Walking The Lowly Highley Way

Aaron Three-Shirts, so deprived of oxygen that he barely clung to consciousness, ran up to his raggedy friends.  "Our stuff!  Our stuff!  It's all gone!  Someone raided our camp and took all our stuff!"

"No!" cried Paste-Smeller Luke. "Oh goddammit, no!"

"It's true,"  Aaron said, bent over with hands on knees, breathing hard.  "All gone."

"Not again," sighed Lowly Highley.  "That's the third time this month, and I had almost two hundred bucks in that old bean can - but it'll be alright..."

"Yeah, it's-- hold on.  What'd you say, Lowly?"

"I said it's the third time this month..."

"Not that part," growled Luke, "the part about what was in the bean can."

"Oh.  I had about a hundred ninety-five dollars saved up, and it was in that rusty ol' can," Lowly sighed.  "Oh well, at least we didn't get beat up, this time."

"Which brings us to the part of what you first said that *I* want to talk about," said Aaron Three-Shirts.  "That business about, 'it'll be alright.'"

"What about it?" Lowly asked.  

"I'm just wonderin' how you figure anything's gonna be alright - ever."

Lowly Highley tilted his head at Aaron and Luke. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Luke said, "we been out here since the big crash - that's goin' on four years, now.  How come no matter what happens to us - no matter how desperate and dirty and sick and poor and lowly our lives get - you still got that positive outlook?"

"Yeah, Lowly," Aaron added, catching his breath, "how can you be so sanguine in the face of this never-ending shit-storm?"

"'Sanguine?'" Luke said, looking askance at his fellow hobo.

"Don't judge me, you bum."

Lowly Highly looked at the ground and began to shake his head slowly.  He had tried to explain it to them many times, over the past four years of homeless, stricken wandering.  How else could he say it?  His childhood had been one of freezing deprivation in Halifax.  His adolescence and teen years had been spent in an orphanage of horrors, where he prayed for death.  He started his twenties in the mud, blood, and damnation that was the trenches of France in the Great War, and ended them in a nightmare-addled, poor, hungry, homeless dust bowl.  

Since then, he had wandered like his brethren, worked when he could, suffered and struggled and survived.  He was a dead man walking, but he harbored a strange certainty.  He knew that he'd seen the worst of his days, so whatever happened next was surely gravy, by comparison.

He smiled at his trudging companions.  "It's gonna be alright, brothers.  It just is.  That's all."

And we're back!  As are my buddies at STUDIO 30-PLUS, whose prompt this week was "sanguine."  I had to remind you (and myself) that there were hopeful hoboes.





 

Random Act: What Just Happened?

Last Thursday, I witnessed an act. 

I think it was one of those "random acts of kindness" that people try to tell me occasionally happen.  It seemed random, and I'm fairly certain it was kind.  I know it was over before it started, and I'm pretty sure no one else on the train saw it.

What I know:

• The Green Line train was extra-crowded.  There were Nationals fans (and some Phillies fans), in addition to the regular 5:30 crush of weary commuters.  This always makes for a somewhat uncomfortable mix of happy, excited riders and tired, annoyed ones.
• Across from me, there was a young black man, probably in his mid-20s, holding a sleeping 4-to-5-year old girl, presumably his daughter. He was 3/4-asleep, himself. Next to them, another daughter, approximately 7 years old, was also failing to stay awake, her book bag on the floor between her feet.
• At L'Enfant Plaza station, a young white man, probably also under 30, stooped briefly in front of the snoozing family, as if picking something up from the floor, handed it to the groggy dad, and quickly exited the train.
• The young father was reticent. And no, I do not mean "reluctant," because A) I know the difference between reticent and reluctant, and B) There was no time for reluctance. This guy just appeared, put a folded piece of yellow paper into the dad's hand, and was gone.  The young father, his hands literally full, was shy. He had been keeping entirely to himself and his small brood.  When the older girl had asked how many more stops, no one heard his reply but her. When the man handed him the note, which was folded around at least a few dollars in cash, the dad remained silent. He glanced up in surprise, but quickly closed his hand around the note and returned his focus to his sleeping children.
• At the next stop, after giving the older girl a couple of gentle pokes and a quiet "one more stop," he looked around briefly, then snuck a peek at the note and the cash. He smiled. It was an exhausted, but surprised and - I think - touched and grateful little smile. He tucked the gift into the only pocket he could reach - that of his sleeping little girl.

What I do not know:

What had just happened? Technically, I cannot completely rule out the possibility that the dad actually had dropped the item. Nor is it 100% impossible that he and the young white male know each other, and that the item handed off was expected. I do rule these out, though.  I just do.

So... My mind was off and running. How much money? Why? What did the note say? Was it even KIND?

What it probably said was, "God bless you," because that's what it probably said. 

It might have said "Next time you take the train, hand this to the person next to the door as you leave."

Or... "Pay it forward."

Or... "I found this $35 on the platform. I want you to have it."

Or maybe it was a large amount of money, and the note said, "You need a car," or "For college."

But maybe it wasn't at all as it appeared to be.  Perhaps the note said, "Get that kid some shampoo, loser!"

Or... "Don't spend this on booze/drugs/anything that says 'Frozen'/gummy bears."

Or... "I don't like seeing kids on the train - take a cab next time."

Or... "I have made a LOT of assumptions about you and your situation, so please take this and let me go home and feel good about myself."

Or... "Metro's too expensive."

Now, I can't pretend to know what the guy was thinking, when he handed the note and cash to a fellow Metro rider. It's possible that he was utterly misguided. The father and his two girls showed no outward signs of need; they weren't sitting there in rags, and their final stop turned out to be the Navy Yard/Nationals Park station - not exactly the projects. The altruist may have made any number of flawed assumptions, here. For that matter, I may be doing exactly the same thing, now, because really I simply do not know what it was that I witnessed. 

But here's the thing:  IT DOESN'T MATTER. It doesn't matter what the giver's motivation or intention was. It doesn't matter what the receiver's situation or level of need was. A gift was handed from stranger to stranger - a gift that may or may not have even been needed - and neither race, nor income, nor station in life nor anything else mattered in the moment that that gift went from the one hand to the other.

What matters is that someone appeared, did something for someone else, and moved on.  Whether it was a token gesture, or a life-changing event, what matters is the fact that it was done.


Once again, I am here (rather belatedly) prompted by my friends at Studio 30 Plus, who this week gave us "reticent" or "shy." 

Ten Things Without Which...

Hello, Reader(s)!

It's been a while since I did a real bloggy blog post, so tonight, good people, let's get bloggy.  If you know me, you know that I like to complain.  It's one of the things I do best.  I guess you could say I'm a natural.  But it's not ALL I do.  I don't want it to define me.  So here's a list, in no particular order, of

TEN THINGS, WITHOUT WHICH I WOULD LOATHE THIS PLANET

One:  Steve Martin.  Not so much Steve Martin the actor, although even in that regard, he's more skilled than you might think - despite the veritable plethora of sub-par roles he has played, over the years.  Not even so much Steve Martin the stand-up comedian.  Don't get me wrong - he was a genius on stage, and he revolutionized the business.  

When I say the world is a better place because of him, I'm talking first about the writer - a gifted, surprisingly-thoughtful voice who can turn comedy into tragedy and vice-versa.  Second, I speak of the person - at least what we in the public get to see of him.  He's generally the smartest person in any room, but will only admit it when it's funny to do so.  He's a study in restraint, and especially over the past couple of decades, his public persona reminds me of my father.  But above all else, he improves the planet with his banjo-playing.  He's self-taught, I believe, and masterful. 

Two:  Common Sense.  The fact that it is so breathtakingly close to extinction only serves to make it that much more precious and inspiring, when encountered.  

Three:  Animals - particularly wild ones - and the people who fight for them.  Pretty self-explanatory, that one.  Every time we allow another species to become relegated to a captive-only population - or to the history books - the planet becomes a little less good.  And yes, I know that some species, without any human impacts whatsoever, would still disappear on their own, but we've reached the point where that's well-nigh impossible.

Four:  Trains.  I like trains.  In most of the world, they are vitally important, but even in the U.S., they're pretty cool.  To look at a railroad track is to look at a continuum of the history of the industrial age.  Also, hoboes!

Five:  Intoxicants.  From alcohol to Xanax, and everything in-between, when used properly, intoxicants make the world a better place.  Hydrocodone, rum, beer, wine - all great tools, in the right hands.  Sexually-produced pheromones and endorphins - hell, don't forget runner's high!  Tell me the planet wouldn't suck without them.  Granted, we as a species are working overtime to prove that we're about as capable of responsibly handling these chemicals as we are our guns, money, and cars, but still.  Planet-enhancing stuff!

Six:  White Noise.  For those who can't do the intoxicants, or for the times when the intoxicants just aren't a viable option, white noise can be almost as good.  It's like a sonic coffee filter; on one side - gunk, and on the other, heaven/magic/nirvana.  I know some people can't stand white noise, so for them, number six is Silence.  Ahhh....

Seven:  [Maris].  She had to be on this list.  A planet without [Maris]?  Yeah - I would loathe that place, for it would be beyond shitty.  'Nuff said.

Eight:  Sarcasm.  (see number seven)

Nine:  Justin Timberlake.  I don't want to hear it.  Number nine is Justin Timberlake.  Deal with it.  Okay, then - Jennifer Lawrence.  Young, funny, smart, gifted people who manage to at least come off as relatively genuine.  Come on - what's not to like?

Ten:  People Who Are Nicer Than They Ought To Be.  You know the ones.  They comfort others when their own loved ones die.  They smile through the broken teeth of poverty.  They suffer mind-boggling injury, injustice, heartbreak, and just plain bad luck, and still forgive and help and encourage others.  I had Nelson Mandela in mind when I started this one, because he forgave a world of stuff I could never have forgiven - we all know the story.  But I kind of think that people that great aren't the ones I'm talking about, here.  

Oh super - now I can't think of any.  Well, hopefully the point is made.  There are people - lots of them - whose circumstances would turn most of us into bitter husks, but who somehow continue to be forces for good in the world.  The absence of those individuals would ruin this planet, and make me loathe it.

This list is far from complete.  There are whole bunches of things about which I cannot complain.  I figure, if I need to be reminded of that fact, maybe someone out there reading this might, too.  If not, that's cool.  (see number eight)

This here post was prompted by my friends at Studio Thirty Plus, whose prompts for this week are "LOATHE" and/or "PLANET."



 

Sand On The Tracks - A Bum Finds His Beach

It started in a rail yard in 1930...

East Brunswick, Maryland

A hobo was being escorted from the property for the umpteenth and final time.  Scabpicker Rump, whose name is not important, had worked for the B&O, and had helped build and maintain some of the bridges and viaducts that carried the rails over the creeks and rivers that feed the Potomac.  He had been fired for insubordination.

His parents had abandoned him when he was ten, because they had grown tired of his "unflagging need for supper, every single night."  He later learned that they had both been killed in a bizarre ice skating accident the police had labeled "suspicious."  

As he was kicked out of Brunswick yard that chilly fall evening, Lemmy, the burly watchman, who Rump had known for years, gave him a piece of advice that would change his life.  "I know times are tough, old friend, but if you're gonna be a hobo, you gotta head south in the winter - like the snowbirds that migrate from New York City to Florida every fall.  And I hear they still need labor to maintain the FEC's Key West extension."

"That's a mighty long way from here, Lemmy," Scabpicker sighed.

"Think about it, buddy.  Parts of it get washed out by hurricanes every other year, seems to me, and it's all bridges.  They could probably use a man like you."

"Thanks for the tip.  I'll think about it."

Three months of hard hobo-ing later, Scabpicker Rump was working again, helping to maintain, among three dozen others, this bridge...

The old Bahia Honda Bridge, connecting Bahia Honda Key with Spanish Harbor Key - Photo by [Maris]

It didn't take long for him to prove the old "once a hobo, always a hobo" adage I just made up, and within a year, he was fired - for insubordination.  But he had fallen in love with both the Overseas Railroad and the beach.  He occasionally stowed away on trains, but mostly he walked the rails and "his bridges" between Key Largo and Key West.  His hobo name was amended slightly, and he came to be known, down here at the end of road, as Scabpicker Sandy Rump.

And he sat.  He sat on the sand - actually crushed coral, in most cases - and drank and fished and stole coconuts and stone crabs.  Gradually, his hobo life transformed into that of a beach bum.  When the Labor Day hurricane of 1935 destroyed most of Henry Flagler's beloved overseas railroad - this time beyond repair - Scabpicker Sandy Rump stayed in Key West, where he lived his remaining years in challenging but happy homelessness.  

In 1937, his old friend Lemmy received a long, rambling letter from Scabpicker.  Much of it was nearly incomprehensible, drunken blather, but it had one paragraph of clarity:

"People come to these beaches and marvel at the white sand and the iridescent water, but I hardly pay those things any mind.  I love the AIR at the land's end.  I find it utterly delicious.  I am reborn with every breath of it.  It's salty and warm, sure, but there's more to it, down here.  At the beach, even with hardly a wave in sight, the air is filled with sound.  At some beaches, when the wind turns around, the air is filled with sea life aromas that send the snowbirds scurrying back to their hotels, but I love that rotten smell; to me, it smells of life.  During Key West summers, the air is heavy and sticky and the clouds get unruly, but I love that, too.  For it's not just salt or heat or fish, nor is it simply that this place is becoming a playground.  There is something in the air here that I feel blessed and privileged to sense.  This air, my friend, is absolutely soaked through with MAGIC."

Magic Key West Air

[This post was written in response to a prompt - a writing prompt - from my friends at Studio Thirty Plus.  Please stop by and check out some of the fine writers who hang out at S30P!]



                    

LOOK OVER THERE!!

STUDIO30PLUS

Made you look!  Well, hopefully I made you look.  Check it out.  The very nice people at S30P are so very nice, they made me their Featured Writer Of The Day for Friday, December 7th, 2012.

I know!  I'm pretty excited about it.  Nervous, too.  You see, S30P is an online community of over 400 fellow bloggers, many of whom have published books, and most of whom are really good writers and clever, witty people - so it can be a little intimidating to novices such as myself.  They are very kind, though.  In fact, I often think of S30P as my own little support group.

Please visit us there, today.  

And if  you're a blogger, or thinking of becoming one, please join.  We're an extremely supportive bunch!

Oh - and if you're too lazy-- I mean, busy to click on the links above, I'll post today's Featured Writer piece here in Mostly Harmless Drivelville in the near future.  It's a good one, about turning forty while your body goes kablooey.

Did I mention that it has pictures?  Like this:

 Now, just what does THAT have to do with turning 40?  Intriguing, right?  Go see for yourself.  It'll all make sense.

I don't see how you can wait, really.  

GO!

GO NOW!!

Here's that link again...

S30P Featured Writer Of The Day - December 7th, 2012