"The Hitch-hiking Hobo Hollywood"

(I had a request to quit writing about hobos. This will be my last hobo post. For now.)

Throughout my life I have been intrigued by hobos. I admire the stray dog freedom they embody, moving from place to place, jumping trains and living on what work they can find. These rustic characters have become an endangered species of sorts as the railroads have been uprooted for super highways, and they are often viewed by many as relics of a bygone era.
A hobo is someone who travels by rail to find work, a tramp is a man who travels but doesn't work, and a bum is someone that does neither. This has been clearly defined for me lately throughout my time as I have been working in Britt, home of the annual National Hobo Convention.
For the time being I commute daily from Mason City, another Midwestern railway town, the thirty or so miles to Britt.
One Sunday morning I stumbled out of bed, forgoing a shower and shave for a cup of coffee. I was due in Britt at nine thirty, and that time was fading quickly. I gave myself a once over in the mirror as I headed out the door and I was on my way down Highway 18 headed west.
My mind was clouded as I drove, concerns about moving, packing, and finances overwhelming my thoughts as talk radio droned in the background. I was in a hurry but stuck at the speed limit as I left Mason City and continued through Clear Lake, hoping to make a county fair horse show before any of the results could leave me behind.
The sun was shining in my review mirror and the sky was cloudless. The digital display in my truck was reading a pleasant sixty degrees, and I was dreading spending the day outside for the third time in as many days when I spotted him.
I had just accelerated and clicked on my cruise control at a crisp fifty-five, prepared to breeze through the chain of small towns west of Clear Lake and on to Britt. I almost missed him, the same way the incautious observer would not recognize a road side crucifix, wrapped in my own thoughts of prosperity and concern for personal well being.
I processed the details as I craned my neck to look in the review mirror, carefully observing and weighing my decision. The man was slender, dressed in dusty overalls with a handkerchief tied around his neck. In his hand was a sing that read: "Hobo Convention, Britt." He was standing on the edge of the highway, just off the gravel strip in the parking lot for a store that sold accommodations like fire places and whirlpool spas, and I turned in the back entrance to gain a closer look.
After several memories of horror flicks I had watched as a youth involving picking up hitch-hikers flashed through my head, I decided that the best course of action was to offer the young man a ride. I pulled through an exit to the parking lot ahead of where he was on the road and slowed to a halt as I rolled down my window.
"Where you headed?" he asked as I unlocked the doors and had him load his pack into the back seat.
"All the way straight to Britt," I said, smiling broadly as I realized that silver screen drama rarely mirrors real life.
I pulled back onto the highway, accelerating fast enough to catch the draft off a semi-trailer that I planned on following west. Our conversation picked up with the speed of the landscape sliding by and he informed me that his moniker was Hollywood and that he was a native of the Pacific North West.
"I do some seasonal fire fighting up there in the National Forests," he said. "This time of year all the crews do is road and trail work, and I didn't want any part of that."
We continued to talk and the conversation lightened as he spoke of his current trip. He was hopping his way back from West Virginia, where he had been determined to go over the Deep River Gorge.
"I had heard of it, and was always interested in trying it myself," he said. "Other than Niagara, which I guess counts now that someone survived the fall, it's the largest fall you can go over in the states."
He had completed the spill twice, accompanied by a couple river guides who had seen him jumping off the train. They had shown fascination and envy when they first spoke with him, one remarking: "I wish I could do that."
'Woody', as he is known more commonly, explained that he was heading to the National Hobo Convention, an annual celebration that takes place in Britt every August. He had ridden down to Mason City from Minneapolis, and had spent the previous day before meeting me trying to hitch rides. I came across him about twenty miles from the tracks, and he was tired and in relatively low spirits after the long day and night of walking.
"I figured no one was going to pick me up," he said.
We had begun to establish a level of trust as we continued through the countryside, him asking questions about the towns we went through, police activity, and about the crops growing down both sides of the highway. I was more than happy to display the knowledge I had gained regarding all things Hancock County during my time as reporter in Britt, and acted as a tour guide of sorts.
The conversation turned slightly as we started to discuss finances, something I have always been leery of when talking to people who might possibly ask for money. It's not that I don't enjoy helping people, more that I enjoy charity on my terms, and always hate the minor social awkwardness that follows a denial.
"I have about a dollar," he said. "If I got another one, I might be able to get a beer when I get to town before I start looking for work."
My face lit up at his suggestion, and I reached behind my seat as he craned his neck to look at what I was doing. The previous night I had spent drinking and carrying on into the early hours of morning, and I had unnecessarily picked up an extra forty of Budweiser before returning home. I flexed my fingers as I blindly searched for the paper bag, and when I pulled out the bottle and placed it in his lap, he beamed with gratitude.
We continued on down the road and as we approached Britt you could feel the anticipation in his voice.
"I've always wanted to come to the Convention," he said. "People talk about it all over, and I read about it in some magazines."
He inquired as to if I knew of any other hobos who had arrived in Britt early, and I discussed the few I had met. He knew of several that would be arriving, including former Hobo King Frog, a man who would be clearly identifiable by a wooden leg and top hat. I said I hadn't seen him yet, but I assured him that he was fairly early.
We arrived in Britt under little fanfare during the late Sunday morning. The town was quiet, everyone was already at the fair participating in either the worship service or the horse show. We drove through the streets and I answered all of his questions regarding each detail about the city. I showed him the house I would be moving into before we swung out the western edge to cruise through the gravel roads of the countryside. As we snapped lighters he opened the forty, draining its contents within minutes. As we arrived back in town he finished the contents and placed the bottle on the floor just seconds before we drove past a Britt Police Officer on his usual patrol.
"That was close, ten minutes in town and already I'm close to getting in trouble," he said.
I told him it was the first cop I had seen in a week, and usually they were fairly understanding and kind to hobos. He continued to ask me about work, and I offered to bring him out to the county fair. I hoped he might be able to find some temporary work with one of the farmers who's children were showing their livestock.
We entered the fairgrounds and he turned to me and offered thanks for the kindness I had shown him before taking off across the grounds in the opposite direction of the horse arena. I turned to look and see where he was headed, but then he was gone. I watched for the rest of the day, hoping to maybe run into him again at the free sweetcorn giveaway, but we did not cross paths again that day.
Now, when I'm on the road, I keep my eyes peeled, hoping to find a hobo along the way. I hope that someday when I'm down on my luck a stranger will take mercy on me as I stand beside the road. I think back and contemplate the lessons of charity that have been preached to me throughout my life, and that Sunday, I learned the true meaning of lending a hand.