amongst themselves. “Awfully fancy duds for a ’bo,” said one.
“Too soft for a bull,” said another.
“Must be a punk,” said a third. He turned and called out to me—“Hey kid, where’s yer jocker?”
They all laughed. I didn’t know it at the time, but a jocker is an old hobo who lords over a young boy—or punk—forcing him to beg for handouts and do things you couldn’t pay me to describe.
As I tried to explain myself, a Negro in a black overcoat walked over from the other side of the car and put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t waste your breath on these buzzards. They ain’t worth a fart in a whirlwind.”
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a face creased and oily like worn leather. Between his white whiskers and lively eyes, he looked both ancient and ageless—a look I’ve only seen in black men. Atop his head was a frayed derby, just like Chaplin’s.
“Name’s Craw,” he said. “What’s your moniker?”
“Tobias. Tobias Henry.”
He shook his head. “That’ll never do, greenhorn. If you want to be a hobo, first thing you need is a proper moniker. Where you from?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t know the place,” I said.
“Try me, kid—I’ve been everywhere.”
“Remus.”
Craw looked up and scratched the whiskers under his chin.
“It’s in Michigan,” I said, trying to help him out.
“Damned if you’ve haven’t stumped me,” he said. “Now—where was I … ?”
“You were saying I needed a moniker.”
“Ah, yes.” He put his left hand on my shoulder. “I hereby christen you … the Remus Kid .”
I wished he hadn’t. It was embarrassing enough to be from Remus. Even worse to be called Remus.
“How about Glen Rose, Texas,” I asked. “Ever been there?”
“Sure have. In fact, I’m headed that way now—to Oklahoma, maybe on to Fort Worth.”
My eyes widened. I didn’t even know which train I needed to hop. But if I could follow this veteran …
“Mind if I tag along?” I asked.
“I’d enjoy the company.”
When I held out my hand to shake, Craw pulled his right arm out of his pocket and held up a steel hook. “Lost it twenty years ago in Cincy,” he said. “Last time I ever tried to shake hands with a brakeman.” I shuddered at the thought—and the sight. “I assure you I’m quite harmless,” he said. “Unless prodded, provoked, or otherwise perturbed.”
+ + +
We milled around for a while, till a whistle moaned in the distance. Everyone quieted down and straightened up. It was the Southern, Craw said, and that meant we were getting on board. “The metal will be slick—for God’s sake and your mama’s, step lively.”
As I followed Craw towards the door, one of the hoboes laughed. “Looks like the punk found himself a jocker.”
“Better watch out for ol’ Craw,” another told me. “He’ll bugger anything with two legs.”
Craw flashed his hook. “Shut your grub hole, or this’ll be up your arse.” The ’bo stopped laughing and backed off. “I’ll have you know,” Craw continued, “I’ve met some very fine one-legged women in my day. I even bagged a three-legger once, out in Frisco.” He paused. “Ah, the things she could do with that leg.”
Great—I was about to climb into a boxcar with an old pervert. Craw turned and gave me a wink—whether to assuage my fears or confirm them, I wasn’t sure.
The whistle blew again, much louder. “So when you jump,” I asked, “what exactly do you grab hold of?”
“A ladder,” Craw said. “if you can find one. Just stick behind me and do just as I do. That is, unless I fall. If that happens, do the opposite.”
As the train approached, it rattled the shed like an earthquake. The hoboes waited inside till the engine rolled by, so as not to be seen by the engineer. Then they spilled out the door and scampered like a pack of gray rats toward the train.
One man turned around and pushed his way back inside. “It’s rainin’ like Billy-be-damned out there. I
“Too soft for a bull,” said another.
“Must be a punk,” said a third. He turned and called out to me—“Hey kid, where’s yer jocker?”
They all laughed. I didn’t know it at the time, but a jocker is an old hobo who lords over a young boy—or punk—forcing him to beg for handouts and do things you couldn’t pay me to describe.
As I tried to explain myself, a Negro in a black overcoat walked over from the other side of the car and put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t waste your breath on these buzzards. They ain’t worth a fart in a whirlwind.”
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a face creased and oily like worn leather. Between his white whiskers and lively eyes, he looked both ancient and ageless—a look I’ve only seen in black men. Atop his head was a frayed derby, just like Chaplin’s.
“Name’s Craw,” he said. “What’s your moniker?”
“Tobias. Tobias Henry.”
He shook his head. “That’ll never do, greenhorn. If you want to be a hobo, first thing you need is a proper moniker. Where you from?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t know the place,” I said.
“Try me, kid—I’ve been everywhere.”
“Remus.”
Craw looked up and scratched the whiskers under his chin.
“It’s in Michigan,” I said, trying to help him out.
“Damned if you’ve haven’t stumped me,” he said. “Now—where was I … ?”
“You were saying I needed a moniker.”
“Ah, yes.” He put his left hand on my shoulder. “I hereby christen you … the Remus Kid .”
I wished he hadn’t. It was embarrassing enough to be from Remus. Even worse to be called Remus.
“How about Glen Rose, Texas,” I asked. “Ever been there?”
“Sure have. In fact, I’m headed that way now—to Oklahoma, maybe on to Fort Worth.”
My eyes widened. I didn’t even know which train I needed to hop. But if I could follow this veteran …
“Mind if I tag along?” I asked.
“I’d enjoy the company.”
When I held out my hand to shake, Craw pulled his right arm out of his pocket and held up a steel hook. “Lost it twenty years ago in Cincy,” he said. “Last time I ever tried to shake hands with a brakeman.” I shuddered at the thought—and the sight. “I assure you I’m quite harmless,” he said. “Unless prodded, provoked, or otherwise perturbed.”
+ + +
We milled around for a while, till a whistle moaned in the distance. Everyone quieted down and straightened up. It was the Southern, Craw said, and that meant we were getting on board. “The metal will be slick—for God’s sake and your mama’s, step lively.”
As I followed Craw towards the door, one of the hoboes laughed. “Looks like the punk found himself a jocker.”
“Better watch out for ol’ Craw,” another told me. “He’ll bugger anything with two legs.”
Craw flashed his hook. “Shut your grub hole, or this’ll be up your arse.” The ’bo stopped laughing and backed off. “I’ll have you know,” Craw continued, “I’ve met some very fine one-legged women in my day. I even bagged a three-legger once, out in Frisco.” He paused. “Ah, the things she could do with that leg.”
Great—I was about to climb into a boxcar with an old pervert. Craw turned and gave me a wink—whether to assuage my fears or confirm them, I wasn’t sure.
The whistle blew again, much louder. “So when you jump,” I asked, “what exactly do you grab hold of?”
“A ladder,” Craw said. “if you can find one. Just stick behind me and do just as I do. That is, unless I fall. If that happens, do the opposite.”
As the train approached, it rattled the shed like an earthquake. The hoboes waited inside till the engine rolled by, so as not to be seen by the engineer. Then they spilled out the door and scampered like a pack of gray rats toward the train.
One man turned around and pushed his way back inside. “It’s rainin’ like Billy-be-damned out there. I
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