Stymie Stonewrist and Ol' Stiffpants and The Bond

Dew, Leaf, Ballast - Point of Rocks, MD 1997 JMS

 

They didn't choose to be bonded, but bonds can have a way of imposing themselves on the unsuspecting. Sometimes the bond chooses you. Fifteen-year old Stephanie Steinquist was about a year from becoming Stymie Stonewrist when she began her seven-hour shift at the the Triangle Shirtwaist factory in Greenwich Village on Saturday, March 25th, 1911. A few blocks away, Albert Huffheinz, who would later be called Ol' Stiffpants, was struggling to obtain his father's death certificate from the coroner's office. His mother was working a sewing machine on the 8th floor at Triangle Shirtwaist, one row behind Stephanie.

There was a fire. The stairwell doors were locked. The lone fire escape was not up to the task of stewarding all of the factory workers - mostly women and girls - to safety. 146 of them died, including the recently-widowed Mrs. Huffheinz. Young Stephanie survived - rather miraculously - with a broken and subsequently improperly-set wrist, several lacerations, and an undiagnosed concussion. She also suffered profound survivor's remorse, and although she had barely known Mrs. Huffheinz, she went to sit Shiva with the woman's family for several days following her discharge from the hospital. That was where she met Albert.

There wasn't much said, sitting Shiva with the grieving family and friends, but after a couple of days, when the older Huffheinz women began to quietly converse, Albert sat next to Stephanie and gestured at her plaster-wrapped wrist. "You were there? You worked with Ma?"

She nodded sadly. "I didn't know her very well, but she seemed swell," she whispered. "She always had the older ladies in stitches."

"Ha!" Albert's laugh surprised him as much as it did his fellow mourners, some of whom regarded him with a mild, give-the-kid-a-break-he's-an-orphan-now disapproval. "'In stitches!' She was a seamstress! That's funny. You're funny."

She stared at the floor for a moment. "I'm... I didn't mean to be funny..."

"It's okay," he assured her. "Ma was a hoot, and I promise you, she woulda laughed and laughed at the stitches bit. "I'm Albert." He took her hand and shook it gently.

"Stephanie," she said softly. "I'm awful sorry about your mother - well, and your father, too. I'm just dreadfully sorry."

"My uncle says I'm getting all of my sad things out of the way early, so that the rest of my life can be peaceful and happy." 

"That would be nice. I'd say you've earned it," she offered tentatively.

"I don't know. My uncle drinks a lot. Say, how'd you get out of there - if you don't mind my asking? I know those bastards kept the doors locked - they all do."

She looked at the floor again, then looked up at him, then quickly looked away. "I don't think I'm ready to talk about it," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize. I'm sorry to pry."

"When I'm ready to talk about it, you'll be the first to know."

Over the next six months, they became best friends. She found another job at a similar garment factory, doing her best to supplement the meager incomes her parents earned as line cook and bookkeeper at a Greene Street steak house. Albert, too old for the orphanage, went from one menial job to the next. When not working, they spent countless hours visiting and gossiping and commiserating and walking and people-watching. Their friendship even survived a brief ill-advised foray into romance, which they quickly and decisively declared was not to be. 

She was a sturdy girl, and had learned to fight in the sweatshops. He was short and slight, and not at all a fighter, and on more than one occasion she had helped him fend off bullies and would-be muggers. "Why'd you do that," he'd protest, "I coulda handled 'em." She always said, "I know, but it's the least I can do," which puzzled him. 

Then, Albert read a book about hoboes. He quickly became obsessed with their lifestyle, their culture, their oddly humanitarian code of conduct, and their freedom. With a promise to return and tell her all about it on the first anniversary of the Shirtwaist fire, he left New York City in a boxcar bound for Buffalo. "If you don't show up at that memorial, mister, I'm coming looking for you - and if anything happens to me, won't you be just the saddest!"

He did not show up at the ceremony commemorating the one-year anniversary of the fire. She scoured all of Washington Square Park. He was not there. She even saw his uncle, who could offer little more than to shrug a helpless "We haven't heard from him." Inside her, panic and resolve engaged in a rousing bout of fisticuffs, with resolve emerging victorious. "Swell. I suppose I'm a hobo now," she growled, stomping away.

"He goes by 'Ol' Stiffpants' now," the uncle shouted helpfully after her. "Something like that, anyway."

"Thanks. If you see him, tell him I'm heading to Buffalo, and I'm gonna call myself, um... Stymie. Yeah - Stymie Stonewrist."

She followed the New York Central back and forth across the state, and struggled terribly for the first few months. She was assaulted - mostly by non-hoboes like cops and railroad workers. She was bitten by police and other dogs, harassed in towns, robbed, and worse. She learned as she went. She developed calluses. A lot of calluses. And she asked every hobo she met if they knew Ol' Stiffpants. For months, the answer was no. Then, at a junction outside of Albany, the answer was yes. 

"I heard of that fella," an extra-dirty and profoundly stinky hobo named Jack Skunk told her. "New kid. Little guy. Jewish, from the city.

"That's him! Do you know where he might be - or where he might be headed?" she asked, with hope in her heart for the first time in ages.

Jack Skunk laughed hard. "He rides the Pennsy, not the New York Central. Sorry miss - you're on the wrong railroad."

"Well, shit."

It took several more months, but on November 1st, 1912, she found him. That is, he found her. She was sharing a camp just south of Buffalo with a few other hoboes, and had inadvertently looked at Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick in just the wrong way, and was a half-second from getting good and stabbed - quick. A little blur of a man leapt from the darkness and kicked Ol' Barb's knife from her hand and sent it spinning off into the woods. 

"Come with me," he ordered, as Stymie's assailant raced after her wayward blade.

"Albert??" she shrieked as he nearly dragged her away from the camp.

"It's Ol' Stiffpants, ma'am," he started. "Wait. Stephanie? Is it you??"

"I go by Stymie Stonewrist now," she said breathlessly as they ran. "I can't believe I found you - sort of - I've been looking for you since March!"

"I know. I'm sorry. If it helps, I've been looking for you since March, too. I got to the anniversary ceremony a couple hours too late."

"I wish you hadn't saved me from that crazy stabby lady, though. Now I owe you TWO life debts."

"What?" 

They ran a mile or so, then found a suitable bridge, under which they lit a small fire and huddled together and cried and hugged and tried kissing again and this time it kind of worked. And they shared their respective stories of rookie hobo trial and error and more trial, and eventually slept.

In the cold light of morning, with Lake Erie lapping at the nearby shore, a southbound train of empty coal hoppers thundered through the woods and over the trestle that sheltered them. Albert Ol' Stiffpants Huffheinz snapped awake and reached for his soul mate. She wasn't there, but she hadn't gone far. She sat on a fallen tree near the lake's edge, watching the little waves. He approached her cautiously, making sure to snap a couple of twigs as he walked. He stopped. He reached for her shoulder.

"Morning," she said. "Mind if I walk with you a while, Ol' Stiffpants?" 

"I'd like that," he said without hesitation. "Stymie... Stonewrist, is it?"

"Yeah - on account of my wonky wrist. I kind of made it up on the spot." she turned to face him and smiled. "I'm ready to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"How I survived the fire."

"Oh. You don't have to," he said softly, taking her hands.

She inhaled deeply. "No, I think I should. It's okay. So, I was on the fire escape with the others when it collapsed. Your mother was there. She had pulled me and another girl out with her - practically dragging us by our hair - and almost as soon as we got on the fire escape, it broke free and we were falling, falling. Everyone screamed and fell. I held onto a piece of metal that swung down a few floors against the building, then hit a window ledge, and then, well..." She took another deep breath as Albert squeezed her hands. "I landed on your mother. She saved my life, and I think I killed her. I'm so sorry."

Albert stifled an odd sort of laugh, and wrapped his arms around her. "I have no doubt that she saved you, my dear, but you must believe me when I tell you that it was the pavement that killed her, not you."

She looked up at him. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely certain, and I will thank her every day for that, as long as I live."

"So will I," she whispered. They held each other for hours - or seconds, who could tell? Finally she said, "I assume the 'Ol'' is on account of your prematurely-greying temples, but what's the 'Stiffpants' part about?"

Ol' Stiffpants sighed, and shifted uncomfortably in her embrace. "I'm not ready to talk about that. But when I am, you'll be the first to know."

 

Mad Max And The Goose And Not The Goose: A Christmas Story Sort Of

With snow and everything! Photo by [Maris]

Mad Max was in no mood. His feet were soaked and nearly frozen. Much of the rest of him was likewise damp and/or painfully cold. His sidekicks were fussing and bickering, which was not helping matters at all. "I am in no mood, you two!" he spat. "I gotta find us some shelter from this freezing rain - I'd settle for an awning, about now. I can't handle another Christmas like this. I wish I'd taken your advice and headed south a couple of months ago, The Goose."

The Goose growled out a low sequence of throaty sounds that could be approximately translated to, "Told you so." Under his breath, he added, "I'm just happy to be waterproof, tonight."

Maxwell Small hadn't always been mad. In fact, he wasn't at all fond of the "Mad Max" moniker his hobo brethren had bestowed upon him in the early 1930s - mostly because he didn't see himself as even remotely crazy (or angry, if we're going to split hairs). He'd had a normal childhood in Bedford, Indiana. He graduated high school and started work as an apprentice mechanic, repairing everything from Model A's to the newest farm equipment. He buried both his parents (double-fatal yo-yo trick accident), joined hobo nation, acquired a clingy Canadian goose, and later a German shepherd-golden retriever-half-albino Labrador mutt who thought she was a goose, and like it or not he became Mad Max.

The Goose and the dog, who came to be called Not The Goose, were best friends from the moment they met. It was often hard to tell whether The Goose thought he was a dog - or Not The Goose thought she was a goose - or both. They chased each other. They mimicked each other's speech patterns and dialects. They slept together, curled up like a pair of kittens. They stole each other's food and fought and made up and vied for Max's affection. But one of them... was a goose.

Most of the time, this fact was not a problem. It was cute. "Oh, look at that crazy hobo," they would say, "with his odd-looking dog, and his goose that thinks he's a dog. So cute." But Halloween would come, and then everything from St. Louis to Atlantic City would turn brown and dead, and just like that it was open season on critters that looked like The Goose. Getting past Thanksgiving in one piece wasn't too hard, but soon after, he'd start hearing the words "Christmas" and "goose" together, and things would take a turn.

"This is ridiculous," Mad Max groused, "We're going south, next year - if we live that long."

"Honk honk, hisssss, honk," said The Goose.

"Aroo rowrowooo," Not The Goose Agreed. And they shared a good long laugh.

The Goose had put on a pound or two since the previous December, so apparently he looked more appetizing than ever. As Mad Max had led his anserine and canine charges east from Dayton to Zanesville to Wheeling to Morgantown, they were harassed by a dozen cleaver-wielding maniacs, bent on turning The Goose into the centerpiece of Christmas dinner. Max and Not The Goose had been extra vigilant since Thanksgiving, and had fought off every threat, but they were exhausted. 

"I love you, The Goose," Mad Max groaned, "but I think if we find a fella with a campsite - or just a proper fire - I might let him have you, just so that I might warm my toes before they die and fall off. I'm sorry."

The Goose laughed it off, as if Max was obviously joking, but he shook his feathers from neck to tail, and hunkered down defensively.

They passed a shed along the B&O main into Cumberland, and found themselves bathed in a warm glow. "Say, strangers," a gravelly voice called after them, "care to share a fire?"

They turned. The Goose hissed reflexively, then relaxed a bit. Not The Goose growled reflexively, then stood tall and let her tail wag - just a little. Mad Max braced himself for another attack on his plump waterfowl, then likewise eased up. "Great day in the morning, guys - it's JACK SKUNK, working his way as far east as he can get before New Year's! Jack, ol' buddy - you're a lifesaver and a saint - a true gentleman. We can't repay your kindness, this cold and rainy Christmas Eve, but we will gladly walk the rest of our days in your debt..."

And the three wet, frozen travelers huddled around the fire of one of the smelliest hoboes ever known, and were welcomed and warmed and not eaten, and it was good.

The 300... (...th Posting Of Drivel-y Bits To The Drivel-y Place)!

 The 300...

Islamorada, FL - Photo by Joe

300 times have I done this. I sit and stare at this screen and wonder, "What in THEE hell is wrong with me?" I'm not sure how to commemorate my 300th post. For POST #100, I shared the first sentence of each of the first 100 posts. Tedious, but the results were kind of cute, I guess. When it came time for my 200th POST, I spent hours stringing together the first word of the first post, the second word of the second post, and so on - all the way to 200. That post reads like the offspring of a fever dream and a dictionary on acid. For some reason, I felt compelled to mark my 250th POST with a "clip show" - not a true greatest hits collection; more of a random sampling of my first quarter-thousand posts. You're welcome to click on that one and then on the links within it, for old times' sake. I'll wait...

Did you go? I went. I even clicked on some of the links! One still mystifies me, and gives me an idea that isn't very good but when has that ever stopped me...

Presenting the Mostly Harmless Drivel 300th Post Awards! 

• Most Viewed Post: I still don't know why, but CARDBOARD & APATHY: A LOVE STORY is still my most-viewed post, by a LOT. I like it, but it's not that good. Some cute dialogue, a stupid ending, but what brought this post to so many screens? I just don't get it.
• Least Viewed Post: Okay - technically, a couple of the posts from this month are the least-viewed, but that's not fair. So, of the 270ish posts from before this month, the least-viewed is We'll Drink To That! And That! And That.... Brings back memories. [Maris] and I used to have shots and chips for dinner, and this post utterly FAILS to capture the fun and buzzy cleverness of those evenings and their toasts. I remember, though...
• Best Hobo: It's a tie! SANTA FE JINGLEBELL, THE WORLD'S MOST CHRISTMASSY TRAMP and JACK SKUNK will have to share this trophy. No matter - some fellow hobo will steal it within the first week. What can I say - I'm a sucker for a hobo with hope - and second chances.
• Worst Hobo: Wicked Paul Fourteen-Toes. Yeah, he's not very nice at all.
• Best Picture: 

  

  Jim Sees Me! Photo by Joe

  Okay, technically not my best picture, by a longshot, but it's got Jim and Charlie, and Jim's saying hey to me (or, "hey - put your phone down, mate!"), so I dig it. Also it's not the muddy Bart Simpson doll, for the dozenth time, and you're welcome!
• Author's Least Favorite Post: [Deleted]  Ha! Sorry, it really has been removed. If it hadn't been, this would be post number 301, and space-time would collapse in on itself like a neutron star. 
• Author's Favorite Post: This one was hard, and if you ask me to choose again next week, I could easily come up with several other selections. But tonight, this award goes to Heads, We're Dancing. It's just a wee bit of flash-fiction-y romance with a title stolen from Kate Bush, but it begat my favorite and most potential-ish novel. So, yeah. 

Lasers. Why'd it have to be... lasers? - Photo by Joe

So, there are 300 of these things, now. How 'bout that? Not sure I have another 300 in me, but who knows? There are at least that many names left on John Hodgman's list of hoboes. And I still have muse-like influencers - like three of 'em! So stay tuned. Maybe we can celebrate some more hundreds together...

Thank you for taking the time to read my mind, such as it is!

Jack Skunk Fils And The Ghost Of Hope

Yeah, I see you...

"It's too cloudy. I don't think we'd be able to see the dawn, even if there were three suns. I'm going to sleep," Tommy Lice-Comb muttered. "And my scalp itches."

"I think I can see a couple of stars peeking through, over that way," Jack Skunk Fils said, gesturing by way of dipping his right shoulder toward the west, "and of course your scalp itches. You're pretty much just lice, from the neck up."

"You makin' fun of my condition?"

Jack held up a defensive hand. "Now, don't get sore, fella. You know what I mean."

"And you know that lice killed my mother."

"Yes, I know. Everyone's mother was killed by something awful and strange. I'm sorry to know about your mum's passing - and the lice that done it."

"I appreciate that," Tommy said. "Now, tell me again why we had to hoof it all the way to Maine in the middle of winter - no food or jobs or friendly folks in sight for miles?"

Jack Skunk Fils, son of the late, smelly, optimistic hobo Jack Skunk, re-explained his mission. They had made their way as far east as the railroads of America would allow, so that they could resurrect Jack's father's tradition of being the first hoboes to see the dawn of the new year on the morning of January first. Hearing himself recite it aloud, Jack suddenly felt that he'd been rather officious in his insistence that poor Tommy Lice-Comb accompany him, but what was done was done. "Pop died ten years ago tonight," he added. "It's only fitting."

Tommy sighed and poked at their struggling campfire, which had begun to hiss irritably as icy raindrops fell into it. "Your old man sure loved that New Year, new hope jazz. He ever lose that?"

"Nope. The sicker he got, the more broken the world became, the uglier people grew, the more hope he had. It was downright bizarre, to me. Still is, really."

"You don't feel that same hope in the first light, then?" Tommy said.

"Not for years now. I'm just doing it to honor Pop's memory, at this point."

"That's sad, man. Just give it up. Maybe visit his grave once a year, and say a little prayer for him on New Year's - which you can do from, you know, someplace warmer - where the smart hoboes are. Somewhere like Jacksonville, maybe?"

Jack stood up and stomped an angry foot in a ratty shoe. "I am NOT going to spend another night in Florida! Not after what happened in Baldwin!"

"Oh, shut up about Baldwin," Tommy groaned. You know as well as I do that that wasn't a turkey. It was a groundhog, and probably rabid. Those kids did us a favor, stealing it."

"I don't care. It was rude. I'm gonna stop talking for a bit, and just get drunk."

"Good idea," Tommy said. "Me too."

The first of January slogged its way from midnight to one, then to two, skipped three, four and five, and lurched unsoberly toward six-thirty. The rain got bored and wandered northeast from Portland, and ever so grudgingly, the clouds thinned and eventually parted - sliced open by a blade of golden dawn.

Jack Skunk Fils stood and stared, as his traveling companion and only friend, wrapped in an old burlap sack, snored his way toward his traditional New Year's hangover. Jack had expected to feel a renewal of grief, a fresh sense of the loss of his father, ten New Year's sunrises ago. On cue, it washed over him in a cold wave. "I miss you, Pop," he whispered.

Gazing at the first light of 1952, what he hadn't expected was the hope. It felt like a physical presence, as if his father were suddenly standing there next to him, and it made no sense whatsoever. The world was still an alien place to which an old (32 whole years old) hobo could not return. For over a year, trains full of tanks and trucks had been rumbling west to feed the war in Korea. The hobo code was beginning to lose its meaning, and the dwindling population of hoboes was increasingly drunk, lazy, and hostile. Jack had pains a healthy man shouldn't have. Nothing was looking remotely hopeful.

But there it was again, standing with him and imploring him not to give up. Jack marveled at its persistence, its ridiculous resilience. It just didn't know when to quit.

He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and sighed, "Anything is possible, Pop. Anything."


Okay, so this was supposed to be a New Year's post, but the world has really gotten in the way, lately. Then I saw the "Two for Tuesday" prompt (Officious) last week at Our Write Side, and I just had to push on through. Thanks for bearing with me whilst I work thought this bleakness...