Old Enough; Through the Eyes of a Stranger

After kicking off his boots Hank rubbed his calloused feet, despite them being swollen and blistered with open sores he'd come to feel comfortable enough in these parts to catch some shut eye. Perhaps here he would find some time to heal. He tossed his knapsack on the ground, then pushing through dried thicket with one gloved hand, he settled in a shady spot. He was hungry enough to catch a mouse; his mind wandered to the little girl May and her popping by this very place several times with a piece of bread or an apple. He hated himself for wishing her there just cause his stomach ached, he knew darned well kids like her should not be wandering about on their own near the edges of train tracks, much less familiarizing themselves with the likes of homeless, jobless and down on their luck men like himself. He knew he could be trustworthy, however God knows that most train jumpers aren't.

He pulled his canvas rimmed hat over his eyes and folded his arms on his chest. In that place one falls before dreaming and true slumber his heart longed for an earnest living, some place he could count on work and a meal each day. He could see the eyes of his mother as she told him they'd lost the farm, then again on her death bed assuring him that times would get better for him. He could smell her greasy iron skillet, feel it's weight, remember the slabs of bacon fried and his stomach roared more. Maybe sleep wasn't going to come easy after all.

He knew better than adventure past the treeline to the neighbourhood with rows of quaint brick houses, chestnut and fruit trees were tempting though. His scraggily, long beard alone was enough to send some nosey woman with nothing better to do than peeking out the windows to calling the police. His jeans were worn, luckily he still had them. Word in the hobo community was that some younger fellows had their jeans taken with a sharp knife held to their throat. Poor saps, young ones had a lot to learn. Hank did carry his own knife, along with a special kit he'd put together himself over time. In an old kerchief he'd sewn ruggedly a small pouch which included tiny scissors, a bottle opener, one spool of black thread, a needle and the old key to his front door as a child; these were treasures he coveted. The key reminded him that he did indeed once have a home, despite there being no actual door left in existence. Other than the clothes on his back plus one white, sleeveless undershirt he had just one tiny photograph of himself as a boy; he was perhaps seven or eight with his mother who was holding his hand outside of a grocery store. In his other hand he held a lollipop - No, not the thought of food again.

After hopping off a freight car in new territory most hobos check the trees for symbols carved by their unique community which shares messages that alert each other for such things as mean dogs, men with guns and police patrol. There are good signs as well, too many to mention yet he deliberately chose not to carve the image for bread and food around here. The thought of May being approached by some real scoundrels hitting her up for bread or worse gave him a shiver.

Just as he began to settle his mind he heard light footsteps approaching, he was just about to jump up with his knife in hand when he heard the sweetest sound, "Hank! You're back!"; May ran up to him and stood over him with her big smile, her blue eyes wide open with excitement. She told him she was heading toward the trestle to meet some friend from the other side of town, how they'd been separated because they didn't have the same color of skin and all about her dear Pearl, Paw-Paw and some new housekeeper with an afro back at her house. Right away she offered him a jelly sandwich and a cup of cold water. Hank ate the tiny sandwich in two quick bites desperately wanting more but too proud to ask.

He sat up and looked her in the eyes, "Now hold on May, you can't just take a stroll along the train tracks all by yourself, that ain't safe, hear? He wanted to stand but his feet were throbbing. - what on earth is this child thinking?

"I have to Hank, my friend Clara has already left her side of town and is waiting for me. I can't just NOT show up!" Little May was anxious, frantic really, and mighty determined; he slowly pulled his blood stained socks back on, laced up his boots and stood up. Seeing that she was not going to listen to him, Hobo Hank rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Alrighty then Miss May, I'll walk with you to meet your friend this once, but promise me this is the last and only time you will try to pull off such nonsense; I have told you before, not every train jumper is friendly, in fact most have hard hearts and streaks of meanness that the likes of you have never seen."

May looked up and said with innocence and sincerity, "Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye." Hank scratched his face through his thick beard and shook his head with a slight grin; an odd duo to anyone who sighted them, they set forth in the warm morning sun. ~

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