Life of a Hobo.

Hobo in the House

By Charlie Melton

I strut into work. I tried sauntering into work but it’s hard to appear busy when sauntering. Marching doesn't work well because it makes you look stupid. Slinking into work makes the boss suspicious, so I choose to strut. Strutting works for me.

So I strut into work and Mary looks up. Her eyes squint a little and she wrinkles her nose like she smells something overripe and distasteful. “Where did you get that shirt?” she asks. I reply I bought it for a quarter at a garage sale. “Do you like it?” I queried. “No. You look like a hobo” she retorts.

I’m devastated. Well, not devastated. A better word would be irked. I spent a good 5 minutes and good money for a barely used shirt. I don’t think I look like a hobo. 

What the heck is a hobo anyway?

Traditionally hoboes ride trains. I rode a train once. I rode Amtrak to Vegas. My compartment wasn't very comfortable and the shower had low water pressure. The food in the dining car was really overpriced for the quality. The trip as a whole was way overpriced and slow by travel standards. I can’t imagine why a hobo would want to go through that disgrace.

Hoboes are itinerant workers. They’re not bums, which don’t work. They’re also not to be confused with tramps, which travel a lot but don’t work much. Hoboes travel to work. I’ve traveled for work. I went to a conference in Boston for work. It was a really boring week. I’ve also filled in for a guy in McLeansboro while he was on vacation. I travelled 18 or 20 miles twice a day for work, which made me an itinerant worker. I didn’t like it much, but I did it because I have what I fondly call “bills” that I have to pay. I assume hoboes travel for work to pay their mortgages and truck payments.

Hoboes are often unwelcome in communities. I know how they feel. I’ve been unwelcome. I never felt welcome in my Mother-in-laws house. I wore a “Proud Redneck” shirt in Ferguson, Missouri and felt very unwelcome. Maybe hoboes suffer the same indignities.

Hoboes have a secret code. They mark symbols in diverse places that are decipherable only to other hoboes. You can see these in any city. The ones I saw were done in spray paint in large bubble letters. Some people call it “gang graffiti” but I guess it’s the same thing. I tried to decipher it but was unable to. The very large tattooed gentlemen socializing near the symbols were not interested in interpreting the symbols and threatened to “bust a cap” in one of my unmentionable body parts. I guess the spoken language is as private as the written symbols.

Hoboes have conventions. For some reason they hold these in Iowa instead of a convention center in Orlando or Southern California. They hold a big election and choose a King and Queen. They spend a lot of time around the camp fire telling stories and visiting. The convention sounds to me like it is part senior prom and part visit to the local diner. I wonder if they have a liars table like some cafés have.

Hoboes have a code of conduct. That’s one thing they have over most of society, which doesn’t seem to have a code of conduct anymore. They vow to respect others, look for work, and to help those in need. The hoboes should probably mentor our representatives in national government and executives at some of the larger corporations.

As I learn about hoboes, I’ve decided Mary was complimenting me. Hoboes travel, they work, they have a secret language, and they convene every year. They live by a code. I haven’t found anything that would cause me to dislike them. On the contrary, I’ve learned to admire the hobo. I may even aspire to be a hobo. The life seems quite romantic and fulfilling.

I like everything except the train travel. Perhaps I can be a hobo that flies. Does the airport have a hobo waiting area? I’ll have to check it out.

Oh, and thank you Mary. I’m flattered to be called a hobo.