Failure, Hobos, and Other Things

From the lack of my post touting absolute victory, I’m sure you can surmise that I did not succeed in my weekend goals. I had many other successes, including a brief belief I was going to be captured and eaten by hillbillies when I got lost on my trail run. The success there is that this did not happen and the hillbillies had to eat someone else that night.

Hillbillies have reminded me of hobos. Probably because they both start with an “h” and are both tragically misunderstood. And also probably because I’m always looking for an excuse to talk about hobos.

For my 23^rd birthday I had a pillow and potato party. Potatoes to eat, pillows to sit on (I only had 2 chairs, but I had more than 2 friends…at that time). So, there we were, all sitting on our pillows, sipping wine, and basking in that warm sleepiness of carb afterglow when someone brings up my love of hobos. Suddenly everyone is in the conversation, and I find myself on the defensive.

FLASHBACK

The year is 1997 and I am a scrawny sixth grader participating in History Fair. History Fair is like Science Fair, only nerdier. I don’t even recall how I picked my topic. Maybe it picked me. Much like hobos themselves seem to have but little choice than to answer the siren call of the rails and the wild, chancing their survival and security for a life of adventure, solitude, and the unknown.

This looks just like my copy, minus an
"AUTOGRAPHED" sticker.

It was fate when the author of “Teenage Hobo” happened to be having a book signing in my hometown. I luckily procured an autographed copy and devoured the tale of a despondent teen hard up for work or opportunity during the Great Depression; traversing the country by hopping trains and getting work and food where he could to survive. This was the Best Book Ever. I immediately scrawled my name in it to foil any would be thieves who would obviously want a copy of the BBE. The History Fair was a bit of a bust, I don’t even remember what my score was, but hobos and I were forever united.

FLASHBACK OVER

My friends were out of control and it was up to me to set them straight. I told them why hobos were NOT interchangeable with bums, tramps, vagrants, etc. They were a breed of their own, a magnificent community made up of solitary creatures. Hobos were a population made up of true individuals. Sharing a campfire and a pot of stew when mutually beneficial and conversing with each other throughout their isolated journeys by a written hobo code. They had allegiances to no one and no thing. They also had sweet bindles.

My friends challenged me on every point, clearly forgetting it was my birthday and they should just shut up and agree with me for the rest of the night. I then remembered that sitting on the bookshelf right behind me was the Best Book Ever. I retrieved it triumphantly and began passing it around. This was a mistake. As much as I loved that book, I had obviously not opened it since the History Fair. I hadn’t considered that the literary opinions of 11 year old me might not match up with this very newly minted 23 year old me. Or anyone above the age of 14 really.

Hobo language key

Here’s an excerpt:

“I had a strange, almost fearful feeling, as we watched out the door. Here we were hundreds of miles from home, in the middle of the night, waiting to leap from a moving train into a very dangerous area, with no money and no place to sleep. I was glad I wasn’t alone. I had seen thousands of hobos who traveled by themselves. Tough time made tough men” (Bohr, 36).

Appropriately shamed, I began helping a few of my friends with the dishes when John noticed our British friend Dianne sitting uncomfortably on the couch and not talking to any of us. The conversation went something like this:

“Hey Dianne, you ok?”

“Actually, I think I might head out soon.”

“Oh, really? That’s too bad. Is something wrong?”

This is where an incredulous look was received and a questioning glance returned. At length, Dianne spelled it out for him, “You’re all a bunch of racists!” She exclaimed.

Apparently they do not have hobos in Great Britain and Dianne erroneously determined from the conversation that we were talking—not about modern nomads from all backgrounds and ethnicities giving into their wanderlust—but black people. She thought everyone at the party was bashing me for liking black people. Replay the entire conversation from this perspective. I’m impressed she stuck around as long as she did. Fortunately, we were able to retain Dianne as a friend, express our love for all people, and at least one of us is still in love with hobos. (Hint: it’s me.)