After The Work

There he lay in his bed, a frail man in his late 60’s with ALS. He was no longer able to walk his limbs were stiff and sore. He had to be fed a blended diet at this point as swallowing was becoming a life-and-death proposition if done carelessly. His bed positioned against the far wall of a small square bedroom he lived in at the adult foster home. The walls were yellow, last painted when the home transitioned from a normal house 20 years prior. Entering the home you were greeted by a chorus several dogs that lived there along with their owner who ran the home. He was the only patient in the home, one after the next passing away in their time. He had a small television that played the western channel as his only distraction in his room, that and his almost perfect memory.

In couple years past he was too disabled to work but not so disabled that he couldn’t write. During this time he set his powerful memory to recording his many adventures on the railways of the west. For 40 years this man lived as a hobo by choice. He would ride the train from town to town, pick up work for a while, save up some money for what he needed, then move on to the next town. He knew the markings his fellow hobos left for one another to tell if a place was dangerous or if he could get work. Another was whether a church would preach to you before they gave you food. Still another pointed the way to a sympathetic home, a free shower, or if a town had work for a rail rider like him.

He slept under the stars almost every night, sometimes with company, but most of the time alone with his thoughts. From Montana to New Mexico, California to Missouri, and everywhere in between he had traveled railyard to railyard dodging trains, guards, dogs, and fellow but hostile hobos. He never married, never had a home, didn’t pay taxes nor was he ever in jail, at least as far as he said. He had more jobs than hairs on his head in his lifetime after leaving home in his early 20’s and jumping a train in California. “Mom’s house was not a nice place to be” he would whisper, the ALS robbing him of his voice as well. So many stories to tell, so little voice left to share them. No family left, no friends beyond the Philippino lady who owned the home and his hospice workers.

He had recorded his journeys with his powerful memory for places and times in several binders full of paper. He wrote with an unsure hand, weakened by his disease. He wrote without elegance, recording facts and stories, misspellings and grammatical errors abounded. He didn’t reflect upon life or give advice, making simple observations that sounded more like Huck Finn than Marco Polo or Jack Kerouac. There was the time he first drank a bottle of gin under the stars after a hard weeks work for a dollar an hour, stumbling and laughing to himself. Or the time he had his bag stolen by someone posing as a friend. Stories of sitting around a fire with fellow hobo’s, swapping stories and knowledge of towns near and far. He recorded the wisdom of the hobo’s and the fellowship he shared with them.

His favorite times were when he finally got to new town, made a little money and bathed. He then would go to a restaurant or a malt shop in earlier days and get a chocolate shake. The food and drink would taste divine after eating canned goods and whatever else he could find. He also liked picking fruit in the fall when he could fill his bag with apples or peaches after picking all day. He would hop a box car when it moved slow but was out of the trainyard, sit, eat, and watch the scenery of the West. He saw mountains, rivers, flat lands, and deserts. He witnessed vistas most people never see from the road or campground. Most of all, however, was that he was free.

That is why he rode the rails, freedom. No obligations, no bosses, no schedule, responsible to only himself and his survival. He was a kind man, lived by the Golden Rule, and didn’t raise too much trouble. He worked hard, but didn’t stay long in one place, nor did he make close friends or any family. While he was free, it was a solitary life on the move. Ironic now he has been bedbound for a couple years now, unable to move about anymore. He knew the entire television line up of several channels, spoke excitedly to those who came to visit, care for him, bring him a milkshake, or pray with him. He would whisper some of his adventures, could tell someone exactly where to look in his writings for a story, tell them where he was in a certain year or town. His remarkable memory that no doubt served him on the rails now served as entertainment for himself and his visitors.

There was little doubt that he wanted to pass away; his current life was essentially the opposite of how he preferred to live. Who knows why he was like this now, but it did give him time to visit, reflect and pray. He actually got to know some people, especially the nice lady with all her dogs who cared for him. Hospice workers would bring him milkshakes and kind words. Life was safe and pleasant enough, in a way it helped make up for a life of paralysis; but still he suffered a life of pain and immobility. He heard tales of heaven and the Gospel, he hoped he could ride one more train to Glory.

He was declining, swallowing was increasingly difficult now like so many with ALS who die from aspirating their dinner or getting pneumonia from debris in his lungs. He was unable to cough, he couldn’t cry out, was as helpless now as an infant. He was a far cry from the days he would agilely jump from train car to train car. Gone were the days of the hobo and the carefree life. He was a hobo, a fading breed. He wasn’t homeless or drug addled. It was a life that could no longer be lived in the West, or anywhere else. Much danger lurked on the rails with faster trains, stricter and higher fences, and the epidemic of meth and opiates made life hazardous for those who rode either by getting high, injured, or threatened by others who were addicted. No longer could you go to a town and work for cash for a week, rules cracked down on employers and migrant workers pushed out the remaining hobo opportunities.

It happened in a moment. She brought him his shake in a special cup and straw. He took a drink that went down the wrong pipe, for most of us a simple cough could correct it, but he could only feel it slide down his windpipe and his breathing rattled. He passed away unable to breath, convulsing, leaving this world of pain into the painless Next. Death is a mockery of life, our bodies we depended upon turn against us in terrible ways. He died trying to drink his favorite drink, perhaps he wanted it that way. She came back to check on him a few minutes later and he was gone. We knew something like this would happen, he had accepted his fate. Hospice gave him some comfort and companionship to counter his suffering. He had felt heard and cared for. He got to share his life one last time, a world of unique Americana that has faded away.