Mister Torso, The Legless Wonder Hitches A Ride

 

I failed subject-centering class. Photo by Joe

I think by now it's been well-established that life was hard for America's hoboes. We've probably also touched on the added difficulty of hobo life for minorities and women (I'll check later to confirm that). But to all of the above hoboes, tonight's 'bo says, "Hold my beer..."

Try traveling the country and hopping freight trains whilst having zero legs, and presumably just as many feet. How would that even work? Some sort of wheeled conveyance, and a ton of upper-body strength? A horse? Cyborg legs? For Mister Torso, The Legless Wonder, it was mostly the wheeled thing. 

In late 1940, he lost his job as a side-show attraction in the Cruel Horrible Circus, and became a hobo. He did indeed use a kind of homemade cart to get around. It was a lightweight plywood box with oversized rubber tires. It operated much like a simple wheelchair; he sat on his leg stumps and worked the wheels with his hands. It worked great on smooth, flat surfaces, but for obvious reasons, it was rubbish on railroad tracks and the gravel ballast in which they rested. He could steal rides on trains, but they had to be very slow-moving trains, and it really only worked if he was on a train-adjacent freight or passenger platform, as said train rolled past. Even then, it was incredibly challenging to grab one of the train's iron ladders with one hand, and the cart with the other, and then not die (or drop the cart).

The cart-dropping bit happened, one miserable, rainy night in 1941 - in Gary, Indiana. He rode the train until it stopped in Cleveland, racking his brain for ideas, but apart from "build a new cart," ideas wouldn't come. He was summarily evicted from the train by an unsympathetic yard cop, who recommended that he find a shopping cart and a gondolier's pole, for the getting around. Mister Torso pulled himself through the jagged ballast and out of harm's way, next to the tracks, and felt the weight of his disability. Woe was him. Some hours later, the rain dried up and the sun warmed everything just a bit, and he noticed a big, square silhouette stomping purposefully down the yard lead track toward him. The figure stopped when it was perpendicular to Mister Torso's trackside moping spot.

Atlas Flatshoulders was huge - at least six-foot four and 270lbs. - and he stood for a moment assessing Mister Torso and his situation. "Brother, where you bound?" he said at last.

"Pittsburgh," Mister Torso replied sadly. "Or, that is, I was - until I lost my wheeled cart. I'll never get there, now."

Atlas thought, scratching his big square chin. "Well, brother... How do you feel about heights? You okay sittin' up high?"

"I guess so," Torso speculated.

"I ain't had a traveling companion in I don't know how long," Atlas said. "And I've always wondered what use I'd ever have for these oddly flat shoulders of mine. What say we try an arrangement?"

For the next seven years, the two hoboes were inseparable. Atlas Flatshoulders had a friend, and Mister Torso The Legless Wonder had a ride - and a great view. And a friend.

The End.

 

Thankfulnessapalooza 2023 - Part Three (of Three)

 

Whose Waves? Floyd's Waves! Photo by Joe

Can he do it, folks? Will he do it? Will Joe come up with ten more things for which he's thankful, this year? Yes! Ah, but will there be any repeats from previous years' lists? Also yes. Sorry. To review, here are links to PART ONE and PART TWO of this year's list. Did anyone notice that in part one, the items were numbered, and in part two they were not? I didn't - until now. Whimsy! Okay, let's wrap this up...

21. Waves. I like waves. Bonus points for waves crashing into things - like jetties, rocks, sea walls, or those WWII-era observation towers that still stand staring at the ocean from the Delaware shore.

One intrepid little pony car, near Port Arthur, TX - Photo by Joe

22. My impractical but oh so sweet little mechanical soul mate. I'd say she's my midlife crisis car, but really that was the car that came before her. She's driven through swamps and train yards and all sorts of places no Camaro should ever see - capably and without complaint.

N&W Class J #611, near Manassas, VA - Photo by Joe

23. As long as we're admiring things in black and white... Trains. I love 'em. I've always lived within earshot of them, and I hope I always will.

24. For all my bitching about my new ELEVEN TIMES LONGER commute, there is a part of it for which I'm thankful - but only when the weather's nice. The walk from DuPont Circle to 23rd Street in DC, mostly by way of N Street. Behold...

Little daycare kiddies, strung together and singing "Baby Shark!" Photo by Joe

Historic Heurich House - Photo by Joe

Alley weirdness. I have questions. Photo by me

Next...

Endangered black-footed selfieferrets - photo by Bingo

Ask me about the Flying Spaghetti Monster

Empty offices have weird shadows - Photo by Joe

25. Weirdness in general. Always on the lookout for it, because it keeps popping up when and where I least expect it. Now more than ever, we could all use a daily dose of weird.

Okay, maybe not THIS empty... Photo by Joe

26. The empty office. What can I say - I got used to it, when in 2020 I suddenly found myself with (more or less) the run of the place. This year, I've readjusted somewhat, as there are people around slightly more often than there were over the preceding three years. Fortunately, when it gets people-y, it tends to be some really swell people. Okay, I'm thankful for the office, just in general. I do wish it was still five minutes away, of course...

Portland Head, Maine - Photo by Joe and [Maris]

27. I'm thankful for lighthouses. That is all.

28. Cartoons. I've preached this for years. Ren & Stimpy, The Simpsons, South Park, Aqua Teen Hunger Force, Family Guy, American Dad, Archer, Home Movies, Bob's Burgers, Futurama... Some of these shows are blessed to have positively brilliant writers and voice actors. We've seen a lot of episodes dozens of times. Granted, they're usually just playing in the background, but there's a certain comfort in hearing Family Guy's "Bag Of Weed" song from the next room - again. These characters are like old friends, and they ask so little of us.

All glory to the Hypnotoad - screen grab from the interwebz

29. Speaking of cartoons - I'm thankful for Hypnotoad. Coolest sound I've ever heard come out of my TV (apart from the clank of Howie Kendrick's go-ahead homer off the foul pole in game 7 of the 2019 World Series) - and those hypnotic EYES. Yeah - he's good enough to make the list twice.

 No, I don't wear them all at once. - Photo by Joe

30. Rings. I don't know why or how, but one led to another and here we are. I figure it's less gross than tattoos or piercings (on me - I'm sure they're fine on you tattoo/piercing people).

Well, look at that, campers! We made it through three posts and thirty things for which I'm thankful, this year. Well-done, you three! Well-done. See you tomorrow...

Mikey Gluesniff: I Had A Dream

 

I was in the dream.

(an excerpt of the journal of Mikey Gluesniff, a hobo who came by his name honestly...)

March 7th, 1937

I had the dream again. Shorter than usual, and deeply unsatisfying. My after-supper glue smelled delicious, but then I got lost. I tried walking. Still lost. My trousers felt heavy, like they were wet, so I knew the old penny farthing was not going to be an option for getting to my brother's wedding in time. That was a shame, because who doesn't love a giant wheel and a tiny second wheel? There were no trains. Anywhere. Trains did not exist. I asked. Everyone looked at me with pity, and shrugged and shook their heads. Except this one old man; he laughed and laughed and repeated "train" over and over, like it was the punchline of his new favorite joke. It started to rain.

When the snow stopped, I left the printing press showroom (no idea how I got there) and went across the street to Pittsburgh, for one of their famous crusts with the bread cut off. They were all out. That girl was there, like she always is - ten years old and dressed for school, lecturing passersby about their oral hygiene and bookkeeping. I could do without the bookkeeping talk, you know? Anyway, I turned around and was a child again, myself. I was sketching my latest yacht design, and when I finished and held it at arm's length, it was a naked lady, and the cops came and took it away. I got dizzy, so I closed my eyes for a minute.

My head hurt. Not like a headache. More like someone was scratching my scalp with nails. I fell down some stairs and went to a humdinger of a party in an abandoned warehouse, thrown by a man nobody knows. There was dancing. Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick was there, but for some reason everyone kept calling her Jane. Someone offered me a smoke and said they knew what trains were. Thank goodness, I said. But I blinked and the fool turned into that goat, again.

Always the goat. 

The goat says I need to lay off the glue.

Manatee The Railyard Toreador vs. East Altoona Hump

Baron Bayonet The Bull-Sticker and Lil' Shorty Longhorn had no business being friends. As his hobo name should indicate, Baron Bayonet was a world-renowned master of the bull ring, stabber of bovine foes from Barcelona to Mexico City. Rather, he would have been world-renowned for the above, were the above not utterly false, but after a hard decade of life along the rails, fantasy was his only true home. He carried his late father's Army bayonet blade from the Great War, now thoroughly rusted and affixed to a stick he found that was astonishingly rifle-shaped. And he told many a tale of his bull ring conquests - all completely fabricated but compelling, and with just enough detail to sound real to the average hobo.

Lil' Shorty Longhorn was indeed short - a mere five-foot two, on tip-toes, but he was feisty, and wore a helmet adorned with an enormous pair of steer horns curling outward nearly two feet to the left and to the right. The helmet was so heavy that he had devised a way to connect it to a makeshift steel harness that fit over his shoulders and extended down to the middle of his back, where a belt was used to secure it to his torso. Most of the time, he just dragged the whole contraption and the headgear behind him. But not today. Today was a day to wear the horns.

Baron and Lil' Shorty had been friends since the moment they met-- okay, not that moment, for in that moment Baron lunged at Lil' Shorty with his trusty bayonet, intending only to give the appearance of stabbing at the diminutive long-horned hobo. But he slipped, and fell into the little man, only failing to stab him because his blade was intercepted by the thick leather belt that held that ridiculous harness in place. A brief scuffle ensued, during which Baron Bayonet apologized profusely, and attempted to explain that it had been an accident, while incurring several impressive defensive longhorn wounds on his hands and forearms. A few moments later, having each realized that the other was completely loony, they were friends. That was 1931, eight years ago - about two years into each man's hobo life. They had been inseparable ever since, hopping trains and working odd jobs when they could, getting into and out of scrapes of all kinds. Surviving.

Today, the oddly-named pair of hoboes was late, hurrying down 6th street on the Juniata side of East Altoona, toward the westbound Pennsylvania Railroad hump and Homer tower. "Hurry up, Shorty," Baron Bayonet shouted from several paces ahead of his longhorn friend. "It's already started - we're missing it!"

"I told you we didn't have time to hit up that church for a handout," Lil' Shorty struggled breathlessly to say.

Baron slowed a bit, allowing Shorty to close the gap between them but not quite to catch up. He thought letting the little guy catch up would sap him of the necessary sense of urgency. "I new it was a gamble, but a hot meal is not your average handout. God bless those Presbyterians. Now come on - we're missing it! Can't you just carry those horns?"

"Not today. Not for Manatee. Gotta wear 'em for the great railyard toreador," Shorty panted. "And whaddaya mean, 'we're missing it?' You can't even see the hump from here."

"I can hear it," Baron declared. "I hear humping. There is definitely humping happening down there, right now. Hurry up!"

Lil' Shorty knew he needed every breath he could get his lungs on, just to keep running, but he couldn't help but laugh. He gestured as if to apologetically tip his horned helmet in the direction of a pair of alarmed-looking women strolling up the sidewalk toward him. They had clearly heard Baron's announcement about the humping, although that was not the cause of their alarm. They gave Shorty a wide berth, scurrying out into the street to avoid his great horns.

"Do be careful with those things, sir," one of them admonished as he clattered past. "You'll put someone's eye out!"

"Oh, yes, sorry," Shorty said sheepishly as he continued down the hill toward the rail yard. He was finally able to rejoin Baron at the end of the block, where a bit of traffic had held him up. "You know," he said breathlessly, "it's a good thing this is a railroad town, or that business about 'I hear humping' would have a totally different meaning."

"Ha. I'm sure you're right."

"And it's Sunday - you could get locked up, talkin' like that."

"These folks know I was talking about pushing train cars over the hump and into the classification yard."

"Well, sure, but that bit about how you could hear it. What does that even mean? Oh wait - I hear it, too!"

Moments later, they reached their destination, an important and oddly magical place in railroading. Trains die and are reborn at the hump. A string of rail cars is pushed over a small hill, and single cars or groups of several at a time are uncoupled as they crest the hump. Then, gravity takes them downhill over a series of switches, sorting them onto about 20 tracks, thus rearranging them into numerous new trains, bound eventually for equally-numerous final destinations. The signature sounds that Baron Bayonet and Lil' Shorty had heard were the pneumatically-powered speed retarders - sections of track with steel brakes that slow the passing rail cars - and the distant banging together of the cars, down in the yard.

Not Altoona, but you get the idea. Pushing coal hoppers over the hump at Cumberland in 1992. Photo by Joe

 

"There he is," Baron observed aloud, his voice equal parts childlike excitement and an abiding reverence. He had seen Manatee The Railyard Toreador once before, in Elkhart, Indiana - but that was a few months before he had met Lil' Shorty Longhorn. Shorty had never seen Manatee, but for over eight years he had heard all about him. He was a living hobo legend, and now there he was - not fifty yards from Shorty and Baron.

"Wow..." they chorused. 

"The only hobo crazier than we are," Baron added.

A few car-lengths downhill from the hump, a tall and sturdy-looking hobo dressed head-to-toe in black and cranberry-colored rags danced among the switches, where the lead came over and branched from one to four tracks. He brandished a patchwork cape of burlap, stained bright red with the juice of holly berries. "Toro, toro!" he barked, olé-ing the cars past him and onward down the hill. He moved back and forth across the tracks with a studied precision, stepping over rails and ties and switch motors and waving his cape as train cars hissed past, often narrowly missing him. He did this with a graceful elegance the average hobo was wholly unaccustomed to witnessing - especially given the terrain underfoot. 

Manatee The Railyard Toreador had been doing some approximation of this performance for fifteen years, since before most yards had mechanical retarders. The act was even riskier back then, as there were some yards where brakemen actually rode the cars halfway down the hill, slowing them with the steel brake wheels and hopping off, at which point they would come back up the hill, sometimes stopping to punch Manatee in the face. But his reputation grew, and he really wasn't causing any trouble, and there developed an unspoken understanding that if he were ever to be killed during his act, it would be no fault of the railroad, and he'd just be buried at the edge of the yard and forgotten.

Lil' Shorty wiped a tear from his eye. "It's just... so beautiful. Look at him go! He moves like a dancer. It's like the cars are hypnotized. See how they follow the cape. They look as if they would go right back up the hill, should he wave them that way."

"Truly a wonder to behold," Baron Bayonet The Bull-Sticker sighed. "Marvelous."

A half-hour more of magic and artistry, and the show was over. Manatee The Railyard Toreador's foot landed just wrong on a piece of ballast, sending it under a rail where it became stuck just long enough to hold the amazing showman in the lethal path of a pair of livestock cars. With a sickening serious of thumps, he was knocked over and run over and more than killed. 

Baron and Lil' Shorty and some railroad employees who had gathered on the hump to watch the show stood for a moment in disbelief, then in sadness - some of them in silent prayer. 

Manatee was buried at the edge of the yard, near the bank of the Juniata River. But he was not forgotten.

How We Remember It

Calling all eastbounds...

Ted sat on the rusted-out former tractor that had languished atop the hill at the western edge of Seneca Farm since 1970.  More accurately, Ted sat on the Washington Post sports section, which he had intelligently placed between the disintegrating machine and himself.  He stared at the railroad tracks, shook his head, and sighed despondently.  A small rock hissed past him and pinged off the far rail of the near track.  He turned with a neck-straining start, knowing whence the projectile had come, but angry at the loss of another ten years of his young life at the hands of his best friend.

"Dammit, Swack!" he protested.

"What's up, loser?"  Brockton Swackhammer stepped out from between two rows of Maryland corn, now nearing seven feet high, and stopped, basking in imagined applause.

"Nothing.  Just contemplating the famous last words of Socrates.  'I drank what?'  Hey - did you bring beer?"

"Don't quote movies at me, dork," Swack admonished. "We're eighteen years old, now.  And no beer.  That dick at Belby's almost called the cops.  I lost my best fake I.D.!"

"Holy shit, dude!  That sucks.  I could've used one - or twelve."

Swack climbed the front of the tractor and sat astride its dusty engine block, facing his friend.  He reached into his jeans pocket.  "Have a Life-Saver, kid.  Wanna talk about it?"

Ted did indeed want to talk about it.  He had spent the past several years spilling his guts to Swack, lamenting one failed date or unrequited crush after another, and somehow, despite his friend's stereotypical jock callousness, it had always made him feel better.  This time, however, the only person with whom he wished to talk about it was Astrid, but as Astrid was sort of dating Swack at the moment, that was out of the question.  So, Ted opted for Plan B.

He tilted his head back to face the weight of the oppressive July evening air. "Swack, do you remember that last night in Santo Domingo?"

Swack stared at Ted for a moment, searching his memory.  "Huh?  Oh, wait.  Yeah.  How could I forget?"

"You could have forgotten.  I've never seen someone drink so much Cuban rum in one day."

"Fair enough - but I remember, and I want 'Inventor of the Mojito' on my tombstone when I die."

Ted rolled his eyes.  "Yes, we know.  We'll take care of it.  But do you remember what the general said to us?"

"You mean the general who was trying to kill us, or the generalissimo?" Brock asked, returning the Life-Savers to his pocket.

"The generalissimo, obviously.  He said no matter what happened, we would be beloved for generations in his country, for what we had done to save the revolution during its darkest hour..."

"He said our pictures would be on their money!" Swack enthused.

"We have to find out if that ever happened, man.  But, do you remember the airport?" Ted asked, turning his head slightly to aim an ear at an approaching eastbound train, rumbling in the distance.

"Oh come on, Ted," Swack groaned.  "I hate this."

"Search your memory, Brockton Swackhammer.  Look in the deepest, darkest corner.  You know.  You remember.  We have to live with it.  It happened, and it's a part of us."

"Don't make it sound like that.  Gross."

"Can you see the guards?  Close your eyes, Swack.  Can you see them?"

Swack mentally rolled his closed eyes.  "Yes, Ted.  I see them.  Now what?"

"They were just kids, man." Ted whispered.  "They were no more than ten or eleven years old.  I mean... what we did..."

Swack jumped to his feet atop the old tractor.  "We did what we had to do!" he insisted. "It was the last plane out!  What choice did we have?  It was us - and the democratic revolution, the very future of San Juanés - or them!  You've got to let it go, man.  Another 24 hours, and the freakin' SOVIETS would have been there, and then God only KNOWS what would have happened."

Ted shook his head.  "There had to have been another way..."

"Dude!  There were lots of other ways, but most of them would have resulted in nuclear winter, or DefCon 1, at best. You're alive.  We're alive.  The world will never know, and that's that.  God, this is exhausting."

"I know, I know.  But I still have the nightmares," Ted sighed.  "Heads up, man.  Train comin'..."

"I know you do, buddy.  I know it.  Just keep living.  'Keep yourself alive.'  Wasn't that the last thing the generalissimo said to us?"

Ted smiled at his lap.  "Yes.  He was nearly drowned out by the growl of those old Pratt and Whitney engines spooling up, but I heard him."

Swack smacked his friend's shoulder.  "Right.  Now let's go get some rocks.  Train's comin'!"

"Keep yourself alive," Ted said.

"Keep yourself alive," Swack affirmed, barely concealing his pride at having kept up with Ted's latest story of lies.  Santo de-what? he thought to himself.


And we're back!  Again!  With the brilliantly-simple prompt of "fib" and/or "lie," from my buds at STUDIO 30 PLUS, I have ever so tentatively returned fingers to keys.  This is the preliminary result.  Hope you like it.



 

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." 

Pantless, Sockless, Shoeless Buster Bareass - On Loss

In my quest to tell the stories of John Hodgman's 700 HOBOES, I have often struggled to find any useful information at all, beyond a name.  Many of these people are nothing more than ghosts.  Interviews of actual hoboes have been helpful, but short of that rare face-to-face meeting, I have found that the best window into the forgotten lives of America's legions of train-riding wanderers is found in the letters a few of them left behind.  

The following letter was found in 1949 in the woods near the Louisville and Nashville tracks, twenty-two miles southwest of Mobile, Alabama.  It was in a glass bottle, clutched in the skeletal remains of a long-dead man - presumably its author - next to a shallow grave marked only with a number of small rocks arranged on the ground in the shape of a cross.  Local authorities had the remains exhumed, and they were able to determine that it was a woman, estimated to have died at least fifteen years prior, probably in her mid-twenties and eight-to-ten weeks pregnant when she perished.  Nearly all of her bones had been broken.

My Dearest Eleanor,

I will try to be brief. I know you hate when I ramble.  I hope I needn't remind you that I view our time together as nothing short of a miracle, but in case you forgot, there it is.  I never believed in soul mates before you stumbled so drunk and pretty into my campfire.  Enough said, I'm sure.

It has been five years, but the only difference between how I feel now and how I felt when it happened is that now, I'm older and more tired.  They said time would heal me.  It hasn't.  They said I could take comfort in knowing that you and the baby are at peace.  I cannot.  And Lord knows I have tried.  They even said I would love again, the fools.  I have not.  I will not.  I cannot.  I love you, and that is all.

I tried to convince myself that it wasn't my fault, that if you couldn't hear the train over the storm, there was no way you could have heard my voice.  I don't know.  I said nothing.  I just stood there, paralyzed and stupid in my disbelief of my own eyes, and it was over.  You were gone.  Our life, ended in a horrible blink.  No, I will not forgive myself this loss.  We knew plenty of losses before this one - my pants and shoes, my watch, your scarves and the photograph of the two of us with the sideshow madam in Cincinnati.  Even the fingers I lost to frostbite were nothing.  I am empty, I am dead, I am lost.

I still wake at night and speak to you, as if you are beside me.  I dream of our baby, always a girl, and she looks just like you.  Every day, I tell you I'm sorry, over and over.  I have returned here twice a year - on your birthday, and on our anniversary, to bring you flowers that I paid for myself. 

And now I think I've cried enough, trying to reach you, and to be where you are.  There was frost all the way down near Pascagoula last night, and it feels just as cold, tonight.  I'll sit with you, sweet Eleanor, and drink all this hobo wine, and I'll pass out, and freeze right to death, right to you.  And we will be happy - you, me and the baby.  I hope you haven't met someone new, where you are.  That would be awkward.  Anyway, if that's the case, I'll have only myself to blame, for not doing this sooner.

I'm sure when they find me, they'll say, "Oh, this poor bum - he had nothing of his own," but I know better.  I'm not a bum.  I am a hobo, and I had everything.  I had you.

With all of me,
Buster

P.S. I didn't freeze to death, and I have a splitting headache.  I'll try again tonight.

This post was written in response to another Studio Thirty Plus writing prompt.  This time, the phrase (He had nothing of his own) comes from one of my own posts, last week's little ditty about Packrat Red And His Cart o' Sad Crap.