Hobo

Yes, a hobo. I’ve always aspired to be a hobo.

Even now, after twenty years of serving the Humanities Department as Professor Emeritus of Psychological and Psycic Abominations at Pacific Tech, Malibu, I have never lost my desire to ride the rails and pitch for coin.

Sadly, when retirement dawned, that opportunity nearly dissolved on that day when I was led to the curb by security and left to the streets with hardly a golden handshake. This, for simply wearing tights and a tutu when teaching class during my last semester of lecturing. It was merely a matter of self-expression that the board chose not to acknowledge, and no lawyer chose to defend against the University’s deep pockets.

The so-called Golden Handshake they offered tarnished quickly in my palms. This “settlement”, received under duress, was less a key to the city than a free pass to the dumpster for diving at the mall. By the time the lawyers bit into the settlement, I was living in my car next to campus and hitting up ex-students for change.

Within a year, I earned my stick and bundled a few possessions into a neat sack tied to its end. I tied a kerchief to my neck, found a floppy hat, and I was riding the rails and snatching cooling pies from window sills. I was content and on my way somewhere, anywhere, what did it matter?

I found that bankruptcy made estate planning simpler. My Social Security number was voided due lack of interest. Even AARP stopped hounding me. My car, containing my earthly belongings, was impounded one day when I was sponge bathing in the Unocal restroom. Instantly, I no longer had transportation or a place to sleep. I hadn’t fallen through the cracks; I had tripped into a pit of despair.

Fortunately, I wasn’t homeless for long. Within a week, a kind and well-meaning social worker discovered me fighting pigeons for scraps at McDonald’s. She helped me to fill out some paperwork, which raised my social status from homeless to houseless, with the potential of being elevated to unsheltered status. I could also opt for the Federal Plan and seek shelterless status or simply an aimless designation (formally known as shiftless).

Ever the romantic, and weary of academia and the prestige and clutter of big city life, I leaned more towards rural titles. The likes of lifestyles I’d never held. I began my newfound independence from society as a vagrant, but soon discovered a better vocation at being a hobo, as it had been my youthful quest, and the humble title had more charm.

There’s a whole silent brotherhood of hobos, secret codes, passwords, an official history, heroes, and even legends like John Muir, Henry Thoreau, and the likes of John the Baptist. Other pioneering men, Jim Bridger, Jeremiah Johnson, and even Rocky Racoon, are icons of hobo lore.

I, for one, knew my limit. I had no intentions to repeat my fame, I had no desire to remain trapped in that past guise of renowned author and Nobel Laureate. No, my goal was even simpler than finding Narvana. By the time I felt truly confident on the wayward trail as a full-time practiced hobo, then, and only then, I would aspire and claim legend status as an international vagabond, and worldly barouque freeloader.

However, those who really know me realize that such a great status was never my aim. Over time, I’ve learned and realized that all I truly wanted from life was to shed my leotards, toss my tutu, and find my own little spot high in a canyon near a stream, and gaze at the clouds and stars through the eyes of a hermit.

-dp-

9-11-25

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