by Tween Hobo
Here’s an example of how awesome my jail friends are. The other day, we were out playing softball in the prison yard, and I was pitching. Accidentally, I threw a wild corkscrew, underhand fastball that clocked the batter right in the face and broke her stupid nose. Because this batter just happened to be the same rat-faced girl who had hocked a loogie on my sponge cake the night before at dinner, it was assumed that I had thrown the ball at her nose in purposeful retaliation. The umpire (a prison guard) demanded that I apologize to Rat-Face, a request that I respectfully declined. Instead, I think I muttered something like “She knows what she did” and high-fived X-Box Mary. This was my mistake. The game was suspended and I was thrown in solitary.
Not more than half an hour passed in the hole before I heard some mysterious scratching and banging sounds in the darkness above my head. Ten minutes more and bits of the ceiling started drifting down into my eyes like gray snow. Hot Pockets had stolen a drill from the electrics closet, and these Bratz-level dolls had taken it upon themselves to figure out a way to sneak candy to me!!! Pretty soon the chink in the ceiling was big enough to slide a Pixy Stix through. They also lowered down some Red Vines, and a few candy cigarettes, which helped me relax. When I got out and thanked them, all they did was apologize for not getting the treats to me sooner. How sweet is that?!!
Yep, these girls are the best. I’m going to miss them when I get out of here tomorrow. Them being so nice to me almost takes the sting away from the fact that my best biffle in the known universe, Stumptown Jim, has deserted me. Almost. But not quite. Soon as I get back on the road, I’m gonna do whatever it takes to track Jim down and apologize for everything and—oh! It’s lights out! I have to put away my diary and prepare for court tomorrow and listen to the sound of Li’l Nikki crunching on bird bones through another sleepless night. She catches birds that fly into our cell and eats them raw. I’m like, you do you, Li’l Nikki :)
Tween Hobo
9/16
That’s so raven.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/17
Shivering in the cold wearing only a tattered shrug.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/18
Doing a Facebook Graph Search for “Wolf Packs” who “Live Nearby” and like “Human Orphans.”
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/19
Doing another Facebook Graph Search, this one for “Widows” interested in “Pie-Making” who like “Nut Allergy Awareness.”
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/20
Looking for a cool and responsible personal assistant to help organize my twigs.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/21
Atomic Fireballs are like candy to me.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/22
Edward Cullen is immortal. Me, I’m just immoral.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/23
Stars without makeup look just as pretty. #nightsky
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/24
Siri, where can I pawn a miniature wood-and-metal ice-cream maker?
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/25
They kicked me out of Girl Scouts cuz I was too good at starting fires.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/26
Oh, if only I could eat the pizza emoji :(
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/27
This old dog won’t stop yelping. Like I care if he got good service at some local bistro?
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/28
At the racetrack, putting it all down on a My Little Pony.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/29
This white tree tried to get all up in my face and I was like “birch please.”
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/30
This poplar tried to leave me out of her clique.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
10/1
Slang term for a girl who you date because she’s smart: your “thinkpiece.”
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
10/2
Spinning around in circles got me TURNT!!!!
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
10/3
Tom Sawyer got me feelin’ some type’a way.
I’m only twelve. But I’m a hard twelve.
October 6
* * *
Four Corners National Monument, AZ / CO / UT / NM (what what)
Four states at once. How you like me now?!!
It’s my birthday. I’m officially twelve. And I’m at a truck stop in northern Arizona with not one single present and nobody here to sing “Happy Birthday” to me. Which is fine. I hate that song.
So, you’re probably wondering how the crap I got out of jail. Well, it was easier than drawing a 3D cube (which I am good at). They hauled me back to the courthouse for my “community review,” then proceeded, logically enough, to pay no attention to me. The judge was chatting with the lawyers in her Chamber of Secrets (copyright J. K. Rowling), and the two police officers on duty were busy grooming each other. Like a true drifter, I had my eye on the main chance—so when I saw the door yawn slightly ajar, I skedaddled. Just snuck right out of the courtroom, left the building, and tootled across the street to a Gap Kids, where I was able to shed my prison garb and reassemble my street look (jeggings and flannel), thanks to the beneficence of a broken-armed clerk named Jeannette, who, like me, had done hard time in the Denver Juvenile Justice System and was all, we are the 99 percent, let me get you that purple wash in a kid’s-size ten. As soon as I was properly styled again and had thanked Jeannette for her kindness by tagging a bunch of hearts and peace signs on her cast, I dodged out through the back door and darted from alley to alley, till I found my way to the rail yards, instinctively. I never even heard an alarm go off at the courthouse. They were probably relieved to get the strange case of Clementine O’Bama wiped off their docket.
At the rail yards, I searched around for my homeys—Tin Cap Earl, Hot Johnny, heck, even Toothpick Frank woulda been a joyful sight. But I saw nobody. Seemed like I’d been ditched. Miles away, I could already hear the rumble of the next train approaching. In all my time traveling, I’d never yet had to catch out solo. Stumptown Jim had always been there, by my side, ready to help pull me up into an open boxcar or fight off a lousy railroad bull while I hid behind an oil drum. And now he’d left me, high and dry. Well, what was it he’d said to me? “The only thing you can truly call your own is yourself.” I guess I was about to learn that lesson now, like for reals. Feeling superdepressed, I kicked the dirt. And then I noticed something.
Lines. Symbols. Hobo code. A message was written in the dirt.
I backed up to where I could make out the whole thing, and here’s what it said, in translation: “Headed south. Catch out here. There are thieves about. Be prepared to defend yourself. Don’t give up. Best Friends For Life.” And it was signed with the initials S.J.
I wiped a tear from my eye. I was so happy to know that Stumptown Jim was out there, somewhere, and that he still considered me his BFFL, even though we obvs had issues. But on the other hand, where the heck was he?! “Headed south,” he’d said, but that was pretty vague, and it wasn’t entirely clear from his note whether he wanted me to come after him—whether he ever expected to see me again. It was tough having such a weather- beaten, taciturn adult man as my bosom friend. But Jim was Jim. And I loved him. And somehow, some way, I would track him down.
I heard the train, louder and faster, a-coming (that just means “coming”). Thinking fast, I deactivated the LED lights on my sneakers, so as not to attract unwanted attention. And I ran like blazes.
Aaaaaannnddd . . . now I’m here. In the desert. Or plateau, or whatever you want to call it. Basically, it’s a truck stop just down the highway from the Four Corners National Monument. It’s pretty desolate, just me and a few truckers and the Navajo elder who runs the convenience store. Oh—and there’s also one of tho
se inflatable dancing-tube guys. He’s bright red, with flaming yellow streamers for hair, and a crazy smile. I’ve been watching him dance for an hour now. He has a strange kind of wisdom about him. I think maybe he’s a shaman.
Which, if he is, I could use some spiritual guidance. I know I said originally that I was out on the road to find my brother, but things have changed. It’s gotten complicated. There’s Mr. Brink to think about. And Jim. Right now I feel like if I don’t find Jim, my heart will basically implode. Anyway, the crazy tube guy knows all about my situation, because he was listening (and dancing) the entire time I was on the phone. Just now. When it buzzed and I saw my parents’ landline number, I assumed they were just calling to say happy birthday and maybe, in their zombie way, to try and have a “check-in” with me about when I might be returning. But when I picked up, I got a big surprise. “Guess what!” said my mom, sounding human and alive. “Your brother is home!”
My heart thumped. Before I could collect my thoughts, my mom goes, “You’re on speakerphone. Evan! Sweetheart! Come say happy birthday to your sister! And tell her how much you miss her, okay!” I heard a groan, and then footsteps. And then I heard my brother’s voice.
“Happy bee-day, Sister Act. Where you been?”
“Evan!” I yelped. “Where have I been?! I’ve been out looking for you!”
“Well, I’m home now. You should come home too.”
“Are you just saying that because Mom told you to? Or do you actually care?”
“Ha, ha.” I heard him take me off speaker. His voice came through directly into my ear, familiar and ropey as the hammock in our backyard. “Hey. I actually miss you, okay? Who am I supposed to play Battleship with?”
“You hate that game.”
“Fine. Then Mastermind. I don’t hate Mastermind.”
“Yeah.” I looked up at Crazy Dancing Tube Guy. He smiled his crazy smile and jammed silently in the hot sun.
Evan coughed. “Listen. I’m sorry I messed up. I know it’s been rough on you. But things are way better now. I promise. Even Mom and Dad think so.”
“Are they being weird? Or normal?”
“Define normal. They’re pretty upbeat. We’ve been binge- watching science documentaries together.”
“Oh,” I said, picturing it. “That sounds boring-slash-cozy.”
“Exactly. So come home, will you? We need to stick together. I mean, since the bees are going extinct and the ice caps are melting.”
I thought about it. Part of me wanted to launch myself like a Nerf Rocket all the way across the country straight into that supersmushy corner of the couch. But another part of me wasn’t sure. If I went home now, I’d never find Stumptown Jim. Of course, I might never find him anyway, even if I roamed and rambled for the rest of my days. But what had his note said? “Don’t give up.” I didn’t want to give up on him. And what about Mr. Brink? How could I return to Charlottesville without any proof that I’d found his long-lost brother? And speaking of Mr. Brink, something else was on my mind.
“If I come home, do I have to go back to school?” I asked my brother.
Evan repeated the question to my mom, who was still hovering in the background. I could hear her, so there was no need for him to repeat her instantaneous answer, but he did. “Mom says that’s a yes.”
Well, that decided it. I’m way too burdened right now to handle that. I have a lot on my plate. (Unfortunately, none of it is food, but I’m sure I can manage to scare up some grub—aka pinch some Combos from the convenience store.) “Cool,” I said to my brother, lying through my teeth. “Sounds great. I’m coming home right away. Catch you guys on the flip side!”
“Wait!” said Evan. “Mom wants to know—where are you? Do you need to be picked up? Can you drop her a pin on Google Maps with your location?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll make my own way back. I’ll get over the hump. It’s tough, but I’m living fine. Got my eye on the main chance. And the sky’s the limit.”
“Wait—what?”.
“GTG. Laters.” And I hung up. Crazy Dancing Tube Guy beamed down on me, in total approval of my decision.
I stood there, in the blazing sun, secretly hoping that Tube Guy would speak to me. Tell me something. Where to go next. Where to find my friend. I clasped my hands in nondenominational prayer. “O Great Dancing Tube Guy!” I intoned (deciding it was best not to call him Crazy). “O wise one! I need your help! Guide me, o wise and inflatable one. Aid me on my quest!” I threw open my arms to the heat and emptiness of the sky, and I threw open my mind to the possibility of shamanic healing.
Then I heard something. A kind of singing. It was coming from the tube.
The singing, at first, was no more than a low hum. It might only have been the hum of the Tube Guy’s motor-blower thingy—but then, suddenly, it raised and distilled itself into a voice.
The voice said, “Listen.”
I threw my arms out even wider and called back, “I’m listening!”
The voice said, “Listen . . . to the wind . . .”
I listened hard, as if my whole body was an ear. (In which case I hope it would be pierced.) There was the low hum of the motor again. And then—a kind of—whimpering?
I got closer. Tube Guy whipped and twisted. The whimpering sharpened into a little howl. I realized that it was not coming from inside the tube, but from the patchy sagebrush at its base. It was a distinctly adorable little howl.
I whistled, not even daring to hope. And then my Worst Birthday turned into the Best Birthday Ever.
Out from the brush scampered a Dream Come True, in the form of a retriever-Chihuahua mix. A PUPPEH so drop-dead trusty and lovable that I can’t even give her a name. I just have to call her the Greatest Little Dog in America. TGLDIA, for short. Stop the presses, folks. Picture an old-timey newspaper spinning straight into your face. Headline: GIRL MEETS DOG. DOG SAVES THE DAY!
Me and TGLDIA are standing on the side of the road now, trying to thumb a ride to somewhere with pancakes. I gave her a squirt of my Capri Sun, and she’s wagging her tail in delight. I can still see Crazy Dancing Tube Guy, grinning in the distance. I’m a twelve-year-old ex-con and a dropout, but something tells me I’m doing everything right!
I’m gonna find Stumptown Jim, and in the meantime, I’m gonna survive out here like a total champ. Just me and my little dog. Hoboz 4 Life!
Tween Hobo Dos and Don’ts: DO wear UGGs with shorts; DON’T sell out to the Man.
The Greatest Little Dog in America
Look at my dog and tell me she’s not TGLDIA.
I mean come on. She’s criminally ADORABLE!!!!!
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
10/8
The Colorado plateau looks like a desktop background.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
10/9
When does the selfie become the self? #philosophy
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
10/10
Happened by a dig on the site of an old Southwestern village, found some pottery shards and a weird gray thing called a “Game Boy.”
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
10/11
How can this be a peace pipe? It doesn’t even have any peace signs.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
10/12
Today I gave myself a Native American name: Little Feather Hair Extensions.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
10/13
I never pass up the opportunity to get my face painted.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
10/14
Traveling circuses can be more trouble than they’re worth.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
10/15
Ran across a Gypsy woman. I think she got her scarf at Urban Outfitters.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
10/16
Reading my tweets aloud to these Gypsies.
Kickstarter
Name of Project: TWEEN HOBO’S LIFE
0 Backers
$1 Pledged of $1,000,0
00,000 goal, Infinity Days to Go (or Till I Die)
The Pitch
* * *
If Veronica Mars can do it, so can I. I’m a twelve-year-old self-producer, trying to get by in these tough times and stay independent. Help keep a grand American tradition alive—the tradition of me not starving to death, and also not having to do any math.
The Project
* * *
Surviving on the road. Evading the cops. Posting lip-gloss tutorials to YouTube. These are just a few of the many endeavors that make up the bold undertaking of my life. A life that you can support, with your donation, today.
So give something. Take a risk. It’s worth it.
“If I’m scared, be scared. Allow it. Release it.”
—Beyoncé Knowles
How Funds Will Be Spent