Home late from work one night, I was met at the door by two hungry boys. Instead of just running out to Wendy’s or ordering a pizza, I announced that it was hobo night. I started pulling cans out of the cabinet and putting them in a paper bag. What are you making they wanted to know. Nothing. Hobos don’t make dinner, they eat whatever they can find —or steal. Zack asks, “What did we steal?” We stole a bag of canned goods, I explained. From the food pantry. That cheered them up. We went out back and sat on the deck with our bag of stolen food pantry loot, a pocket knife, and three spoons.
I told hobo stories about jumping freight cars and being chased through rail yards by the bulls. We picked some hobo names: Rhode Island Rob, Screwdriver, and Patchy. We dug into our beans and SpagettiOs. Alex ate half a can of sauerkraut. Desert was a big can of peaches. The moon was out and it was getting dark and it was good to be a hobo.
Rob Madeo writes this stuff.
rmadeo (at) gmail.com
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