by Tween Hobo
That thing where you fall down a well
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/2
That thing where you use the whole buffalo
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4/3
That thing where all your homeys get the pox
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4/4
Blood on the tracks. No, wait, that’s just drips from my smoothie.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/5
If I was rich, I’d be all, “Six Flags, Jeeves, and step on it.”
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/6
Just because I’m a hobo don’t mean I can’t get a real classy ankle tattoo of a baby Taz.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/7
That thing where you lose a game of gin to a man named Soapy
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/8
You know—I got enough troubles. I don’t give an eff where Waldo is.
There’s just something extradelicious about stolen pie.
April 9
* * *
Omaha, Nebraska
Are you there God? It’s me, Tween Hobo. Something really upsetting™ happened the other day. I picked up my Hobo Burn Book to write a thumbs-down review of some roughnecks who jumped on in Mason City, and the book fell open to reveal a page that I did not write—a page that was written, in crude scrawl—about me.
In words that will haunt me till my dying day or at least my junior prom, the troll said, What the what. A hobo with a cell phone and a data plan? Born rich and chooses the hobo life? Get off the train before you hurt yourself, princess. TWEEN HOBO IS A FAKE.
I read it over and over. Then I just sat there for twenty minutes with my knees pressed up against my chest, trying to look sad. I mean, I felt sad, but it’s also important to look sad. But then nobody was there to see me, and I couldn’t Instagram myself because I needed both hands to hug my knees.
It was clear that I had to do something, fast, to prove myself to this loser whose opinion I couldn’t care less about. I had to figure out what a Real Tween Hobo Move would be, and then make that Move. So I go up to Stumptown Jim and I go, “What’s a thing that a Real Tween Hobo would do that would be, like, totally classic and real?” Jim was in the middle of arm-wrestling a dude named Montana Slim. They were clutching each other’s hands and sweating and neither one’s arm had moved in twenty-four hours. It was both boring and intense. Despite the circumstances Jim managed to mutter at me, through gritted teeth, “Steal. A. Pie.”
YES!!!!! My totally awesome BFFL had saved me again. Stump-town Jim was right!!! That was exactly what I had to do to show everybody that, when it comes to being a Tween Hobo, I’m as authentic as the autographed Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn—Part 2 cast poster I made my mom buy me on eBay. Stealing a pie was legit! I was on it.
I ran back to the boxcar, grabbed my bindle, and headed out of Hobo Jungle into the town. Omaha is a nice little city. Unlike many other towns in our Great Midwest, it’s the kind of place where you probably won’t get mugged outside an off-brand fast-food BBQ establishment. Probably, you will just mosey on by, unperturbed, waving hello to the postman or a mentally ill adult on a child’s bicycle. It’s a classic American place, and I was on my way to do a classic American thing.
In my mind I had a rough sketch of what I was looking for: a sweet little house behind a white picket fence, a humble (and nut-free, cuz I have allergies) apple pie just cooling out on the windowsill. But I didn’t seem to be in the right part of town. Instead, I found myself hiking up a big hill, flanked on either side by terrifyingly enormous mansions. Instead of picket fences, there were gates, towering gates, made of brick and steel and locked with blinking electronic sensors. All the hedges were cleanly clipped and the rosebushes smelled like new cars. Up the hill a ways I saw what looked like a gigantic gravestone, with eight lanterns stuck on top and fancy (yet boring) letters carved in gold. The letters spelled out BRENTMORE CREST. I figured some kind of toothpaste pharaoh had died here and was mummified in this lantern-encrusted tomb.
Even before I was a hobo, I never brushed my teeth. #YOLO
I went up to investigate the tomb and was standing there just kind of stroking one of the lanterns, lost in a reverie where I was the female Paul Revere and I was riding a pony through midnight woods, barely clothed, with long strawberry-blond hair flying out behind me, strategically covering my boobs and stuff, carrying a lamp just like this one (except with an actual oil wick inside, not a fake flickering electric bulb), just warning the crap out of everybody that the British were coming. One if by land, two if by sea—and three if by unmanned telerobotic drones! When suddenly, my peaceful war fantasy was interrupted by the loud honk of an SUV.
A mom-type lady leaned her head out and shouted at me, “Addison! Is that you? What are you doing out here? It’s not safe! Does your mother know you’re not in school? Why are your clothes so dirty? Here, hop in the backseat—I’ll drop you off at home.” Next thing I knew this lady was buckling me in. She scrunched up her nose a bit as she fastened my seat belt. “Addison, sweetheart, you need a bath.” Don’t I know it, I thought to myself. Been wearin’ these Tuesday underpants for three months. She got back in the driver’s seat, pressed a few buttons, and we drove through the gates, which opened slowly, as if they didn’t feel like it.
The lady’s backseat and wayback were packed with Whole Foods grocery bags and freshly dry-cleaned women’s suits in swaths of plastic. As subtly as possible, I surveyed the bags for Go-Gurts and Capri Suns. The lady drove, I kept my mouth shut and let her think I was Addison, who apparently lived in the brick behemoth at the intersection of Bayberry Court and Courtberry Vista. But just as I was jumping out of the car, my bindle got snagged on one of her dry-cleaning hangers and the contents of the bindle spilled out everywhere. My glitter glue, my acorn babies, my feather hair extensions, went flying. And of all things, the lady’s eyes fell right on my knife. She looked horrified. “Addison! What in the world—?! Is that—a weapon?!”
I grabbed my knife. We both panicked. She reached for her huge purse and suddenly I noticed that on the passenger seat beside her was a large, pristine-white box tied with ribbon. On the box a sticker said, “The Pie Factory: Genuine Homemade Pies—Apple Saffron.” PIE?!?!?!?! PIE. PIE!!!!!! THERE WAS PIE IN THAT BOX.
I’m not going to specifically say what happened next.
Let’s just say I stole the pie. And no one got hurt (not seriously, anyway). But I have a hunch it’ll be a while before that lady speaks to Addison’s parents again.
With the pie in one hand and my ragged bindle in the other, and the knife clenched in my teeth, I hightailed it out of MansionVille and ran all the way back down to Hobo Jungle. Where I was greeted with much fanfare and adoration. Stumptown Jim, who had finally, and victoriously, settled his arm-wrestling match, clapped me on the back like, you did it, kid. Tin Cap Earl, cramming pie into his face, went around getting all up in people’s grills like, how you gonna say my girl Tween Hobo’s a fake, yo. I regaled the guys with my violent tale and shared my pie with everybody. I didn’t get enough to feel quite full, but I felt full of something else. Friendship. Bravery. Self-respect. I still didn’t know who had written the insult about me (Toothpick Frank is illiterate, or that would have been a no-brainer), but I no longer cared. I knew I was just about as real as a Tween Hobo gets these days.
And that night, at the campfire, I burned the Burn Book.
More Like Laura Ingalls Gone Wilder
Fact: Little House on the Prairie is secretly gross and I can prove it. These are actual lines from the book. Rated M for Mature!
• “She had a naughty wish . . . to be bare naked . . . riding one of those gay little ponies.” What?!?!
• “The tiny dickie-birds were everywhere.” Are you joking?!
• “ ‘Oh, Charles!’ Ma said. ‘You scalawag!’ ” Charles = Pa. They are parents. Who are into each other.
• “I want a pa
poose.” Gross!
• “ ‘Oh, I got myself a plow,’ said Pa. ‘Warm weather’ll be here soon now, and I’ll be plowing.’ ”
Try Laura Ingalls Wildest!!!! This book is not PG.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/11
Don’t believe the hype—widows are not that easy to fool.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/12
Just bluffed a little lady in Sioux Falls outta some sweet-ass geodes.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/15
This actually is my first rodeo.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/16
As legend has it, jeans used to not be skinny.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/17
They say the best revenge is living well, but how about poisoning a well?
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/18
That thing where a bunch of hobos do a flash mob.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/19
My other flask is a Capri Sun.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/20
C.R.E.A.M. Cattle Roam Everywhere Around Me
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4/21
Reaping the bitter harvest of some poor FarmVille decisions
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4/22
A good Easter egg hunt should have the feel of a mini–gold rush.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/23
Teach me how to buggy, teach me teach me how to buggy.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to do Mad Libs.
Hobo Activities
Hardscrabble traveler like me finds plenty of ways to pass the time as I do my wandering. Here are some of my favorite rainy-day hobo activities:
• Old soup can + glitter pen = personalized soup can
• Rustle up some alphabet beads, make a name bracelet
• Canning and preserving fruit #ThatsMyJam
• Maple trees #IdTapThat
• Blind Man’s Bluff (Don’t hate the Blind Man, hate the Bluff)
• Ropemaking #DontGetItTwisted
• Draw Something is okay, but Carve Something would be better
• Rolling a hoop with a stick is the bomb dot biz
• IRL way to make a GIF: (1) carve into a birch tree; (2) blink one eye, then the other
Sometimes the other hobos have weird ideas about what’s “fun.” I’m surrounded by dice sharks and crapshooters and I just wanna play Uno! Or, worst case, some Muggle Quidditch.
• Nope, sorry, fellas, don’t play poker—thought you said Pokémon.
• Nope, sorry, fellas, don’t play pool—thought you said pool party.
• Nope, sorry, fellas, don’t bet on horses—I only bet on unicorns.
When I totally run out of ideas, I consult my phone. “Siri, what are some really dandy parlor games?” Or I try to get the guys to play kissing games. (One thing’s for sure—when you play Spin the Bottle with hobos, there are plenty of bottles.) But Stumptown Jim sucks at Truth or Dare—he always picks Truth. Anyway, like I said, I get by. I sure do a lot of Mad Libs (hint: always say boobs, even for an adjective!!). And here’s what I remind myself when I’m gambling and cardsharping: you gotta know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em—know when to startle your opponent with a baby Pokémon who wields unexpected abilities.
But this weekend I think I’m just gonna kick back and focus on my scrimshaw.
When life wears you down, Twi-harder.
April 25
* * *
Black Hills, South Dakota
Today I saw Mount Rushmore. It was all boys.
You know, when I left home, I was more of an indoor kid. But now that I’ve been traveling, sleeping outside, surviving however I can, I feel sort of closer to Nature. I feel that certain times of day are just so beautiful, I can’t help but feel glad to be alive. When the sun breaks over the horizon and the day begins. Or when the sun sinks down and the day darkens to a close.
Or the special hour of each day, usually around 2:00 p.m., that I spend thinking about Twilight.
Today I have found the perfect spot to do my thinking—a little hollow in the woods that could easily be the setting where, for the first time, Bella saw what happens to Edward when his vampire skin is exposed to sunlight.
Here is what happens: HE SPARKLES.
I think about this for half an hour.
Then I think about Jacob, Edward’s hot-blooded werewolf rival for Bella’s love. I think about how when he turns into a wolf, his jean shorts just magically disappear. I think about those vanished jean shorts. I wonder where they go.
Then I think about Bella. Bella Swan. I think about how it would feel to have a name like that. A name that basically translates to Beautiful Squared. I think about her pale, pale skin, her dark hair, her cool relationship with her dad, her red truck, her various hoodies.
Then I think about Renesmee.
My dear Pineapple Chloe (future daughter), how I shall cherish the day when I hand down to you my beloved Twilight books (and DVDs). I will probably make some kind of chart as well to hand down to you, which will explain the key facts of the Twilight universe. Together we shall look at the chart, as I say things like “You see, Pineapple, you are my daughter, just as Renesmee was Bella’s. But Renesmee was a human/vampire hybrid, whereas you are human/Bieber.”
I wonder which one of my future ex-boyfriends will, like Jacob, see my baby daughter and immediately imprint on her. I wonder if that will actually be kind of weird.
What I don’t want to think about, what I never want to think about, what pains me to the deepest pit of my soul, is the terrible fact that in Real Life, against every law of Love and in violation of Immortal Desire, K-Stew cheated on R-Patz. Bella cheated on Edward. The sun cheated on the moon.
When I think about this, a thunderstorm rages within me. Drops of sweat fall from my forehead onto this page. I get so mad at Kristen Stewart I want to smack her and look like her and wear her jacket and press my cheek against hers. #Feelings
I conclude my Twilight reverie with this. Note to self: when you’re old enough to date a hot vampire, do not take him for granted.
Time to head back to camp and see if Hot Johnny Two-Cakes sparkles in the sun.
And btw, I didn’t like The Hunger Games. Too realistic.
Tween Hobo
4/26
Might be hard for folks to call me lazy when I finish carving J-Biebz’s face into the side of this mountain.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/27
Tied to the train tracks. #FML
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/28
Oh, snap, brambles.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/29
Sixteen tons and what do you get, another day older and deeper in love with Justin Bieber.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
4/30
Ain’t had a Capri Sun this tasty since I left Omaha.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
5/1
The prettiest state is South Dakota Fanning.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
5/2
Today is Stumptown Jim’s birthday. I made him a gift certificate good for one companionable walk in the woods.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
5/3
The best towns are the towns that prioritize their taffy.
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5/4
Northern lights be lookin’ like a screen saver.
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5/5
I learned half my Torah portion riding the rods underneath a coal car from Butte to Cheyenne.
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5/6
Any hobo dance-battle movie worth its salt had best climax in a jig-off.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
5/7
This train is bound for glor
y, and I am bound to get my period . . . someday.
Sometimes I feel like the only reason people hop trains is so they can post pictures of themselves doing it on Facebook.
May 8
* * *
Cheyenne, Wyoming
Yesterday all the fellas caught the 3:15 to Reno and I couldn’t run fast enough to catch on—so now I got a bad case a’ hobo FOMO.
FOMO means Fear Of Missing Out. It’s pretty hard not to feel some FOMO when you’re stranded in the midst of endless prairie, lonely as sin, and all your homeys are lounging on the top deck of a train together, eating blueberries with their filthy fingers and instagramming the bejesus out of themselves.
Oh, and then you remember that your fifth-grade class got a tiny turtle whose head is even smaller than a strawberry and you haven’t even gotten to imprint on him yet.
Man, Toothpick Frank is the worst. He keeps “liking” every one of Stumptown Jim’s pictures, and writing little inside-jokey comments under them, like “LOL—we skinned that rat” or “Dude, where’s my hooch?!” He’s obviously trying to make me feel left out!!
Oh, no, he di-int. I just refreshed Facebook and now I see that Toothpick Frank has gone ahead and replaced his profile pic with a picture of him and Stumptown Jim.
They have their arms around each other and they’re joyously carousing! Oh, that’s enough. This is some straight-up treachery. And Stumptown Jim just liked it?!?!!?