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." 

Exit: The Unanswered Question of Timothy

[The following was found in 1937, scrawled in the hieroglyphic patois of the American hobo, on a 3-by-4-foot piece of plywood, in Katy, Texas. I did the best I could to translate it.]


My Dear Brothers,

If you are reading this, I am already dead.  If you are not reading this, I am already dead, just the same.  If you are reading this and I am for whatever reason NOT dead, I apologize, because I fully intended to be dead, by the time you read - or did not read - this.

Anyway... I thought about making a hole in the water, but I couldn't find any, in this dusty wasteland, so I decided to grease the track - to take the hobo shortline.  I wanna say that I'm awful sorry to the crew of the train that hit me, and for the mess I must've made.

So.  I'm dead.  Boo hoo.  Some of you will wonder why.  Was it all too much - the hard days and cold nights and hunger and whatnot? Was it one too many miles on my bad knee, and all that agony? Was I just following in the footsteps of my suicidal parents? Maybe, but there was no way I was going to kill myself with a meat grinder, like my father did, or a puppet, like my dear mama.

You might think it was my gimpy, hooch-rotted liver that drove me to do it. Or maybe I took the easy way out, rather than face Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick, who was mad at me. You might think I just wanted the attention. Another good reason could be the lifetime of bullying I've endured, at home, in school, and on the road. I'm sure somebody out there thinks my fear of beans must've had something to do with it. Of course, my poor broken heart should come to mind as a motivation for my suicide.

But the real reason might surprise you. I chose to grease the tracks because-- hang on. 

Sorry. I hear the westbound comin' for me. I'm so sorry.

-T

The Unanswered Question of Timothy is not buried here. No hoboes are buried here.

Another fun writing prompt from STUDIO 30-PLUS. This time, it was PATOIS. Also, please note that the hobo names used herein come from John Hodgman's list of 700 hobo names, from his brilliant almanac, The Areas Of My Expertise. More about that, HERE.




 

 

Ambidextrous Stang: Is This Your Lint?

The stories one can hear at the nursing home, if one is willing...

Herbert Stangle, either 98 or 100 years old, told me a little bit about his life.  I was wearing a t-shirt bearing the sleeping cat logo of the Chessie System Railroad, and he brightened considerably when he saw me.  At first, I assumed that that was because he was mistaking me for a loved one, perhaps one of his grandsons, but after five solid minutes of TRAINS, TRAINS, TRAINS, I knew better.

"You know what a hobo is?" he asked me, his voice strong, but full of either 98 or 100 years of grit and gravel.

HA!  Do I know what a hobo is.

"I dropped out of high school and left home in 1931, and I became a hobo..."

"Uh oh," I interrupted. "Your parents?"

"What about 'em?" he coughed.

"Were they, you know, alive when you left?"

He looked at me as if I might have been one of those therapy dogs that frequently visited him.  "Alive?  Of course they were alive - well, my ma was.  What's wrong with you, son?"

"Nothing.  I just... I've heard some stories about hoboes, and their parents often meet the most awful fates."

"Mine didn't. My pop died of a heart attack when I was a baby, and my ma raised me.  She worked hard, and gave me and my sister a fine childhood. She was my hero."

"Sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have assumed. So, why did you leave, then?"

"The smell."

"The smell?"

"Yes. Pop was in the ice box in the garage, and when it broke down and Ma couldn't afford to get it fixed, I tell you, he stunk like hell on earth. I couldn't stand to live there for another minute."

I nodded sympathetically. "Of course."

He continued. "Out on the road, some fellas survived by their wits, some by their brawn, others by sheer luck."

"How did you survive?"

"By sleight of hand, mostly," he sighed. "I did magic tricks - cards and shell game stuff - and a lot of pickpocket work.  They called me Ambidextrous Stang, I was so good."

"Are  you ambidextrous?"

"Nope. Just really, really good at misdirection. I tried to only steal what I needed, but it was a kind of addiction. After a while, I couldn't stop.  I stole watches and lint and wallets, pocket change, cigarettes - you name it. One time, I lifted a hundred-ounce can of kidney beans from a hobo's bindle. Got away clean, too."

"That's impressive. How'd you do it?"

The old man got quiet and stared at the arm of his wheelchair for so long, I was sure he had passed away, right there in front of me. Then, he drew a long, rattly, 98- or 100-year old breath. "The trick is to make your mark's brain focus somewhere else - away from the item you're trying to lift from him. I put my hand on his shoulder and left it there - too long to be polite - and squeezed it too much. He never knew what hit him."

"Wow. Did you ever get caught?"

"Oh, young man - I got busted all the time. It was just part of the game. In the 30s and 40s, it was easy. A night in the clink, a shower, a hot meal, and off you went. It started to change in the 50s. The hoboes were dying off, or going back to the world, and people got less... tolerant." His voice trailed off.

I sensed that he was tired, but maybe too polite or too lonely to stop, but I was searching for some sort of conclusion to his tale. "So, did you stop with the pickpocket stuff? Go back to the real world, or what?"

"I did not. I tried to. Got a job building the Class J's for the Norfolk and Western - most elegant locomotives this country ever produced - but I couldn't break the habit.  In Roanoke one night, I stole a man's jeweled wristwatch, got busted, and spent the next twenty-five years in and out of prison. The hobo life was a breeze, compared to those years. I got out for good in 1975, and got a job doing card tricks on the boardwalk in Ocean City, Maryland. Then the 80s and those video game arcades came along - and that damnable Ripley's Believe It Or Not, and I sort of just... gave up.  Been in this dump ever since - going on thirty years, now. I think they're mad at me for living this long."

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing for a few minutes. After a while, I thanked him for sharing his story. I stood up and shook his frail 98- or 100-year old hand. He smiled kindly and chuckled to himself as I turned to leave.

"Young man?" he said. "Is this your lint?"

I turned back and found him grinning happily, holding my iPhone in a trembling hand.

"Thanks," I said, fighting the urge to be annoyed, and patting my wallet in its pocket, just to be sure.

"No, no, son. Thank you!" he said.

N&W Class J #611 - Photo by Joe Scott, 1992

Another prompted story, thanks to John Hodgman and his marvelous hobo names, and STUDIO 30-PLUS, and their "sleight of hand" prompt.

If Your House Is Afire -or- I Loved "The Money Pit"

Mr. Goren nearly tore the door from its frame as he exploded into the office.  "Assistant Headmistress!  Assistant Headmistress!"

"Albert, how many times do I have to remind you," Mrs. Tyson sighed, "my title is Vice-Principal, and you should just go ahead and call me Anne, like everyone else does."

"Sorry, Ma'am - I mean, Anne.  Old habits from home, I suppose.  And I apologize for bursting in like this, but the school is on fire!"

"On fire?  Where?  Why isn't the alarm going off?"

"Not sure about the alarm, Ma'am, but I smelled smoke in my room, and when I went into the hall, several teachers told me they could see smoke coming from the old wing."

Anne Tyson sprang from her faux leather Vice-Principal's chair. "Pull the alarm manually, and evacuate the school!  Do it now!"

"Hold on a second, Anne," Mr. Walker said, striding into the office with his gut sucked in as far as it would go. "If we evacuate the kids in the middle of final exams, every test will be voided, and they'll have to start over - and that means a day will have to be added to the academic calendar."

Mrs. Tyson blinked at Walker impatiently.  "And?"

"And, and that will be expensive - and mess with everyone's summer holiday plans."

Miss Saguin, Mr. Williams, and Mrs. Nigh burst through the office door.  "The school's on fire!" they chorused.

"It's not on fire," Walker insisted. "Mr. Williams just wants to buy an extra day of exam prep for his slow kids. Besides, if there was a fire, it would have set off the alarm."

Ms. Maher entered the room. "I think the school's on fire," she declared calmly. "I saw smoke - a lot of it - coming from the old wing. We need to evacuate the children."

"The old wing," Mrs. O'Really scoffed as she joined the group, "that figures. I guarantee you - this fire was set by that wretched Jimmy Humanus. That kid's a damn pyromaniac."

"It's definitely a fire," confirmed Mr. Cooper, following O'Really into the office, "I saw the smoke, and I'm pretty sure I saw flames coming from the art rooms - but there's no way that the Humanus boy started it.  My money's on the crumbling ancient wiring in this old tinderbox."

"That's stupid," sneered Miss Saguin. "The afternoon sun heats those old wing rooms so dramatically in the spring.  I'll bet it was enough to ignite all that paint and turpentine, on its own.  Natural causes, all the way."

"No way - it was Jimmy Humanus, hands-down."

"It's not even a fire, guys.  I didn't see a bit of smoke," Mr. Walker said, rolling his eyes. "You guys need to stop babbling like it's the end of the world."

More teachers entered, and several called in on their room-to-room intercoms.  All of them reported smoke, or fire, or both.

Mrs. Tyson smacked her desk with both hands.  "Hush! If the school is on fire--"

"It's not," Mr. Walker sniffed.

"If it is - if there's a chance that there's even the smallest fire - then we get everyone out, period.  We can argue about whose fault it is, or how much it cost us, or whether there ever was a danger - after the kids are out.  Go! Now!"

That argument never happened. 

White Chapel, VA - Photo by Joseph Scott

This week, I combined two writing prompts. My friends at Studio30Plus wanted some BABBLE, while the Light & Shade Challenge gang wanted an EXTENDED METAPHOR.  The babbling was easy, but I'm not sure how this stacks up as an extended metaphor.  Hopefully, it works.  Thanks for reading!

Pride Goeth: The Song Of Jeremiah Tip Top

Jeremiah Tip Top never had much.  As a child in the 1920s, he wore ratty clothes, had about two halfway decent meals a week, and was constantly on the move.  When his traveling salesman father, a single parent, met his untimely demise in the form of an escaped roadside-zoo ocelot, fourteen-year old Jeremiah became a hobo.  He wore ratty clothes, had about two halfway decent meals a week, and was constantly on the move.

He learned quickly the ways of the road, and embraced the life of the transient in search of employment.  After seven years of wandering and working and having nothing, he obtained a single unopened stick of Wrigley's spearmint gum.  That day was the happiest he had ever known.  A hobo with gum and temporarily minty-fresh breath was a rarity in the early 1930s, and Jeremiah's heart swelled with pride, and he chewed his gum with great gusto.

Five years later...

"Jeremiah, for the love of all that's holy,"  Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick snapped, "if you don't stop cracking that damnable gum, I swear I'm gonna--"

"Stab me?" Jeremiah suggested. "Stab me quick?"

"I'll do it, smarty.  You've already had more warning than most.  Just stop."

"I can't help it."

"Yes you can."  Ol' Barb stopped, quickly dragged a tattered sleeve across her sweaty brow, and shook her head at Jeremiah.  "Yes, you have gum.  We're all very impressed.  Chew it quietly, please, or I'll murder you in your sleep, take your stupid old gum, and use it to patch one of the holes in my shoe."

"I believe that you'd kill me without a second thought," Jeremiah said, "but don't you dare take my gum.  Do you have any idea how long I've had this gum?"

"Oh, for Pete's sake - yes!  Everyone you've met in the past five years knows exactly how long you've been chomping on that stuff."

"Five years, two months, sixteen and a half days.  I've never once taken it out of my mouth, since the day I traded all my lint for it," he declared proudly.  He reached down and pulled at his left trouser leg until a gnarly scar on his shin was visible.  "See this?  I got shot for my Wrigley's spearmint!  Every hobo dreams of having a stick of gum.  I didn't give it up, though.  I got away, and just kept chewing..."

Ol' Barb produced a large, dirty hunting knife from somewhere on her person, and brandished it at Jeremiah.

"Okay, okay. I'll chew quietly," he said, backing up a few steps.  "You're just jealous.  Everyone's always been jealous of my gum.  I can't say I blame you.  Chewing gum is what separates us from the animals, you know."

"Do you know what hubris is, Mr. Tip Top?" Barb asked.

"Nope.  Don't need to.  I have gum."

They camped that night in the woods.  Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick did not stab Jeremiah Tip Top, but he did die in his sleep.

He choked on his gum.


Ta-DAH! Two weeks in a row! STUDIO 30-PLUS prompt "Hubris and/or conceit."  Thanks for reading!

Conclave: The Indictment of Waldorf and Statler

Chairman:  The Council will come to order.  We are here convened this 22nd day of February, in the year of our lord 2015 to indict the accused here before us--

Joe:  Objection!

Chair:  You may not object, sir.  This is not a trial.

Joe:  Then what's this business about indicting us?  Don't you mean something more like, "to consider the indictment of?"  Plus - 2015, I can assure you, is NOT a lord's year.

Chair:  Oh, Mister Scott.  So cute.  Rest assured that by the end of these proceedings, even you would have no choice but to indict you.  And don't mess with "in the year of our lord."  The lord is bigger than the both of us.  Now, sit down.

Joe:  Whoa - what happened to the separation of church and state?

Chair (shaking head, laughing):  Oh, Mister Scott, Mister Scott, Mister Scott.  They were right; you are funny.  

Joe:  Whatever.  I have to admit that it will be nice to finally get to hear the crime of which we are accused.

Chair:  Indicted.

Joe:  Not yet!

Chair:  It's a foregone conclusion.

Joe:  Seriously?

Chair:  Yes.

Joe:  Okay.  To reiterate, and with all due respect to the Council - which is no respect at all - whatever.

Clerk:  You are hearby formally charged with doing it wrong.

Joe:  You spelled hereby wrong.

Clerk:  What?

Joe:  It's spelled h-e-r-e-b-y, not--

Clerk:  Sir, I am speaking.  There is no spelling - right or wrong.

Joe:  It sounded misspelled, to me.

Clerk:  Shut up.

Chair:  Okay, okay.  Order, please.  Let's get this over with.  I have a 1:30 tee time.

Joe:  And I have to meet [Maris] at Dogfish Head while it's still happy hour.

Chair:  Count One.  It has been reported that you and [Maris] - if that is her real name...

Joe:  It's not.

Chair:  Anyway... Count One - you finish each other's sentences.

Joe:  Millions of people do that.

Chair:  You finish each other's weird sentences.  When you first started dating, it was cute.  Almost two decades later, it's annoying.  No one else gets it.

Joe:  Weird?  Weird how?

Vice-Chair:  On December 19th, 2014, speaking about the disastrous roll-out of your employer's new lockbox vendor, you said, "It's not like I was expecting  this process to be all..." and [Maris] immediately said, "rainbow sparkle purple bunny pancakes."

Joe:  Yes.  I remember that.  Friday night.  Shots, chips, salsa, and venting.

Chair:  And you knew what she meant?

Joe:  Of course.  She was finishing my sentence.

Chair:  You were going to say "rainbow sparkle purple bunny pancakes?"

Joe:  How else would I finish that sentence?  I'd say Count One is kind of bogus, sir.

Chair:  Moving on.  Count Two:  Hand-holding, especially in public venues.

Joe:  Seriously?  Hand-holding?  We don't do that.

Vice Chair places a twenty-by-thirty inch mounted print on an exhibit easel:

Busted.  Photo by Mary Wiecek, Joe's favorite sister.

Joe:  You can't prove that's us. 

Chair:  And you do it all the time.  You're both way too old for such displays.  Count Three:  We have obtained the following testimony from a Mr. Godfrey O. Ozzenbarq III - if that is is real name:

"Truth Be Told... you and Curvy Scott do dig each other, do still duck in and talk low and witty and flirty and mocking (who wouldn't mock my hat, wrist-sandals or homemade Raisinets?), and are not in the least sick of each other's clammy lighthouse stink... even after your coastal historical structure search and kinky spike-booted dominatrix submission sessions (by J.Mac) in seedy, "independently operated" Texas and Florida bed bug farms.  We, the other 2 peeps who like each other, We Salute You.  (Cue cannon fire etc.)"

Joe:  It is not real name, and that's not testimony - that's an email!  You hacked my email!  Can you produce a warrant for that invasion of my privacy?

Chair:

Joe:  I didn't think so.  Maybe you're the one who deserves an indictment.

Vice-Chair:  YOU'RE an indictment!

Chair:  Order!  Order!  One more.  Count Four:  It has been said that you and [Maris] do not work at your marriage.  Marriage is hard work.  There's fighting.  You complain about each other. You argue.  You compromise.  You two, it seems, do none of that.  It's lazy.  It's offensive to the rest of us, out here putting in the work to keep it together, and it's just plain wrong. 

Joe:  I refuse to accept that that is a crime, and I will not apologize for it.  We can't help it.  Life's too short, and we really just don't have the time or patience for all of that.  I am on her side, and she's on mine.

Chair:  Council?  All in favor of indictment?

Council (in unanimous unison):  Aye.

Joe:  Aw, nuts.



It's been a while.  This comes in belated response to the writing prompt Conclave and/or Council, from my writer friends at STUDIO 30 PLUS.
 

Saving Punxsutawney Pete

This is neither Phil, nor Pete.

On this Groundhog Day, 2015, we are all quite fed-up with Punxsutawney Phil, the prognosticating groundhog of seasonal change, who makes his home in Gobbler's Knob and who - let's be honest - wouldn't know his shadow if it reached up and bit him.  He supposedly saw his shadow, this morning, which, according to legend, means six more weeks of winter - as opposed to an early spring.  I won't bother you with the boring fact that winter officially ends seven weeks from now anyway, because the whole exercise is supposed to be fun.  I do have a problem, just on principle, with the fact that it could be pouring rain during a total eclipse of the sun, and that furry little f**ker would still "see" his shadow.  Whatever, Phil. There are 17 more days until the REAL turning point.

This is not a story about Punxsutawney Phil.  This is about his predecessor.  For decades before Phil took over in 1952, the prognosticating job belonged to Punxsutawney Pete.  Obviously, since captive groundhogs typically don't live much longer than ten years or so, there were many Petes.  

Only one, as far as we know, was stolen by a hobo.

It happened on February 2nd, 1936.  The Inner Circle had proclaimed that Pete, having seen his shadow, was predicting six more weeks of what had already been an especially cold, icy winter.  But there was a problem.

Late that morning, Nicknameless Norris Shine, the local hobo, was passing through.  He regularly wandered the rails between Youngstown and Scranton, so to the citizens of Punxsutawney, he was "local."  He helped at the freight depot when he could, and made a point of looking after the youngsters in town, and was treated with much more respect than the average feckless rail-rider of his day.  Norris happened upon the gentlemen of the Inner Circle on the bank of Mahoning Creek Lake, near the east end of the train yard.  They were arguing over the best way to kill their famous groundhog, given the fact that the frozen state of the creek had rendered drowning impossible.

After a heated debate, it was decided that Mayor Aldous D'Zmjcka, since his house was closest, would fetch his rifle.  The rest of the Inner Circle accompanied him, leaving only one man, young Heiko "Bud" Niederlenten, to mind the wood-and-wicker clothes hamper that contained poor Pete.

Nicknameless Norris Shine shambled out of the woods.  "Say, Bud," he called, "what's going on?"

Bud knew Norris.  Everyone did.  They liked him, too.  They just never bothered to give him a nickname.  "Huh?  Oh, hey there, Norris. Don't sweat it, fella. Let's just say it's time for a new Pete. This one's... this one's, uh, maybe a little bit rabid, or something. Gotta put him down. You probably ought to move along."

Norris hated being lied to.  "I heard what the Circle was saying, and the one word I didn't hear was 'rabies.'"

"This don't concern you, man," Bud said. "Suppose you just keep walking, okay?"

Norris shook his head. "You know, if I thought that critter had rabies, or was lame or suffering in the slightest, I'd dispatch him for you and feel fine about it.  But if I heard you fellas right - and I know I did - ol' Pete ain't rabid at all. So if you don't mind, I'll just be relieving you of custody of the little guy." He strode purposefully up to Bud and reached for the hamper.

Bud Niederlenten grabbed Norris' arm. "I can't let you do that, friend. This guy saw a shadow, today..."

"So?  That's his job, ain't it?"

"So... It wasn't his shadow. It was the shadow of some kind of bird."

"Say what?"

"This animal cast some other animal's shadow, and it's got the old-timers in the Circle spooked something awful, so this accursed varmint has to be put down."

Norris snorted. "That has to be the dumbest thing I've ever--" he snatched the hamper from Bud, used it to shove the young man halfway across the frozen creek on his ass, and sprinted off into the woods.  He headed east, but kept to the wooded creekside, knowing the men of the Inner Circle would be all over the train tracks.  He didn't stop until after noon, as he approached the village of Big Run.  

The barking - of men as well as hounds - had faded into the distance. He sat on a dead tree by the creek, opened the hamper, and looked inside.  Punxsutawney Pete glared up at him.

"I don't care what kind of shadow you threw this morning, pal. You don't deserve to die, and you shouldn't have to live in a cage and get hauled by the scruff of your neck out of a sound sleep and held up in front of a bunch of hooting drunks, once a year. You are a smart and handsome fellow, and--"

The groundhog sprang up and bit Nicknameless Norris Shine on the thumb, instantly drawing blood.  "Ow!  Goddammit!" the hobo shrieked.

Pete scampered across the frozen surface of the creek, stopped and stood on his hind feet, and glanced over his shoulder at the human who had freed him. He sniffed twice, then turned and raced to the far bank, and disappeared into a thicket of holly and pine.

Despite the cold, burning pain in his thumb and the knowledge that he would now have to find a new stomping ground, Norris felt good about himself, and about what he had done for Pete.

Almost five weeks later, as central Pennsylvania enjoyed an extremely early, warm spring, the kindly hobo with no nickname died of rabies, in a barn on the outskirts of Wilkes-Barre.
  

This bit of drivel was prompted by - guess who - my friends at STUDIO 30-PLUS, who this week gave us FECKLESS.  Hoboes... Groundhogs... feckless...  It practically wrote itself!