he was left with no options.  He went hobo in 1930.

Walking for miles, searching for day-labor jobs, and hopping freight trains was to Sully an utterly alien existence.  He survived - barely.  "Oh, how I long to be a real veterinarian again," he would lament to his fellow vagabonds, "I was ready to dedicate my life to my reptilian friends, when all this misery descended upon us."

"Oh shut up, Doc Aquatic," his fellow hoboes would snap, "and give us whatever medicine you have left in that silly alligator bag."

"Crocodile," he would correct them.

As a hobo, Doc Aquatic found that the opportunities to practice veterinary medicine were few and far between.  He helped farmers and ranchers when he could, but his dream was to correct the overbites of the nation's crocodiles.  While the average hobo's most prized possession was has bindle stick, or lint wad, or tin coffee pot, Doc's was a rusty old noose designed solely for the capture of crocodiles.  For years, he wandered through the Carolinas, Georgia, and the northern Gulf Coast, searching for crocs in need of mandibular correction.

He found only alligators.

"You too far north, man," Buck Mope told him on Christmas Eve, 1936.  "Got to get way down Florida - down past Tampa.  Everglades is where you got to go, if crocs what you huntin' for..."

"I am not hunting them," Doc Aquatic insisted.  "I am seeking new patients.  I am a doctor of veterinary medicine, and it is my intention to put a healthy smile on the poor, wretched face of every last one of our beloved crocodiles."

"Beloved?  Ha!" Buck scoffed.  "Make more sense if you just stick to horses and cows.  But tell me - you know anything about ferrets?"

Doc Aquatic knew nothing about ferrets.  His mind was made up.  He knew what it was that he was put on this earth to do.  He worked his way south, eventually finding the Florida East Coast Railway.  In Saint Augustine, he thought he had caught a patient, but it turned out to be an Alligator.  In Jupiter, another.  In the desolate backwaters of St. Cloud, the same.  In Pahokee, he saw nothing but crocodiles, some upwards of twelve feet long, but they casually, infuriatingly eluded him, and he caught nothing but mossy logs, and dead birds.

He had thrown his rusty noose into the water on numerous occasions, but he always reconsidered, and at great risk to life and limb he would wade into brackish water and retrieve it, swearing to himself, "okay, just one more try, and then I quit forever."

On the eastern shore of Lake Surprise, more Keys back country than Everglades, he spotted the familiar bumps on the otherwise polished black surface of the water.  He waited.  The animal was asleep, but at one point it opened wide for a languorous jaw stretch.  

"Oh, brother croc," Doc said quietly, "you are in desperate need of veterinary orthodonture."  He waited some more, careful to be sure the beast was still asleep.  It was.  He moved closer, and silently thrust his noose forward over the croc's snout, then jerked it back toward him.  It worked.  After a hundred alligators, and months of failures of every kind imaginable, Doc Aquatic was going to fix the crooked bite of his favorite of all the reptiles.

He only had one long-expired syringe of sedative left, so he worked more quickly than he would have liked, but after thirty-five minutes, he was reasonably satisfied with the outcome.  This multi-hundred pound lizard, battle-scarred and old, now had perfectly-aligned jaws and, apart from the two that had to be removed, perfect and very clean teeth. 

"Beautiful," Doc declared, nearly overcome with joy and pride.  "I knew I could do it."  Such was his satisfaction, his unadulterated bliss, that he was still admiring the creature's luminous teeth from the inside, as it swallowed him whole.

The story of this particular member of the 700 Hoboes Club was inspired by the writing prompts "Doctor" and "Crocodile," courtesy of my friends at  STUDIO 30 PLUS.

88 Lines About 44 Hoboes

Inspired by a band called The Nails, here are...
 

• Guesstimate Jones was never sure how long a trip would take.  He often showed up two days late.
• Celestial Stubbs knew all the stars by heart.  Fairbanks, Durante, Bogart shared a sky with Pluto, Mars and M-31.
• Persuasive Frederick was never told no.  He wooed his bride on her wedding day.
• Chrysler LeBaron always rode topless.  His bindle was made of rich, Corinthian leather.
• Strictly Local Henry Bobtail never hopped a coal train.  No one hopped coal trains.
• Bee-Beard earned his hobo moniker exactly five minutes before his death.  He had no idea he was allergic.
• "Medicated Shampoo" Jonah Jump didn't want to talk about it.  It was itchy and embarrassing.
• Bean-Hoarder Newt was plump and jolly.  His friends could attest to that, if they existed.
• Joachim Bat-in-Hair was good for a laugh.  His hobo comb was covered in tiny bite marks.
• The Freewheelin' Barry Sin had no time for commitment.  What he did have was syphilis.
• Linty Sullivan, the Lint Collector was the hoboes' tax man.  No one knew how he got that job.
• Mastiff Mama was adored but never kissed.  She chased dogs away from hobo camps, but had a bit of a drooling problem.
• Lord Winston Two-Monocles was an idiot.  They're called glasses, Lord.
• Stick-Legs McOhio could only walk with special shoes.  He had a few extra toes.
• Ghostly Nose Silvie wasn't scary.  It should be pointed out, however, that there was a bank of fog where her nose ought to be.
• Tearbaby Hannity Stoop's back always hurt him mercilessly.  He also made babies cry just by looking at them.
• Overly Familiar Fung ate from his friends' plates and tried on their shoes without asking.  He also laughed at other hoboes' inside jokes.
• Slo-Mo Deuteronomy was always a half-step behind.  He invented "wait, what?"
• Cleats Onionpocket invented a completely enclosed sandwich.  Look for them in your grocer's terrible food section, today!
• Bill Never-Uses-a-Cookbook was like most hoboes.  He couldn't cook - or read.
• Shakey Aitch The Boneyard Concierge was indispensable.  He could get you whatever you might need during your dirt nap, and he always refused tips.
• Salty Salty Friday's friends returned on Sundays.  He boiled his clothes on Saturdays.
• Feminine Forearms Rosengarten wore a burlap coat, even in summertime.  Mainly, this was to hide his black satin elbow-length evening gloves.
• Constantly Sobbing Forrester lost his true love Eleanor to Polio.  Hobo Nation lost Constantly Sobbing Forrester to his unceasing melancholy.
• Slam Dance Dooze moved to music unheard, as dancers often do.  His best moves were mistaken for acts of aggression.
• Gin-Bucket Greg walked with the care of a new parent.  Wait 'til he discovers that that is no longer gin.
• Markansas could no longer remember his parents faces, but he knew whence they came.  Mum was from Baltimore, and Pa was from Little Rock.
• Lolly Hoot Holler loved owls to distraction, and often tried to feed them sweets.  She had hideous scars on her hands and arms.
• Jokestealer John Selden thought it was funny that escalators were never out of order, but merely became stairs.  He had a dog named Stay.
• Pith-Helmet Andy thought he was on a never-ending safari, and that the Florida Everglades were in fact central Africa.  He met his fate at the dangerous end of a double-barrel shotgun in the hands of a burly man yelling "Get off the property!"
• Bix Shmix suffered from a rare and traumatic speech impediment that caused him to rearrange his words, but only within individual sentences.  Ironically, several lives were saved when he tried to say "Train for that look out," but instead said "Look out for that train!"
• No one noticed when Molly Bewigged cut off all of her long, naturally curly auburn hair.  She used it to make a wig, and looked exactly as she had before.
• 50-Tooth Slim had exactly five teeth by the time he was twenty years old.  Sometimes hoboes were mean when they named each other.
• The Damned Swede didn't want to go to hell - hobo or otherwise.  He atoned so long and so hard that he had no memory of any of his sins.
• Mr. Whist was one of the saddest hoboes.  He had a complete deck of 52 cards, but no one ever wanted to play with him.
• Unpronounceable had a shrink in Beverly Hills.  You know the one.
• Candle-Eyed Sally was as useful as she was luminous.  You could read by the glowing flames set within her porcelain face.
• Billy Butterfly Net, it was said, wouldn't hurt a fly.  However, he was hell-bent on carrying out some sort of bizarre vendetta against Danaus Plexippus.
• Amanda Until told everyone that she planned to go back to the real world, one day.  She never did.
• Crispy Whiskery had ice in his beard.  He looked like Sir Edmund Hillary - except for the fact that he had a beard.
• Of all the hoboes ever to walk or ride the rails, Knee-Brace Kenny knew the deepest, truest and most abiding love.  Unfortunately for him, his love was Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick.
• Sweet Daddy Champagne dreamed of becoming the first hobo pimp.  The lady hoboes were not amused, and hung him from the trestle over Wills Creek in Hyndman, Pennsylvania.
• Golden Neck tried to touch the sun one day.  He said there was magic in her rays.
• Right now, I love Buck Mope the most.  I chose him to end this post.

Thanks for making it all the way to the end!  And yes, I'm aware that there are 45 hobo names here, but the extra one isn't the subject of those 2 lines, so chill.  Watch for future "88 Lines" posts - not about hoboes - possibly to include my first attempt at rhyming, metered verse (or, equally-possibly, sheer and utter chaos).  Stay tuned...

A Sort Of Homecoming

February 13, 1942

My Darling Buckingham,

     I hope this letter finds you well.  I hope this letter finds you, at all.  I heard that you were working the orange and grapefruit groves again, this winter, so I have employed the services of Juan The Southernmost Finder to locate you and deliver my message.  I am also counting on him to convince you to read it, or to read it to you, chasing after you, if necessary.

I am leaving New York City.  I could write for you a long list of reasons for my decision, but paper, as you may have heard, is scarce.  However, I have space enough to share with you three of my principal motivations.  

First, I cannot abide for a single additional day the overwhelming sensation of being a rat at the bottom of a labyrinth of trenches in France in either this war, or the first one.  Glimpses of sunshine - or even of sky - are few, far between, and tortuously brief.  I can't breathe.

Second, and I am well-prepared for - and deserving of - your "I told you so," but I have found that success as a designer of couture hats is as tenuous and short-lived as the rays of light that reach my face in these canyons of concrete.  I can still find buyers, but I can't ever count on when or where that happens.  It's a terrifically-exciting lifestyle for some, but it just makes me nervous.

Finally, I have realized that happiness for me has proven twice as elusive as sunbeams and success in the big city.  It peeks into my lonely soul just enough to remind me that I had once mastered it completely and set myself up for a lifetime of it.  The "once" of which I speak is, of course, the time I spent as your dusty drifter wife.

Happiness, it seems, can flit and fly and scurry away and hide, but what cannot do any of those is my unflagging love for you, my dear, destitute migrant laborer.  

So, there you have it, Buckingham.  I will find you.  I pray that your heart has not fully hardened to me by the time I do.

Walk safely, and remember to look both ways, my husband.

Yours Always,

Mildred The Mad (Former) Hatter

This post was prompted by the word "FLEETING" and my good and supportive friends at  STUDIO 30-PLUS, and is inspired by (although not a part of) my 2013 Camp NaNoWriMo novel.  Thanks for stopping by!