Tales From Taxi World, HOBO STORY
Jann Burner
October 08, 2006
Driving to the airport one day I passed up an old bum; a hobo walking along the side of the freeway. The man looked familiar. I had passed this man once or twice before. He was always just walking along with his bundle.
Coming back to town another time, I saw the same old hobo walking alongside the airport road out towards the freeway. I pulled over and offered him a ride into town. He looked very healthy; good skin. The man was elderly but very lively, sort of a Richard Farnsworth type. Lots of character and a long white beard.
I inquired about the man's life. Where was he going? Where had he come from. The man told me that he had been a hobo since he was twenty-two years old. Only now he didn't get near the train tracks. Too dangerous.
I mentioned about the two homeless men that were beaten to death recently in an abandoned building in The City. He told me, "You can't believe the violence out there. I used to be a hobo on the railway lines and sometimes sitting around the campfires in the hobo camps a fight would break out and I've seen five or six guys beaten to death at a time! In one fight! Six bodies lying around dead. Time to move. Never got reported. Never mentioned in the newspaper. Once, outside of Salinas, a crazy man beat six guys to death with an axe handle. And then he just walked away as if he had been chopping wood."
I asked him, what he did when violence like that begin to happen?
"I'd go hide in the tall grass and then when it is over I would move on."
I asked him, how many people like himself did he think there were in The City? He thought for a moment, "I think there must be about thirty thousand. After three in the morning there are nothing but bums and hobo's out there."
Now he slept on the grass between the runways at the airport and every morning he walked the long distance into town and then back every evening. He described to me how he just loved watching the airplanes take off and land over his head. I inquired if he had ever flown.
" No," the man said, "I have never even been in an airplane. But someday I do hope to go for a 'fly'."
I inquired if he ever got cold. It was winter and I was wearing a down parka. This man was wearing old military fatigue pants and a shirt. He carried no jacket, and no sleeping bag.
"No," said the man, "I am not aware of the cold."
Driving back from the airport into town a couple of months later, I saw the same old hobo walking along the freeway. I pulled over and gave him a lift. I asked how things were going. He didn't seem quite as centered and happy as he had been the first time I picked him up, but he did remember me. Seems that, since the last time I gave him a ride, someone asked him his age and when he told them he was sixty-six they advised him that he was eligible for some free money!
"Wonderful," he thought.
"That's great," I said. "Social Security. Now you've got some money."
"Now," said the old guy, "I've got some place that I have to be every month."
Before he had nothing to do and no place to be. Where ever he was was fine, in fact perfect. But now every place was nailed in time and space. So many days from Friday (the day he got paid) and so many miles from the Social Security office (the place he got paid).
"And look at this?" He held up a new blanket in its original plastic case.
"Hey, that's great," I said. "A blanket! Now you won't get cold!"
"I was never cold in the first place," he reminded me. "I've never opened it because I know that if I use it once I will learn how cold I've been, but I can't just throw it away because it was a gift and it is beautiful. So I just carry it along... But it's a pain in the ass."
He then begin telling me about sleep and dream time. He said that he slept at least fourteen hours a day in small segments and he could fall immediately into his "Dream Time," He said he was never awake for more than three hours at a time. And then he had to check back in with his Dream. He said the older he got the more he slept and the more he dreamed.
I said that maybe he was sick?
He said, no, he had only been sick once. He carried a spoon in his shirt pocket and once long ago he was sleeping in an old abandoned car and he got up in the morning, he wasn't quite awake, and he rolled out of the car and somehow the spoon got turned around and stabbed him. It went all the way through his chest and cut through the muscles. Luckily, he had some money, so he checked into a hotel for a week. He lay in bed and fixed himself. Never saw a doctor and that was the last time he ever slept in a bed or inside a building. Never been sick since.
We shared a few moments of silence considering his last week in a hotel. "So tell me," I finally said, "what's the very first thing you did when you got your money?"
"Walked down to the airport and went inside (he'd never been inside the terminal before) and bought me a round trip ticket to L.A."
"Well..." I said. "How was it?"
The old man just shook his head sadly. He leaned forward speaking directly into my face. "It wasn't at all like I thought it would be." He then leaned even closer and looked at me with his clear blue eyes.
"But then, maybe it never is..."
Coming back to town another time, I saw the same old hobo walking alongside the airport road out towards the freeway. I pulled over and offered him a ride into town. He looked very healthy; good skin. The man was elderly but very lively, sort of a Richard Farnsworth type. Lots of character and a long white beard.
I inquired about the man's life. Where was he going? Where had he come from. The man told me that he had been a hobo since he was twenty-two years old. Only now he didn't get near the train tracks. Too dangerous.
I mentioned about the two homeless men that were beaten to death recently in an abandoned building in The City. He told me, "You can't believe the violence out there. I used to be a hobo on the railway lines and sometimes sitting around the campfires in the hobo camps a fight would break out and I've seen five or six guys beaten to death at a time! In one fight! Six bodies lying around dead. Time to move. Never got reported. Never mentioned in the newspaper. Once, outside of Salinas, a crazy man beat six guys to death with an axe handle. And then he just walked away as if he had been chopping wood."
I asked him, what he did when violence like that begin to happen?
"I'd go hide in the tall grass and then when it is over I would move on."
I asked him, how many people like himself did he think there were in The City? He thought for a moment, "I think there must be about thirty thousand. After three in the morning there are nothing but bums and hobo's out there."
Now he slept on the grass between the runways at the airport and every morning he walked the long distance into town and then back every evening. He described to me how he just loved watching the airplanes take off and land over his head. I inquired if he had ever flown.
" No," the man said, "I have never even been in an airplane. But someday I do hope to go for a 'fly'."
I inquired if he ever got cold. It was winter and I was wearing a down parka. This man was wearing old military fatigue pants and a shirt. He carried no jacket, and no sleeping bag.
"No," said the man, "I am not aware of the cold."
Driving back from the airport into town a couple of months later, I saw the same old hobo walking along the freeway. I pulled over and gave him a lift. I asked how things were going. He didn't seem quite as centered and happy as he had been the first time I picked him up, but he did remember me. Seems that, since the last time I gave him a ride, someone asked him his age and when he told them he was sixty-six they advised him that he was eligible for some free money!
"Wonderful," he thought.
"That's great," I said. "Social Security. Now you've got some money."
"Now," said the old guy, "I've got some place that I have to be every month."
Before he had nothing to do and no place to be. Where ever he was was fine, in fact perfect. But now every place was nailed in time and space. So many days from Friday (the day he got paid) and so many miles from the Social Security office (the place he got paid).
"And look at this?" He held up a new blanket in its original plastic case.
"Hey, that's great," I said. "A blanket! Now you won't get cold!"
"I was never cold in the first place," he reminded me. "I've never opened it because I know that if I use it once I will learn how cold I've been, but I can't just throw it away because it was a gift and it is beautiful. So I just carry it along... But it's a pain in the ass."
He then begin telling me about sleep and dream time. He said that he slept at least fourteen hours a day in small segments and he could fall immediately into his "Dream Time," He said he was never awake for more than three hours at a time. And then he had to check back in with his Dream. He said the older he got the more he slept and the more he dreamed.
I said that maybe he was sick?
He said, no, he had only been sick once. He carried a spoon in his shirt pocket and once long ago he was sleeping in an old abandoned car and he got up in the morning, he wasn't quite awake, and he rolled out of the car and somehow the spoon got turned around and stabbed him. It went all the way through his chest and cut through the muscles. Luckily, he had some money, so he checked into a hotel for a week. He lay in bed and fixed himself. Never saw a doctor and that was the last time he ever slept in a bed or inside a building. Never been sick since.
We shared a few moments of silence considering his last week in a hotel. "So tell me," I finally said, "what's the very first thing you did when you got your money?"
"Walked down to the airport and went inside (he'd never been inside the terminal before) and bought me a round trip ticket to L.A."
"Well..." I said. "How was it?"
The old man just shook his head sadly. He leaned forward speaking directly into my face. "It wasn't at all like I thought it would be." He then leaned even closer and looked at me with his clear blue eyes.
"But then, maybe it never is..."