Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick's Search for Love

Dewy White Flower, by [Maris] - Louisa, KY 1997

"What about Knee-Brace Kenny," Laura Delite suggested.  "He seems positively smitten with you, Barb."

Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick scoffed.  "I don't even want to dignify that with a response.  You're lucky I don't--"

"Stab me?" Laura said.  "I mean, stab me again?"

"You know me so well.  Look - Kenny's very sweet, but he's just a boy.  I need a man.  A real man.  Plus, knee braces give me the willies something awful."

"Well, how about Magnetized James?  He's a man's man.  All the lady hoboes think he's a dream."

"Oh Laura, be serious," Barb groaned.  

"I am being serious," she insisted.  "You two made a swell couple.  Everyone said so."

"Oh, I know," Barb admitted, "but we had no future together.  The man is magnetized, you know.  Anything I had that was metal - my fork, my cans, my knives - they all stuck to him.  Once, I was about to stab this yard cop, and James got too close to me and ZAP!  There went my trusty stabbin' knife.  Cut him pretty bad.  Again."  She shook her head.  "No.  No future."

"Yes, I remember that story.  I felt bad.  If he weren't magnetic, it might have worked out."

"And don't even say Ironbelly Norton," Barb cautioned.

Laura Delite laughed.  "Oh, I wasn't going to bring him up, honey.  'Yes, Norton - you can eat gravel and newspapers and dead frogs, and not even throw up or anything.  We're all very impressed.  Isn't there anything else you can talk about?'"

"He was such a braggart," Barb nodded, looking down at the Louisville and Nashville trackbed as she walked.

"Say, how about Huge Crybaby McWeepy?" Laura proposed.  "He took a shine to you the minute he saw you."

Ol' Barb laughed loudly.

"What?  So he cried.  Most fellas cry when they get stabbed by a gorgeous blue-eyed dame from the road - or by anyone, for that matter."

"It's not just that he cried," Barb countered.  "But he's an ugly crier."

"An ugly crier?  Oh come now - who's not just a little bit ugly when they cry?"

"He looks like a circus clown when he cries.  So, no ma'am.  I think I'll pass on Mr. McWeepy."

"You're impossible," Laura said.  "You can't be so choosy, out here.  How about Stool-Sample Frank?  He's nice.  Tall, handsome, great smile, seems strong and kind."

"He's always trying to sell me a stool.  I'm a hobo.  What am I going to do with a stool, for goodness' sake?  And if I could afford a stool, would I be out here walking from town to town looking for work picking crops and cleaning stables?  No.  You're welcome to him."

Laura thought for a moment.  "No, you're right.  I forgot how hard he tried to sell those stools.  You'd be better off marrying No-Banjo Burnes."

"Ha!  The only man I ever failed to stab, and dare I say, he scared me, just a little.  I had nightmares of being beaten in my sleep with that rusty old banjo."

"If only you hadn't--"

"Don't."  Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick stopped in her tracks.  More accurately, she stopped in the L&N's tracks.  Either way, she stopped.  "Don't say his name."

His name was Shane Stoopback, and Barb had loved him, once.  He didn't love her back, and it made her as irrational as a schoolgirl with her first crush.  He ran from her, he hid from her, he begged her to leave him alone.  One night, she saw him sitting by his fire, singing a soft, pretty song to some woman she didn't know.  In a blind, jealous rage, she stabbed him to death.  The other woman ran off and hadn't been seen since.

"Have you ever considered trying not stabbing people?  It might help..."

"Never mind, Laura.  Some gals just ain't meant to find love.  I'm coming around to it.  I'm learning that it's not in the cards, for me.  I'll never find love, and that's just how it's going to be.  Thank God I have you, though."  She took her best friend's hand, and they continued west toward Memphis, into a hazy orange setting sun.

You silly woman, Laura thought.  Love has already found you.  You just don't see it, yet.  But so help me, you will.

Once again, I wrote in response to a wonderful prompt, "He's an ugly crier," excerpted from fellow STUDIO 30-PLUS blogger LM Leffew's elegant post THE KING IS DEAD.  Check it out.  She's really good!



 

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!

Monkey's-Paw Patterson's Final Wish

 

I wish it weren't so dark in there-- no, wait!

Nope, nope, nope, thought Matthew "Matty-Patty" Patterson. I'm not falling for that, again. He frowned at his lucky monkey's paw - now 90 percent disintegrated - and dropped it into his ratty overcoat pocket. I'll take my chances with this dank old tunnel. "Not yet, paw..."

In December of 1934, after four years of unemployed, train-hopping hopelessness and near-starvation, Monkey's-Paw Patterson had only one wish remaining on his monkey paw. He had been about to waste his fifth and final* monkey paw wish in order to illuminate the interior of the Catoctin tunnel - which, if we're being honest (which we ARE), isn't long enough to require interior illumination - when he remembered the old fortune teller's admonition from three years prior. The rules were literally set in stone (somewhere): Thou shalt not wish for additional wishes, and thou shalt be wary of that for which thou wishes (wisheth?).

Monkey's-Paw Patterson's hobo-ing companion, Hell's Own Breath Hinkley stopped momentarily. "What?" he asked.

 "What what?" Patterson replied, hoping that he wasn't about to embark on an infinite feedback loop of "whats."

"Thought you said something - 'Not yet, pa?' Something like that?"

"Oh - yeah," Patterson laughed. "Sorry. Just thinking out loud again, I suppose. Almost used my monkey's paw to light up this tunnel, but I only got one wish left, and I ain't wasting it on that."

Hell's Own Breath Hinkley nodded in the semi-darkness. "Smart. Say - that thing ever really work?" He heard the sad sound of Matty Patterson's bum left foot as it dragged, zombie-style, across the railroad ties, occasionally sending a piece of ballast gravel skittering ahead of them - and he cringed.

"Well, yes and no, pal. It kind of works, but there's always some awful gotcha. First thing I did when I got it was wish for my parents to not be dead. They died of infected pigeon scratches, in the bird war..."

"No kidding? That's terrible," Hinkley said, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder.

Patterson continued. "Yeah, and I just wanted to say goodbye and tell 'em I loved 'em. So I took the paw to their grave and made my wish, and sure enough, the ground shook and split open and out they popped. They weren't dead - but they weren't really alive, either. They growled and lunged at me, and bit me on my foot as I struggled with them. I barely got away in one piece. My poor foot ain't been the same since."

"That's horrible," Hinkley said, inadvertently launching an invisible cloud of hell's own breath in the direction of Patterson.

Monkey's-Paw Matthew gagged. "Oh, God - Hinkley! You're killing me!"

"Sorry."

"Anyway," he coughed, "My second wish was so simple, I thought it was a sure bet. I was hung-over something awful, after a night of drinking hobo wine, and I had the kind of headache that makes you think dying might be better. I wished for that headache to go away, and POOF! Gone in an instant."

"...And?" prodded Hinkley, remembering to cup his hand in front of his mouth. "What was the catch?"

"My guts pretty much exploded out my backside - right then and there, and for the rest of the morning. I would have had to rally just to die."

"Good Lord!"

"Damn right," Monkey's-Paw growled. "So, my third wish was wished in the heat of the moment. Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick was fixin' to stab me - quick - so I wished for her to, you know, not stab me."

"That musta turned out okay," Hinkley said. "I mean, you're still here, ain't ya?"

"Oh sure, pal. She didn't stab me, no siree. She hit me with a hammer, instead. I think she probably fractured my skull. Took a half-dozen other 'boes to get her off me."

"You sure have had it rough, my friend. It's hard enough being a hobo, these days. Maybe you should throw that paw away. Sounds like it's more curse than blessing."

Patterson sighed heavily. "I might, I might. The fourth one was insulting. I'm telling you - it was just plain mean."

"What was wish number four?"

"Well - you know about my bum foot, right - on account of my undead old man biting me?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, that's not the foot that got bit. He bit my right foot. That was the gimpy one. So, I wished for it to go back to normal, and boy, did it ever! And just as quick - the left one went bad. It might even be worse than the right one had been. So, yeah. I gotta be real careful with this last wish..."

"You're a little slow on the uptake, ain't ya?" Hell's Own Breath Hinkley said absently. 

"Watch it, bub."

"Oh don't get sore with me - it's almost Christmas. And besides, you really should've learned your lesson by the second wish. So, what are you thinking for number five?"

"I don't think I'm supposed to tell anyone," Patterson semi-lied, having not been given that specific instruction. "Come on - it's getting dark. We better get camped, and get a fire lit..."

Late that night, with Hell's Own Breath Hinkley snoring stinkily away by the fire, Matthew Patterson stepped quietly to the edge of the firelight, removed the decomposing monkey's paw from his coat pocket, rubbed it gently, and began to wish. I'm begging you, paw - please make this Depression better. I want to work. I want a roof over my head. I want to see a doctor when I need one. I want to eat real food. I want everyone else to have these things. Please, please, please fix our broken country. I don't need the twenties back - the twenties weren't great for regular folk like me, anyway - I just wish we could all get well, okay? Not great. We'll take care of great. Just... fixed. Please?

A few days later, trudging through Hagerstown, Maryland, Monkey's-Paw Patterson saw a discarded newspaper. Its top two headlines: "America's Recovery Making Steady Progress Under 'New Deal,' and "Nazi Party's Swift Rise Alarms European Leaders."

"Well, hell," Patterson muttered. "I tried."

 

*We are well aware of the fact that W.W. Jacobs said the monkey's paw would grant three wishes, but we think that's dumb, on account of monkeys having FIVE digits, and the number of wishes corresponds to the digits and that's that. End of discussion.

Solid First Draft Patton Taylor, For The 394th Time...

Solid First Draft. One of TWELVE. Photo by Joe

I'm often asked by no one whether any of John Hodgman's 700 Hoboes had aspirations beyond mere survival. Of course they did! They may be fictitious, ridiculously-monikered caricatures, but they're only human. They had hopes and dreams, just like everyone else. For example, the Apron brothers - Leather, Lead, and Foil - were on the verge of striking it rich, licensing their three lines of aprons to Macy's of New York in 1928, when their own attorney stole their design specs and business plan, and presented the whole scheme to Macy's as his own. This kind of thing happens every day - to this day. Humans are apex predators.

Patton Taylor's future was not stolen by predation. His future was euthanized by the Great Depression and his own abject neglect. 

His life began in miraculous, tragic fashion, in a humble two-bedroom ranch-style house in Gary, Indiana. His father, a longshoreman, helped deliver him and his stillborn twin on New Year's Eve, 1900. He was different from the start - smart, but sensitive, insecure and oddly angry at the world. By the time he graduated high school in 1917, he had developed a way with words. He could write. He found it simultaneously impossibly challenging and the easiest, most natural activity, and he was never without one of his notebooks, which he filled with observations, character sketches, and all manner of stories. His father, his few friends, and virtually all of his classmates derided his hobby as pointless, self-serving, impractical, and somehow unmasculine. It would never make him a good factory worker, longshoreman, or businessman, so it was utter folly. Over time, he developed callouses on his psyche. 

This protective layer of hardness was just enough to enable him to, over the span of the next decade, produce a dozen first drafts of novels. He and a couple of trusted friends thought two or three of them might have even had potential. Life, as it often does, got in the way of any fledgling plans for publication of these stories, and they lived as a heavy, handwritten family of untapped potential, in a canvas bag that Patton carried everywhere. In November of 1929, he lost his job as a stableman at the Gary Trolley Company, and joined the ranks of America's unemployed, spending his days queued up for scarce day jobs, queued up for cups of soup and crusts of jagged bread, and queued in the long, long line awaiting death and/or salvation. 

His parents died within two months of each other, in early 1930. His mother, a waitress in a speakeasy, was crushed by an illegal barrel of hooch. Patton's father, profoundly distraught, but stalwartly standing in line for work on the docks, was struck in the head by a homemade baseball, a wayward foul off the bat of a thirteen-year old playing stickball on the street. He died less than instantly. These were, as such events often are, the final straws, for Patton. He packed up his novels and all his portable worldly possessions and hit the road, searching for work and belonging and a way forward. Within months, he was a card-carrying (which here means stick-and-bindle-carrying) citizen of Hobo Nation. 

He walked the rails, hopped trains, got chased by man and dog alike, spent nights in jails, spent nights in churches, bartered with lint and whatever possessions he could carry, and survived. Both of you dear readers - and you, New Reader, can fill in the blanks. The hobo as we know him is not devoid of honor. He wanders homeless across the miles, always seeking whatever work he can find, but not too proud to accept the charity of strangers. He can tell a Mikado locomotive from a Pacific, by the sound of its whistle, two miles away. There's a hobo code, and he sticks to it as best as he can. It's not an easy life, but it is a life. And life is life.

This hobo, who quickly earned the moniker "Solid First Draft Patton Taylor," walked the rails of the Chicago and Northwestern, Illinois Central, and Baltimore and Ohio railroads throughout the 30's - his thirties - and came to be known as a capable and resourceful hobo. He helped his fellow 'bo, shared when he had enough to share (and even sometimes when he hadn't enough), embraced any work that he was offered, and kept walking - all the while carrying with him a dozen novels, his pride and joy and shame. 

One night, outside the Western Ohio Hobo Jamboree and Hootenanny in Eaton, in a weak, inebriated moment, he showed his work to Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick. He figured that if, upon perusing his manuscripts, she failed to haul off and stab him quick[ly], then maybe - just maybe - his writing might have a smidgen of merit.

Ol' Barb had many gifts. Okay, she only had one that anyone knew of - her propensity for quickly up and stabbing people. Unbeknownst to her hobo brethren until this night was her gift for reading - speedreading, actually. She skimmed his earliest work, "Tiny Scars," about his childhood in the terrible Gary Indiana public school system, and his survival thereof. She plowed through "Worcestershire In The Embalming Fluid" and its sister novel, "Sand In The Worcestershire In The Embalming Fluid." Zombies - yuck. "Falling Off The Universe" had potential; she loved the characters and the outer space stuff, but it needed work. Then came "Buck Mope Catches The Westbound," about a pair of young lovers and their hundred-year old hobo friend. Again - potential. Ol' Barb would never, ever admit it, but she shed a little stabby tear over this one. 

Next, in rapid succession, she zipped through "Bane's Existence" - hmm... ghost romance is complicated - and "Undead Drunk" (zombies, but funny), and "Party At Ground Zero" - what the heck is "ground zero," Patton? She soldiered on through "Plan Nine From Inner Space," which felt like a fever dream. No one wants to read someone else's dream, let alone someone else's fever dream. Things picked up around 4:30am, as Ol' Barb dug into "Milo And The Art Of Nodus Tollens." She shook her head at Patton and declared that he was indeed not at all a hobo, but a writer. As dawn broke and her eyelids grew heavy, she speed-read "Back To Somewhere Else," and repeated her conclusion. "Why haven't you published these, you lunkhead?"

"I don't care for rejection letters," he deadpanned.

"Write one for me."

"What? Why?" he asked.

"Because you can, and I asked you to. Also if you don't, I'll stab you..."

"Quick?"

"SO quick," she affirmed

A month later, he showed her his newest creative effort, "Songs From Later," and she became slightly sad. "Okay, it's not great, but even this one can be polished up into a real gem. Listen to Ol Barb - if you hit .300 over a ten-year baseball career, you're going to be in the Hall Of Fame. You got a dozen of these things, and three or four of 'em got potential. That's around .300, You're the Hall Of Fame player who never tried out for the team..."

"I'm just a hobo who makes up stories, is all," Patton sighed. "It's okay if no one ever hears 'em."

She shook her head. "No siree. You are a goddamn writer. Don't make me tell you again."

"Big deal," he said, fully cognizant of the risk he was taking by talking back to the infamous Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick. "I'm still just a hobo."

"You have a ticket out of this life, my friend. Use it. You've bought the ticket; take the ride. Maybe the ride goes nowhere, sure. But maybe - just perhaps - it takes you to better worlds. You wanna die trackside in the cold gravel, with an unused ticket your pocket?"

"No?" he said tentatively.

"No. Now - about this 'Songs From Later' one - is it my imagination, or is your protagonist suspiciously similar to me in several meaningful ways?"

"No. Maybe. Are you mad?"

Arther Moonlight On Better Worlds

Sunflowers - Somerset County, PA - Photo by [Maris], 2001

When hoboes eulogized their friends, there were usually precious few people around to hear them. Such was the case in August 1938, when Unshakably Morose Flo, Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick, Knee-Brace Kenny, and Laura Delite gathered between the railroad tracks and a field of sunflowers, just east of Gallitzin, Pennsylvania to remember Mad or Sad Judd (no one could tell), at the invitation of Arther Moonlight. Judd had died five weeks before, having jumped or fallen (no one could agree on that, either) from a bridge into the Susquehanna River at Harrisburg.

"No one else is coming?" Asked Arther Moonlight, so named for both his love of staring at the moon and his impossibly pale skin - and because hoboes didn't know how to spell Arthur.

"I don't think so," Laura said. "Pretty sure it's just us."

"Nuts."

"Hey - five is a pretty good crowd for one of these things," Kenny reasoned.

"Can we make this quick?" asked Unshakably Morose Flo. "I hate these things. So sad."

Arther smiled. "Don't worry - I don't have much to say."

"Were you and Mad or Sad Judd very close?" Laura asked.

"Nope."

"Oh for Pete's sake!" Ol' Barb spat. "None of us really knew him, either! What are we doing, here?"

"Every hobo deserves a respectful goodbye, Barb-- Don't stab me! You know it's true. Let's just bury his stick and bindle, say something nice, and be on our way, okay?"

"Fine."

"Friends," Arther began, "we gather here today to say something nice about our fellow 'bo, Mad or Sad Judd, who caught the westbound last month--"

"He jumped," Flo said. "I heard he was planning to swim down the Susquehanna, down the Chesapeake Bay, and all the way to Europe, to start a new life."

"No way," Knee-Brace Kenny said, "That's dumb."

"YOU'RE dumb!"

"Shush!" Arther shushed. "She's probably right about that, though. I only met Mad or Sad Judd once - he was sad, by the way, not mad. Our only meeting had a profound impact on my life. I was seventeen years old, less than a year into my life as a hobo, and as usual I was standing by the tracks in the middle of the night, staring at the moon. I was considering going back to Baltimore, to try to start over with a job at the port or something. My parents were long-since dead and buried, but I had an uncle with connections at Locust Point, so..."

Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick snorted. "Gee whiz, Moonlight - you sure know how to put the you in eulogy."

"I told you I didn't know him that well!" Arther snapped. "Let me finish. So, this older fella walks up and stops and stands there next to me for a minute, looking up at the moon with me. I said hello, and something about it being extra bright that night, and he laughs and says, 'There are better worlds, kid. That ain't one of 'em, but there are surely better worlds.' I didn't know what to say. I just stared at him for way too long, and in that extra-bright moonlight I could see a sadness in his sunken eyes that shook me something awful. He wasn't just sad. He wasn't just tired, or suffering, or any of those things we all know so well. He was broken - shattered, really. And he shook my hand, and all that stuff I just seen in his eyes came charging into my hand, like I grabbed an electric fence. I was flummoxed. This beat-down, crushed tin can of a man had just said the most hopeful thing I had ever heard. And he turned and walked away. I only found out who he was a few days later, when a yard cop came asking if I'd seen him."

"What's so great about that? 'Better worlds exist?' So what?" Unshakably Morose Flo said. "We're stuck on this world. If anything, I think knowing that there are better ones - well, that would just make it worse, wouldn't it?"

"Not for me," Arther said. "For me, it meant that I shouldn't ditch the path I was on. It meant, 'Keep looking, kid - don't give up.' That was a good fifteen years ago, and I still say it every day. Better worlds exist, and I'm gonna find me one - and if I can't find me one, I'm gonna make one..."

"You're going to make one?" Ol' Barb sneered. "How do you think you're going to do that?"

"I'm gonna do the best I can, that's how. Today, I'm gonna bury this here bindle sack in the earth, and say a prayer for Mad or Sad Judd, and wish you all well. And tomorrow, I'll look for work again, and take whatever this world gives me, and keep on walking."

"Sounds about right," Knee-Brace Kenny said, grabbing a piece of metal from a trackside scrap pile. "Let's do it. I'm happy to lead the prayer, if you'd like..."

"I appreciate that," Arther said, "but I'll handle the prayer."

"I'll drink to that," Barb declared, pulling a flask (really just an old cough syrup bottle) from her bag. "Here's to you, Mad or Sad Judd - better worlds exist, and I hope you find yours."

"Hear, hear!" the assembled hoboes chorused.

-- for Mary --

88 Lines About An Additional 44 Hoboes

Re-inspired by a band called The Nails (and by rereading 88 Lines About 44 Hoboes), here are...

• The only thing that Irontrousers The Strong couldn't lift was was himself - out of grinding poverty - because it was the Great Depression - and he was a hobo. That's how it worked, back then. 
• Thad The Bunter couldn't swing a bat to save his life, but he was crazy-fast. He hit cleanup for the Cleveland Indians for over fifteen years, to the tune of a .329 average, before retiring and going hobo.
• Gila Monster Jr. could kill a grown man with his venom. Unfortunately for him, he inherited his father's sluggishness, and was beheaded with a garden hoe for no reason.
• The high-flying acrobat career of Giancarlo, The Master Of The Metal Trapeze was short. Metal trapezes both attract and conduct electricity.
• Roadhouse Ogilvy And Sons joined Hobo Nation as a family on a rainy Saturday in 1930, the day after Mrs. Ogilvy ran away. She managed to evade them for the rest of her long, hard, happy life of freedom.
• Finnish Jim was one of the saddest tramps around. On the hobo road, there was no vodka to be found.
• Flemish Jim was hobo number 42. His unique dialect rendered his theory on the answer to "the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything" completely incomprehensible to his friends.
• Todd Four-Flush always swore that he was going to get a job and leave the hobo life. His friends had a running bet regarding his boasts, which no one ever won.
• Peter Ox-Hands could do pretty much anything except build watches. His only desire was to build watches.
• Thoughtless Harry Hsu couldn't remember any of his friends' birthdays. Fortunately for him, they couldn't, either.
• Everyone assumed that Sir Roundbelly DeDelight was simply a glutton, although he was rarely seen eating. Sadly, his massively-distended abdomen was caused by a rare deformity called "hunchstomach," and there was no cure.
• Flea Stick made straight candy canes, using whatever ingredients he could find on his person. No one would ever eat them.
• Senator Cletus Scoffpossum was forced to resign his seat in the Hobo Congress. Apparently, repeatedly betraying the public trust and being a homeless Hoover sympathizer was acceptable, but Hobo Nation drew the line at making fun of pint-sized marsupials.
• They told Twistback John, The Scoliosis Sufferer, "You'll never survive this great war with that curved spine." Most of them died, while his curved spine saved his life by bending out of reach of the bullet that passed non-fatally through him.
• "X," The Anonymous Man Or Woman wrote scathing op-ed pieces for the LA Times throughout the Great Depression. They were equal parts eloquent defenses of the New Deal and juvenile personal attacks on several hoboes who were mean to him or her, and on all the wrong politicians.
• The Fishin' Physician wasn't a hobo at all. It just happened that his favorite place to catch widemouth bass was from a low trestle that carried the Southern Railway over a slow-flowing creek in southern Georgia and well, word got around.
• Mariah Nix said no a lot. She could have married ten times or more.
• Von Skump sang drinking songs and tried to incite singalongs. The hobo world would have been into it, were it not for those Disney-esque lyrics.
• Clinical Psychiatrist Hugo Rivera could tell you exactly why you did those things you do. What he couldn't do, which spelled his demise, was tell mosquitoes from common flies.
• Slow Motion Jones was a 48 frames per second hobo in a 24 fps world. His life moved half as fast, but his film ran out in half the time.
• Prostate Davey peed a lot. It wasn't cancer, and it didn't kill him, but boy howdy did it ever hurt. 
• When a hobo needed someone found, they knew to call DiCapa The Hound. Something else that rhymes with hound.
• The most noteworthy thing about Ponytail Douglas Winthrop was his long, neatly-arranged forearms. He earned upwards of thirty cents a day, fetching out of reach products from grocery shelves for short people.
• Hoboes from coast to coast knew the story of Lil' Johnny Songbird, The Songbird-Eater. It was as bad as it sounds.
• No one picked Meep Meep, The Italian Tailor to survive the hobo wars. He showed them all by converting haute couture to burlap-and-lint, and headlining the runway show at the great hobo jamboree of 1939.
• Stun Gun Jones earned his hobo named accidentally. His 1922 Colt pistol misfired every time, resulting in a bright flash and loud bang, but no casualties, ever.
• Bathsheba Ditz bathed naked in the best Southern Pacific swimming holes. The leadership saw, and it was all downhill from there.
• The hobo life suited Parlor Peter, The Sneak Thief. He never wanted for pilfered windowsill pies or board games.
• Del Folksy-Beard was clean-shaven when I met him. Full disclosure: I met him in a progressive care facility in 1992, when he was eighty years old.
• Lonnie Choke always made the playoffs. He never made the second round, and we never forgave him for it.
• You would think that Drinky Drunky Thom, The Drunk, would have loved the hobo life, on account of his raging alcoholism. You'd be wrong, though, you pre-judgmental stereotyper. 
• If you were a hobo in the late 1930s and you found yourself in front of a magistrate, you wanted Alan Pockmark, Esq. to represent you. He knew next to nothing about law, but his face made judges reflexively bang their gavels and clear their courtrooms, so his acquittal rate was a solid fifty percent.
• Although he never faced a fourth down, Canadian Football Pete was always ten yards downfield before the quarterback released the ball. We should all be allowed to run toward the line of scrimmage prior to the snap.
• Freak Le Freak, The Freakster grew up in the sideshow, enduring endless monsoons of hurtful words and rotten vegetables. He was yanked from homelessness by a Hollywood tycoon, and later brought the house down when he sang "This Is Me" at the Oscars.
• Jethro The Pagan hated being asked about his faith. It's no fun being the hobo who ruined Christmas by predating it by so many hundreds of years.
• No one could sing "Code Monkey" quite like Jonathan William Coulton, The Colchester Kid. It was his song; he wrote it.
• Some Tennessee rockabilly redneck named Elvis something-or-other frequently stole pants, before becoming the King. Rex Spangler, The Bedazzler - a lowly hobo - tried a dozen times to assassinate him for it, before finally succeeding in 1977.
• Ovid was an epic hobo. His Metamorphoses have stood the tests of both time and high school Latin class.
• Chicken Nugget Will always ate beans. It was the '30s and chicken nuggets didn't exist, yet.
• Chainmail Giles Godfrey survived a torrid affair with Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick. He was hard to stab.
• Some hoboes were downright monstrous. Cthulhu Carl's tentacles were short and stubby, so he wasn't that scary.
• Sherlock-Holmes-Hat Carl III only wore it ironically, though he was quick to admit that those flaps could keep his ears warm like nobody's business. He lived a long, long hobo life, never having found just the right pipe.
• Mickey The Assistant Manager could authorize discounts and exchanges, but not refunds. He never held the keys to the lint store, and that haunted him the length of his days.
• Patrick Intergalactic was not, in fact, born in a distant galaxy. He was from the ice fields of Hyperion. 

Thanks for making it all the way to the end - again!  And yes, I'm aware that there are 45 hobo names here, but the extra one is Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick, so what are you gonna do?

A Eulogy For Steroid Joe, and A Letter From The Dead

Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. If everyone could please take a seat. Amy and Lara, please don't fight. Everyone will get a chance to spit on the casket once [Maris] and I are done.

Thank you.

Now, I know some of you were reluctant to come to this service, but I for one am glad you did. I also know that-- okay, family members, you're not going to be allowed to remain in the front row if you continue to throw things at the casket. Nice touch with the rotten eggplant, but please, just let me get through this.

Thank you.

Where was I? Yes, I also know that many of you are uncomfortable with having me, Real Joe, eulogize our departed friend and loved one, Steroid Joe. Yes Carrie, we all know he was a dick. But he was part of our lives for over four years, and we're going to be respectful. Stacy, please lower the crossbow and douse that flaming arrow. There's a bucket of water in the back of the-- what? That's manure? Really? Okay, who brought manure? MOM?? Wow. Okay. Mom brought manure to her own son's memorial service. Yes, I know he wasn't your "real" son, Mom. Settle down.

Thank you.

Now, I'm going to try to keep this brief and-- Jeff I am not fooling around - put the noose away! He's dead already. What? For dragging the corpse through the streets? No. We're not doing that. Gross. Look, everyone just sit down and give me five minutes, then you can do whatever you want to the body, okay?

Thank you. Okay, Steroid Joe died as he had lived. Fighting. It took nearly two hundred stab wounds to kill him. I know. I counted. But I think we all know that he was tormented, and that his hateful agitation with the world around him was simply a matter of chemistry, and . . . okay, I tried. He had his moments and you know it. He's gone now. Rejoice. Defile the corpse. Do whatever makes you feel better. But while you do what you gotta do, I must - in accordance with Steroid Joe's dying wish - read aloud this letter to Prednisone, his most loved and hated drug:

[pandemonium ensues]

"Dear Prednisone,
Hi. How are you? Sure is hot, here. Ha Ha Ha! Seriously, though. I'm sorry you're still in jail because of our little spat at the house. Maybe if you hadn't actually spat at the house...
Anyway... As I lay in this ditch, dying from a couple hundred stab wounds, some shrapnel and more than one boot in my butt, I have been given the gift of what I think must be clarity. Unfortunately, it's a clarity that escapes description, but I'll try to put it into words for you.
First, it hurts to have to say this, but I don't think I ever really loved you. I needed you. I used you. I was sick and I was scared. I'm sorry. I honestly thought you knew the score. You're a drug. I was a patient. It seemed pretty cut-and-dry to me, but obviously you did not see it the same way, and for that, I apologize."

[chaos and violent epithets aimed at the dead fill the chapel]

"Second, I'm sorry I burned all your stuff after the cops took you away. If it makes you feel any better, I received a citation for having an open fire not properly contained, and the fine was like fifteen hundred bucks. Ouch, right?
Finally, thank you. I will never forget what you did for me. Sure, I bitched up a storm over your side-effects, but they were nothing, NOTHING, compared to what I was facing without you. You are a complex drug. That's what I plan to say if anyone asks about you or our time together. I can't ever speak badly of you or color you as some sort of monster. You healed me. I am grateful. You must move on and heal others.

Now, you know how fond I am of Peter Murphy. I leave you with this, from his "Cascade" CD:

Hark and be well
Go catch the light in every cell
Let the fire take the fire, and the rain wash the pain
May your soul's waters never wain

Make Eden here
Send angels' prayers
May your garden be sweet
Let the fire take the fire
Let the fire take the fire, and the rain wash the pain

(Okay, I guess I loved you a little bit)

Fondly,
Steroid Joe

[Silence]

When Unshakably Morose Flo Met Happy Horace Noosemaker At The Hobo Christmas Party

 

One's Happy. One's Unshakably Morose.

Deep in the woods near Glencoe, hugging herself against the Pennsylvania chill, Unshakably Morose Flo was relieved to find Knee-Brace Kenny, not so much for his company, but for his knowledge of the location of this year's Christmas party. "I don't know why I bother with this nonsense," she groused as they walked. "I won't know anyone there but you and Laura Delite - and Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick, of course."

"Barb said you'd say that," Kenny laughed. "That's why she sent me out here to make sure you don't change your mind and keep walking clear to Pittsburgh or some such. Also, I'm supposed to remind you that by the time you're halfway through a cup of Laura's famous hobo eggnog, you'll be best friends with every last merry-maker present."

"When has that ever happened?" she groaned. "Alcohol only amplifies my misery, and makes me want to drag everyone else down with me. Remember last year?"

"Listen you," Kenny barked with a stomp of his ratty boot in the snow, "I'm on a goodwill mission, here. If I show up without you, Barb will literally stab me."

"I'm not sure that qualifies as goodwill."

"Be that as it may, you're coming with me. Barb's hobo Christmas party jamboree and hootenanny is the event of the year in these parts. Plus, she has a new man friend she wants you to meet..."

It probably goes without saying that Flo had not always been unshakably morose - or any other kind of morose - but see if that stops me. Flo had not always been unshakably morose - or any other kind of morose. Half of her life ago, when she was thirteen and still called Florence, she had been a well-adjusted girl with a normal life in the suburbs of Chicago. She went to school and to church, played with her friends, respected her elders, and loved America. 

That was 1921. In the span of that year, her existence lurched from girlhood to hobo-hood. First, someone convinced her father that when the Chicago River ran green on St. Patrick's Day it was because the city had replaced the water with colored beer. He dove into the cold water, started drinking great gulps of the stuff, and managed to drown. Florence's father was a bit of dullard. Then, a few months later on a trip to the beach, her mother went for a swim in Lake Michigan and disappeared beneath the waves. Her body was never found, save for a foot that washed up near Waukegan. As so often happened with the 700 Hoboes, orphanages and boarding schools didn't agree with young Florence, and she joined the wanderers and vagrants of the hobo nation. And she was morose. Unshakably so.

She stopped in the snowy woods of south-central Pennsylvania and glared at Knee-Brace Kenny with equal parts sadness and anger. "A new what?"

"Man friend," Kenny said.

"She wants me to..."

"Meet," he said matter-of-factly. "Come on. It's Christmas Eve. Goodwill! Festiveness! Whatnot!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," she growled. "But I ask you again - do none of you people remember last year? Wasn't there a man friend for me to meet last year, as well?"

"There was."

"And did it go well?"

"It did not."

"I'll say it didn't. Barb ended up stabbing the guy."

Kenny laughed. "This guy's really nice. He's been here all day, helping us get ready. Happiest man I've met since before the depression started."

"Ugh. What's his name? What's his story? What's wrong with him?"

"They call him Happy Horace Noosemaker, and nothing's wrong with him. He's a nice man."

"Noosemaker? As in, nooses? For the hanging of people by the neck? Until dead? Well, that's just swell," Flo sighed.

"No, no. He just makes nooses. I think it's the only knot he knows how to tie, so he makes them all the time. I'm pretty sure his belt is just an oversize noose."

"And why is he Happy Horace? What is there to be happy about, anyway?"

"I don't know what to tell you, Flo. The guy's just happy. He's been through all the same noise the rest of us have - death and poverty and dirt and violence and hunger and cold and hardship - the whole nine yards, but he says his soul is happy, so there you go."

Flo shook her head. "Fine. I'll try to keep an open mind. Say - how'd his folks die?"

"Who said his folks died? Why do you always ask that? Maybe they're alive and well, and living in Topeka," Kenny offered.

"They're not, are they?"

Kenny coughed. "Well, no. Horace's old man worked for Henry Ford, and he was killed on the assembly line one day when a bear got into the plant."

"Marvelous. And his mother?"

"I think his mother is in a nursing home in Detroit, actually. He mentioned going to see her for New Year's." 

"Really?"

Kenny paused and studied his shoes for a moment. No, not really. Look - we're here. Be nice. It's Christmas."

Fifteen minutes later, after two cups of Laura Delite's famous hobo eggnog, Unshakably Morose Flo was introduced to Happy Horace Noosemaker.

It did not go well.


The preceding Christmas drivel was prompted ("Goodwill") by friends old and new at Our Write Side, in their weekly feature Two Word Tuesday.