Me and My Bindle Stick

by Will Karn

This train. I’ve spent far too much time on this damn train. I’m writing this here letter to whom ever peels it off the side of the road, whether it be some road kid, jungle buzzard or any other ‘Bo. The names Harold, Harry for short, and my story starts in Plainville Mississippi, a town as dry as the name. Ma and Pa were hard working folk, didn’t spend much time at home always working odd jobs and such. I was just a little punk, felt neglected, didn’t see much to interest me in the little town. Plus Pa was a rum dum seemed to take his frustrations out on me, or at least tried to, normally come home yip yappin about something “Boy you the reason… yo-you know I coulda been a doctor? But no no no your Ma had to get knocked, knocked, uhh….down?” around this time in his incoherent rants he would start chasing me around the house over couches around tables, cursing his brains out at me, till he ripped off his belt “Come here boy.” He’d yelp. Whip the belt around a few times (smacking himself more often then not) then resume chasing me around. But after a few laps without a belt his pants would slip a little, then a little more, and a little more till he was hobbling around with his pants hugging his ankles, I would make one final cut to my room slam the door, then THUD. He was out cold. Drool creeping from his mouth, belt in hand and pants around his ankles. Ma would usually come home later to clean up the mess.

I was thirteen when I decided to leave Plainville, I was just an Angellina trying to find my place in the world, I picked up my bindle stick and left. To where, I did not know. As I walked down the main drag I couldn’t help to think about Ma and Pa, would they worry? Call the police? Prolly not, I bet Pa’s chasing the damn dog around with a belt, hollering at it, thinking its me.

I climbed through the cut in the fence and entered the jungle. I had never been to a place like it before the sweet stench of sweat, dead animal, and booze tickled my nostril. I looked around and all I saw were these dirty filthy faces staring me down, huddled around a pitiful excuse’s for a fire, clawing at each other to get a bowl of the mulligan. I bet all them fellows combined didn’t have a nickel note to there names. I was new, and clean, therefore an outcast. Young kids weren’t generally welcomed, all though # 14 in the hobo ethical code states Help all runaway children, and try to induce them to return home. None of the men had any such intentions; in the jungle it was everyman for them selves.

At three a train was supposed to ride through, a hotshot they called it. There were only so many spots on the car; so all the hobos were lined up ready to catch it on the fly. I took a spot in-between the short stocky fellow with a dusty top hat, and a tall lanky man with half a shirt. CHOO CHOO. And they were off, watching about 40 men in an assortment of unfitting mismatch rags, some hobbling with one shoe, others on crutches and one poor sole with two peg legs chase after a train, was a spectacle to say the least. I got caught staring for a second and quickly remembered the task at hand, I darted after the last car, running by the side I couldn’t quite get the extra step, and then crusted, callused hand was placed before me accompanied by the words “Grab on.” So I did, and I was pulled into the train by the very same short, stocky man with the top hat. “Howdy, the names Steam Train Maury, What’s a kid like you doing on these here trains.”?

We began to talk, He had the gift of gab and wasn’t hesitant to share it, he told me damn near everything I need to know, to Bo’ correctly. From reading hobo code, boiling off the greybacks, and from evading bulls, to fending off a rabid bindlestiff’s. Day in and day out old Maury taught me the tricks of the trade. The train had become my new home, the sky my new roof, and the old smelly drunkards my new family.

We spent our days either on the train headed god knows where, in the jungle, drinking and telling stories till god knows when, or on the streets rummaging through garbage for god knows what. Most days we would walk down the tracks, old Maury would always have to fiddle around with something. Now and again he’d pick up a rusted can and chuck it at the small rodents, and when he did nail one of the little buggers he’d exclaim “dinner is served” and run over to retrieve the helpless animal, with his tongue wide out like a dog in heat. He had a whole satchel devoted to the critters, mice, rats, moles, rabbits, raccoons, and the occasional turtle. We throw them in a pot with some boiling water let the juices marinate for a while as we told jokes.

Two hobos were panhandling on the corner when a priest comes hobbling along on crutches. The first hobo asks the priest “Father, how did you break your leg?

The priest replies “I slipped in the bathtub.”

The second hobo asks the first “What’s a bathtub?”

The first replies “How should I know, I’m not Catholic.”

The days were short and plentiful, and the sky always seemed to be clear. Until one day. Foggy as hell, couldn’t see your own two feet we must have been in San Francisco or something, Me and Maury were sauntering down the tracks, he was yappin’ bout something or the other. “I swear, food quality in the dumpsters has really diminished, when I was your age a Bo’ could count on a dumpster to for a fine meal, nowadays its trash, nothing but trash.” As he climbed out of the dumpster, a piece of paper fell out of his pocket, I picked it up and began to read,

Maury,

I hope this letter reaches you, it has been far to long. Me and the kids are doing alright, I had another one shortly after you left, a bakers dozen can you believe it, the older half are in school and workin’ on old man Britches farm after school, the other half are runnin’ round the house causin’ a ruckus. I hope you come home soon, I didn’t think getting some milk would take 3 years….

With all my love, Cheyenne

Maury quickly snatched back the note, folded it up and put it in his coat pocket. He told me “Now you don’t go reading other peoples mail for the whole world to hear, this is private information.” I nodded and we continued our hunt for a meal.

A few hours later I couldn’t help but ask why he left them. He told me “Boy, honestly I went out that day to get some milk, but I didn’t have enough money to buy the darn bottle, it was a 15 mile walk back home and I knew if I came back with no milk, shooot, my old lady would rip me a new one. So I sat down in front of the store on the damn corner, and began to panhandle, a penny here a nickel there and before I knew it I had more then enough money to buy the milk, heck I prolly had enough to buy the whole damn cow. I felt free, no obligations no nothing, so I put the money in my sock, and hopped on the next train out of town.”

We walked and walked down those tracks, mostly in silence, every once in a while old Maury would look at the note, and let out a sigh. All the sudden I saw what had to be the biggest raccoon I ever laid my eyes upon, the size of a baby hippo sittin’ there on the tracks snarling at us, Maury turned to me and whispered “ Hand me that there bottle of whisky.” With bottle in hand Maury crept through the fog up to the beast and in one fell swoop knocked it in the head, his big yellow eyes rolled on back into his head and went limp. Old Steam Train Maury stood in the middle of the tracks triumphantly holding the rodent by his neck skin, Whisky bottle raised high in the air, a glorious moment. He let out a giant roar, and screamed to the heavens “ CHEYENNE, I’M A COMIN’ HOME FOR YOU!” He yelled so load he couldn’t even hear the train rushing towards him, and before I could warn him he was nothin’ but grease on the tracks.

The rest of the day was a blur, although that could have been due to the bottle of Moonshine I guzzled down. I went to sleep that night, and woke up 12 years later a grown man living in a train, using newspapers for blankets, eating combinations various of small rodents, and trash, runnin’ from bulls and bone polishers and livin by the hobo code old Steam Train Maury taught me. You call this a life? Heck, well it beats the hell out of livin’ in Plainville Mississippi.

Yours truly, Harold Clam