Heavenly Hoboes

HEAVENLY HOBOES

  By Bob Brewer

  Copyright 2004 by Bob Brewer

  Your respect and support of this author’s property is sincerely appreciated.

  The characters, locals and names included in this work are purely fictional and have no known counterparts in the real world. The entire work is simply the invention of the author and is not meant to defame or belittle any office or personal beliefs.

  To Margaret, my right hand

  Now enjoy meeting Abe and Shorty, the Heavenly Hoboes

  INCEPTION

  In due course God summoned His heavenly host.

  “It is time for another reminder,” said God upon the arrival of Host.

  Host opened the Book of Miracles and placed it before God whereupon two names were emblazoned by Scribe: Abraham Lincoln Douglas and Thomas (no initial) McDougal.

  “You seem surprised,” God observed from Host’s expression.

  “I am,” said Host. “Are they not slated for arrival?”

  “They were,” God agreed, “until a moment ago.”

  “Of course.” Host accepted the Word without further question. “And of what nature shall the miracle be?”

  “Something simple,” God replied. “They are, as you know, simple men.”

  “Lights?” Host suggested.

  “Lights,” God approved, and Scribe so noted next to the two names.

  Host closed the book and placed it back upon its pedestal. “I’ll begin the arrangements immediately,” he said, and forthwith departed God’s presence.

  CHAPTER 1

  To: God c/o Scribe

  cc Book of Records, last entry

  Supreme Being: It does make it difficult when you know my every thought, but what I wish to tell you (just for the record) is that I have checked the schedules of Gabriel and Michael and am confident they can handle the everyday routine by themselves for the time being. So, with your permission, I would like to oversee the Douglas/McDougal matter personally. It’s been a good long while between assignments. Host.

  P.S. The subjects have been located and can be on site shortly.

  To: Host. You have my blessings and my utmost support. God, cc etc. etc.

  Abraham and Ramon sat cross-legged in the shade of the tractor, their backs resting against the tall, thick tire. The mid-morning sun had brought the temperature into the nineties. That was unusually warm for this time of year even for Phoenix and in the close confines of the grapefruit orchard the heat was stifling; much too hot for Abe’s liking. The weather had been pleasantly cool, balmy, and a bit breezy up until today. Then overnight the heat had shown up. Here it was barely lunchtime and every inch of Abe was soaking wet. He took his hat off and tossed it out into the sunshine to dry.

  Ramon, an itinerant laborer with the whitest teeth imaginable smiled and handed Abe one of the brown paper bags that contained their lunches. Abe nodded a ‘thank you’ and set the bag on his lap. “I’ll swear, Ramon, I don’t know how you do it,” he said, opening the bag to check out the lunch. “You’re dry as a bone.” Two hours earlier, Abe had stripped away his outerwear, but the Mexican still wore a long-sleeved flannel shirt with the cuffs double-buttoned. A little cape of bandanna material draped from under the back of his hat. Ramon continued to unfold the cornhusk off his tamale and flashed Abe another bright smile. Abe had learned that Ramon smiled a lot but didn’t sweat much, if any at all.

  The rest of the pickers had found their own forms of shade and were busy eating the lunches the field boss provided as part of their pay. The brown bags, brought to the workers everyday in a pickup truck contained nothing special, and mostly of a Mexican flavor, but it was enough to keep a body going. The free lunch and the daily pay made working in the orchards a decent job for a hobo like Abe, and up until today he had rather enjoyed it. But this morning he was ready for the lunch break an hour before it got there. Ramon mimed a drinking motion and pointed to the water can then back to Abe. “Agua,” he said flatly.

  Abe sucked down a dipper of water from the cooler they shared and took a bite of his burrito. He chewed the bread and bean mixture and gave some thoughtful attention to the long row of trees. “I figure it’ll take another week to box ‘em all up,” he said a few minutes later. “What do you think, Ramon?” He didn’t expect an answer because Ramon never answered, he was just being polite. He laid the hot pepper that came with his burritos off to the side of his paper-sack plate. He had made the mistake of taking a bite out of one of the jalapenos the day before. He had spit it out in a hurry but the burning on his lips and tongue was still hanging on at quitting time. He looked back at the trees and continued his thoughts out loud, “I ain’t too sure I can make it another whole week if this heat spell lasts.” He grimaced at the pepper before taking another bite of burrito.

  “Pretty soon is time to move on, eh Senor?” the Mexican said, balling up the last of his tamale into a bite-size.

  Abe stopped chewing. A look of astonishment swept over his face. “You speak English?” he said around the mouthful of burrito. They had worked the grapefruit trees side by side for three days now and this was the first time the Mexican had said anything that Abe came close to understanding. His name was Ramon; that’s all Abe knew about him.

  The Mexican raised his eyebrows and shrugged, then stuck the ball of tamale into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed quickly. “Is better sometimes to be a little stupid.” He made the universal loco gesture at his temple. “You going to eat that Jalapeno?”

  “Huh-uh,” Abe answered, still a bit shaken by the Mexican’s ability to communicate in English.

  Ramon nodded and opened another tamale. “You follow the crops, Senor?”

  Abe got his voice back. “Not as a usual thing, I don’t,” he answered. “I just happened to come by here at the right time, I guess. I did try picking lettuce over in California once. Never could get the hang of it, though. Kept cutting myself." He held out a hand to show Ramon the scars.

  “Yeah, I know, man. You got to learn how to hold the knife.” He lowered his gaze to the pepper.

  Abe shook his head and handed the pod to him. “You actually going to eat that?”

  Ramon grinned. “You know us Mexicans, we thrive on heat.” He popped the whole pepper into his mouth, and almost immediately a bunch of little beads of sweat formed on the bridge of his nose. So he did sweat, just not profusely. He swallowed then wiped a sleeve across his forehead. “Where you heading from here, Senor?”

  “I don’t know,” Abe answered, then cocked his head to one side like a brainstorm had just flashed. It passed quickly. “East, I guess. I’ve got a feeling I ought to head east.” Ramon nodded, and Abe began to busy himself rewiring the sole of one of his shoes to its scuffed-up top while he ate. It was quiet time now, time to reflect and let the beans digest a little.

  The lunch break was nearly over when Ramon asked Abe if he had a car.

  “Not anymore. I did once, but now I usually take the train.”

  “Ah, first class, eh man?” Ramon gave him an understanding smile. It was apparent by Abe’s attire and demeanor that he was not the paying-passenger type. “I’ll have to try that someday,” Ramon continued. “Take the train. Get some fresh air, you know. Trains are okay, man.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Abe agreed. “They’ve been good to me so far.”

  Ramon looked beyond Abe then made a flicking motion with his head. The field boss was walking toward them.

  “Guess we ought to get to picking,” Abe said, and stood to stretch the cramps out of his long legs. “Been real nice talking with you, Ramon. You should have let me know about the English, though. We could have swapped stories.”
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br />   “Shhh,” the Mexican quieted him, and made the loco sign again. Abe winked at him and the conversation was over, but the thought of traveling east hung in Abe’s mind throughout the afternoon. When he and Ramon said their good byes for the day, instead of the usual ‘Hasta manana’ the Mexican shook his hand and said, “Via con Dios, Senor.” Abe wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded familiar in a strange sort of way.

  Abe packed his rucksack of belongings early the next morning and struck out under a cloudy sky for the railroad switchyard a couple of miles from the orchard. It appeared the weather was going to change back to cool, but the urge to move on had gotten the better of him sometime during the night.

  The train Abe chose to hitch a ride on took a circuitous route that landed him in a Denver switchyard two days later. Not really the direction he wanted to go, but the weather was cooler. Cold, actually. Snow still blanketed the ground and a light drizzling rain froze it in place. When the train stopped, he waited until he thought it was safe then crunched his way to the neon-lit buildings across the jungle of tracks. Food, drink, and a restroom were on his mind.

  On a full stomach and carrying two bottles of wine, he crawled back into the empty boxcar under a sky that had grown considerably darker. He bundled up in his blanket, opened one of the bottles and waited for the train to start moving again. He was snoring loudly with half a quart of wine circulating through his system when the banging and lurching of the car roused him.

  The train pulled out of Denver a little after midnight, laden with freight and destined for points east. Abraham Douglas, a lifelong hobo by both choice and circumstance, had hitched a ride like this countless other times. But this time was different. It was now storming outside. Not just a spring shower, he didn’t mind those, but a torrential downpour; a real gully-washer with blinding fingers of lightning that clawed at his nerves and claps of thunder that rattled his bones. It scared him to the core. The picture of an entire train, engine and all, blown off the tracks and toppled like toy pick-up-sticks stuck in his mind. It was a terrible sight of scattered freight and twisted steel he had personally witnessed a few years back. He had promised himself then to never again head east when it was anything near tornado season. But here he was, breaking that promise and trying to figure out why he didn’t run when he had the chance at the switchyard. The answer to that was beyond him. He took another long swallow from his bottle of wine and prayed with his limited knowledge of how God works that he would be spared such a tragic end.

  Seemingly in answer to his prayers, the main force of the fury passed over them in a few minutes leaving the train intact, but like them, it too had taken an easterly course. Abe closed his eyes, prayed again that the storm would outrun them, then tried in vain to go back to sleep. Still fretful and a little drunker an hour later, he rummaged through his rucksack and found his rag-eared copy of ‘The Adventures of Tom Sawyer’. He re-lit the stub of a candle he had stuck to the floor with its own wax and carefully opened the tattered pages he had read a hundred times before.

  The train clattered on through the night as it dropped out of the mountains and crossed the vast prairie lands of the Midwest under the tail end of the storm.

  The washed-out clouds began to breakup just after dawn and give way to the rising sun. Abe woke with a start and squinted against the thin sliver of light that entered the cracked door of the boxcar. It surprised him that he had fallen asleep, but he could see that the little candle had long since burned itself out. He felt a sudden relief knowing that the storm was over and that the train had sometime during the night made its jog northward. Midvale, a destination he had randomly chosen before leaving the orchards of Arizona, would be the next stop. He figured it was still a few hours away. Without bothering to get up he scooted his rucksack pillow out of the light’s path, adjusted it then drifted off again. It was mid-morning before he was rousted the second time.

  The train was within a few miles of Midvale when the rhythmic click-clacking of its iron wheels changed to a slower cadence. The subtle change registered quickly in Abe’s mind. He pushed himself up from the makeshift pallet and inched the door open a bit. A blurry glimpse of red caught his eye. He laid his weight against the sliding door and opened it a few inches further to get a clearer view of what was happening.

  A series of red flags tied to metal stakes were spaced down the tracks for what he guessed to be a quarter of a mile or better. A group of orange-jacketed people, workmen he supposed, gathered at the far end of the flags. They waved as the engine approached them. Abe allowed a glance beyond the grassy field through which the railway had carved its signature and rested his attention on what appeared to be a small settlement; a large central building of brick and ivy, and a handful of outlying cottages scattered among a sparse stand of shade trees. An American flag gently fanned its pole in front of the larger building.

  He was thinking about his empty stomach when the squealing of the train’s brakes sounded an alarm. The floor of the boxcar slipped an inch or two beneath his feet. He instinctively tightened his grip on the inside door handle, but the sudden jerk had robbed his sense of balance. He was still trying to get his footing when the door flew wide open on its rollers. He yelled and let go of the handle to make a half-running, half-falling scramble towards the front wall of the car. It seemed the streak of good fortune he had enjoyed over the past several days was on its way out. He closed his eyes and dove for the floor.

  Six feet shy of what could have been a disastrous collision with the wall, his luck returned. He fell face-first onto the pillow he had made by folding up his jacket and placing it on top of his rucksack of belongings. He barely felt the bump when his head and the rucksack slid into the wall. Seconds later he wrapped up his bedroll, grabbed his hat and belongings and jumped out of the door on the opposite side of the car. He slid down the track’s shoulder and hid under a growth of brush to wait and watch for what would happen next. He expected the train to come to a complete stop, but instead it began to pick up speed and was quickly moving too fast for him to re-board.

  Abe waited for the last car to roll by before crawling out of his hiding place. He gave the departing train and the workmen a final check then crossed the tracks with the intentions of walking to the settlement and asking for a bite to eat.