“Does it ever quiet down?” I yell into his ear.
“Sometimes,” he yells back. “These tracks are old.”
The car is full of hay bales. We sit on one and wait.
Eventually the screeching lessens as the train maintains a regular pace straight down the tracks. The setting sun reflects on the hay, turning it golden. Now it feels calm. Now it feels free.
Snake stands on one of the bales and peers over the rim of the car. “Come look,” he says.
I stand next to him. To the left I see a highway in the distance. To the right a round, faint moon is rising over the forest. With the wind in my hair and the stars starting to blink above us, I feel alive. Snake brushes my fingers and then our fingers intertwine. We stand like that for a few minutes.
“We shouldn’t be in sight,” Snake says. “I just wanted you to see how beautiful it is.”
We go back to the safety of the interior and lie down.
Every once in a while the train exhales like a giant whale and I jump, but we are safe in our boxcar, plowing through the night mile after mile. I look over at Snake. He is asleep. He looks peaceful. At home.
At some point during the night the train stops and the last few cars are separated. The first half of the train moves on and our section is left on the tracks, motionless and completely silent.
Eventually another engine arrives and attaches itself with a lot of grinding and screeching as we shift onto another track. I hear people milling around and calling out orders.
Snake opens his eyes. He puts his finger to his lips and shakes his head. These must be the rail bulls he was talking about. Shadow starts to growl, and I hold his snout to keep him quiet. We all shrink behind the bales of hay, out of sight should anyone come peeking in.
It seems like forever, but finally someone shouts: “Ready to go!”
The engine starts pumping, the whistle blows, and with unsteady, jerky motions we rattle down the tracks again.
When I awake, the sky is blushing pink. The train is moving in rhythm.
“Morning,” Snake says, handing me one of the Danishes he brought from the motel. He’s given the dogs food and water already, and they are licking their lips in post-breakfast delight. “We get off in a few minutes,” he says.
We get off much more easily than we got on. One simple jump and we are back on ground as the train carries on.
We cross a dirt road, and Snake looks around in the bushes for something.
“Aha,” he says, locating a flat wooden stake with a red dot painted on it. He moves back some brush to expose a narrow trail. It is so well hidden, you’d never know it was there if you didn’t know to look for it. I guess that’s the idea.
The trail goes along a river. We stop and have a drink, wash our faces. The sun sparkles on the water. I feel better than I have in a long, long time. Even the dogs are happy, bounding through the woods.
Soon I hear faint music and the whir of a small motor. The sounds get stronger and we come to a clearing where a large plank is propped up by some heavy rocks. Carved into it are the words WELCOME TO HOBO TOWN.
We enter a village of rambling shacks. A man sits on a tree stump using some kind of welding tool to put together a bicycle frame. That’s what makes the whirring noise. Another man sits in a rickety lawn chair turning the knobs of a transistor radio and scanning stations. He nods hello as we walk by.
Some of the shacks are sturdy little cabins with windows; some are nothing more than a piece of tarp draped over a branch or slabs of metal perched around some posts. Some are big enough for an entire family; others could barely hold a sleeping bag.
And people—some old, but mostly young, men and women, even children. Hippies and punksters are all mixed together. Most of the shacks have boxes and piles of electronics scattered around. Lots of computer stuff like Snake had, but also old radios, televisions, DVD players, headsets. I wonder if they all make sculptures out of them like Snake.
One man sits at a picnic table with a set of tools and a completely gutted ancient laptop. All the little pieces are laid out on the table like a puzzle. It looks like he’s trying to put it back together. Not too far away two women are fixing musical instruments that look like little guitars.
There are a few dogs lazing around. A shaggy shepherd comes over and sniffs Shadow. They wag tails and have a playful tussle while Pity zips around exploring everything.
“What is this place?” I whisper to Snake.
“It’s a community—a big family. Don’t worry. Everyone here is cool,” he says.
“Hey, Snake.” A guy with a Mohawk stops chopping wood for a second and waves. “You back for good? Bringing a newbie?”
Snake shakes his head. “I’m looking for Onion.”
“He’s here. Doing the family thing with Dumpling. They’re at the end of lane six.” The guy gestures left down another row of shacks.
Snake and I pass more dwellings. No one is quite like the other.
“You lived here?” I whisper.
“Off and on,” he says. “It was a good place at the time. Before …” His voice trails off and he gets wistful for a moment. I know he is thinking of something, but I know not to ask.
Instead I ask, “Is this where you got your name?” I guess this based on the names I’ve already heard. What parents name their kids Onion and Dumpling?
Snake nods. “Among other things. Everyone here has a past they want to forget, and no one cares what it is.”
I should fit in, I think. I already have a new name and a past I can’t remember. “Does everyone make sculpture here?” I ask.
“No. I was the only one who did that. Most people take broken things apart and put them back together so they work again. Then they sell them. They’re tinkers.”
The last place we come to consists of a sturdy tarp nailed over some boards with a flat roof to make a little square, plastic house. Some laundry is draped over the low tree branches. An old refrigerator lies on its side covered with boxes, dishes, and food. There are a few thick tree stumps around it for chairs. It looks like a campsite made from leftovers.
A big tall guy with a cascade of blond dreadlocks is sitting on one of the stumps working on something very small. He holds up a tiny gear and blows on it, then puts it back. It’s a watch. He brings it to his ear and smiles.
The guy stands when he sees us and pats Snake on the back. He’s not wearing a shirt, and he is toned and muscular. Even though he clearly hasn’t bathed in a while, he is alarmingly gorgeous.
“Dude!” he says cheerfully. “So nice of you to drop by. Dumpling, look who it is!”
A little boy runs out from the tent. He comes right to Snake like he’s about to hug him but stops short and stares instead. Pity runs over and the boy laughs and rolls on the ground. Pity jumps on top of him while Shadow noses around them.
“Hi, Snake.” A petite woman with a shaved head and a lip ring comes over. She is dressed like a hippie in a long skirt and a loose, flowered T-shirt. A spider web tattoo creeps down her neck and into the top of her T-shirt. I wonder how far down it goes. I can’t help staring at it. Her eyes flutter downward when Snake asks her how she is, and then they flutter over to me.
Before Snake can say anything, the dreadlocks guy grips him in a headlock and pummels the top of his head.
Snake is small in comparison, but he wriggles himself free and grabs him back. They wrestle for a minute, while I stand there feeling awkward.
Finally they stop and the guy slaps Snake playfully and says, “What’s shaking out there in the real world? Who’s this chickie with you?”
Snake introduces us. This is his friend Onion.
Onion says, “Welcome to Hobo Town, Blue. Or Paradise as some like to call it.” He squeezes the woman’s shoulder. “This here is the divine Dumpling.” He points to the boy, who is now trying to escape Pity’s kisses. “And this wild boy is Cracker Jack.”
Cracker Jack jumps up when he hears his name and holds out his hand t
o display all five fingers. “I’m two,” he says.
Dumpling says, “Yes, you’re two, Cracker Jack, but that is five fingers.” She folds down three of his fingers, then holds up her own two fingers. “This is two. Two is a good number because it is also the sign for peace.”
“Tree,” says Cracker Jack, holding up his whole hand again.
“Two,” says Dumpling, folding his fingers back to two.
“Five,” says Cracker Jack, and falls into a fit of giggles. He points to Pity and Shadow and says: “Doggie, two. Peace. Tree.” Then he points to me and says, “Boo!”
“Yes, I’m Blue,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you, Cracker Jack.”
Cracker Jack pokes himself and says, “Wild boy!”
Everyone laughs. Cracker Jack thumps his chest, quite pleased with himself. Then he runs around the house with Pity and Shadow in a game of chase.
“Are you guys still hopping?” Snake asks.
“Not anymore,” Dumpling says. “Not with Cracker Jack. It’s way too dangerous.”
“I go sometimes,” Onion says, glancing at Dumpling. “But only for a short joy ride here and there. We’re family folk now.” He holds up the watch he was fixing. “I’m the watch man. You need a new watch, come to me. Guaranteed to tick till it breaks.”
Dumpling turns to me. She can’t be more than twenty-five, but she gives me a motherly look. A look of worry and concern, care and love, mixed with a touch of annoyance. For some reason she makes me think of my own mother, and I am suddenly overcome with sadness.
“Was this your first time hopping?” she asks.
I nod.
Dumpling smiles. “Ah, the first time is so special. Would you go again?”
I start to say I’m only going home, when Onion interjects. “You got to be careful. You’re a newbie. Newbies make mistakes. Ruin it for the rest of us.”
“Blue’s a natural,” Snake says. “She did great for her first time.” He doesn’t mention that I almost didn’t make it. “Besides, she’s only catching one more ride, not making it a lifestyle.”
Onion gives me a warning look. “Riding isn’t kid stuff. Some punkster newbie lost his legs recently. Slipped while trying to get on, and the train ran right over him. Stuff like that makes the bulls come out in force. Plus it’s a reminder to everyone that it’s a dangerous sport.”
Dumpling touches Onion’s arm. “Stop scaring her,” she says. “We were all new once. Even you. Remember?”
He shrugs Dumpling off but then smiles, completely changing moods. “Just make sure you’re careful, Blue. You’ve got to avoid bulls like the plague. Wear dark clothes.” He glances at my Converse. “We’ll have to find you some better shoes, too. You might need to run.”
I can run, I think, but don’t say anything out loud. Onion seems like the kind of guy who’s easily offended.
“How long are you staying?” Dumpling asks.
“Just tonight,” Snake says. “I’ve got to get back to the motel, and Blue, well, she’s got to be somewhere, too.”
“Well, you’ll be here for supper, then.” Dumpling claps. “We love supper guests in Hobo Town.”
Cracker Jack bolts from behind the house and claps, too. “Boo for supper!”
An hour later Dumping leaves Cracker Jack with the guys and leads me through Hobo Town. Shadow follows quietly, faithfully.
“We’ll check the train schedule at Cannonball’s,” Dumpling tells me. “Then we can get stuff for supper.”
Hobo Town is even more extensive than I thought. I only saw two rows of shacks on the way in, but they go on and on.
Dumpling tells me there are six lanes that make up Hobo Town and at any given time about fifty people living here. “Hobo Town has been here three years,” Dumpling says. “It’s one of the longest and the biggest.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“We’re a family of misfits. People who don’t fit anywhere else fit here. We all do something to keep us going. Some people pass through for a couple nights and then go back out on the trains; some settle for longer. The last town we had was west of here, but we were found out and it was destroyed after only a couple months.”
I stop short. “What do you mean, destroyed?”
“Let’s just say there was a mass cleansing. It wasn’t pretty. Smoke bombs, tear gas, shootings, fire. Rail bulls ran us out. We had to leave everything behind. Start over.”
“That’s awful. Really awful,” I say.
“Onion and some of the others went back a few days later, but the bulls destroyed everything. I think that’s why he gets so uptight. He saw the remains.” She looks askance for a second, then perks up and goes on. “So we settled here. It’s way better, and so far”—she knocks on a tree—“so good.”
“You lost everything?” I ask.
She shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “People shouldn’t have so much stuff in the first place. Most of it is useless or purely sentimental. You wouldn’t believe what people throw away, and so much of it is perfectly good, or at least fixable. We find what others have tossed, and we make it new again. And then we sell it on eBay. It’s kind of ironic when you think about it. I’m against stuff, but then I fix stuff and sell it to people so they have more stuff.” She laughs. “At least what we make is from already made things.”
I’ve been surviving on so little that it makes me wonder about all the stuff I used to have. I had a lot, maybe I still do somewhere, but how much of it do I even care about in the long run? I don’t really miss any of it. I miss other things more. Like the ocean. My home. My parents. Jake?
Dumpling stops in front of a trailer. It looks ancient, except there’s a weird shiny metal panel attached to the roof.
A man in overalls with a gray ponytail and a kind, wrinkly face stands on the porch. This must be Cannonball. He nods to me and asks, “Are you a newbie? Are you staying or passing through?” He sounds like he was almost expecting me.
“Passing through,” I say.
He lets out a sad sigh. “No one stays anymore.”
“We’ve stayed,” Dumpling says. “And some others.”
Cannonball pats her on the arm. “And we love you for it.”
Dumpling introduces us and asks if we can use the computer to check the train schedule. “Blue’s not joy-riding,” she explains. “She needs to get somewhere specific.”
“Hopping is a dangerous sport,” Cannonball says, but he opens the door and we go in.
There is a long desk with a computer, a printer, and even a scanner, and a group of men and women working around it. A couple of guys are photographing some musical instruments in one corner of the room. One woman is using the scanner, and another is on the computer. It looks like a regular office. They live like hoboes, but they can still access the Internet and run a business. Apparently the thing on the roof is a solar panel, so Cannonball has electricity and everything, as long as there’s enough sun.
Cannonball shoos the woman off the computer and checks the schedule. I just missed a train going all the way north and east. The next one isn’t until tomorrow night.
“The first stop comes up right away,” Cannonball says. “But it’s the second one you have to watch. It’s a layover. You could be sitting there an hour or more, right under the nose of bulls. You have to be extra cautious.”
I don’t really pay attention to the warnings. All I can think is, I will be home.
Hobo Town is like its own little world separated from the real one, existing by its own people and rules. Behind Cannonball’s place is another trailer. This one is full of food, like a grocery store. Mostly canned goods and things that won’t spoil. Dumpling fills one bag, leaves a note with what she took and some money in a metal can near the door. Behind that trailer is a large garden where we pick tons of zucchini squash.
“What do you do in the winter?” I ask.
“Pure Pete brings in fruit and veggies and other perishables once a week in his truck.” She points to tire tracks be
yond the garden. “That’s the only road.”
Our bags are pretty heavy by now, but it still doesn’t look like enough for fifty people. “Do we need more?” I ask.
“No. Each lane works separately. We’re only having dinner with the nine or so on lane six.”
Dinner is delicious. Rice and beans with squash and bread. People chip in and help cook over an open fire pit with a grill, and all sit around and eat like a big family meal.
“This is the best food I’ve ever had,” I say. I mean it, too.
Everyone is nice to me, giving me second helpings, welcoming me, asking if I’m staying.
A guy nearby breaks out a guitar. It’s just what I would imagine a hobo setting would be like, except it’s so pleasant and homelike, and I wouldn’t have imagined that.
The kids take turns picking up Cracker Jack, who is the youngest, and cooing to him. He enjoys it for about five minutes and then starts whining and crying till Dumpling takes him back and cradles him. Pity, on the other hand, doesn’t mind constant attention from small hands, so the kids turn to her. Shadow lies next to me and watches it all.
When the guy finishes with the guitar, he hands it to Snake.
“Play us one, Snake,” he says.
Cracker Jack squirms on his mother’s lap and says, “Pay. Snake. Pay.”
Snake strums the guitar, then starts singing a kids’ song called “Puff, the Magic Dragon.” I know the song. I had a CD of it along with some other kids’ ballads when I was little. Sometimes I listened to it in my room when I couldn’t sleep.
The kids come sit around Snake, and he asks them to sing along with the chorus. They do, wide-eyed and happy. It’s a long, sad song about a boy and a dragon who are friends until one day the boy stops visiting the dragon and the dragon cries himself to death. The kids don’t seem to mind how sad it is, but when Snake gets to the part about Puff ceasing his fearless roar and crying dragon-scale tears I want to cry. But I don’t.
Finally the song is over. The kids hoot and holler, then resume running around.
Snake comes back over and sits.
“You’re really good,” I tell him.
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