Hobo

He watched as the man swung at the girl, knocking a bag she’d been holding to the ground. He appeared to be yelling at the girl, and it looked like she was crying.

She bent to pick up the contents of the bag, and the man moved in close behind her.

“She’s coming to see me and bring me some Christmas presents,” he thought to himself.

But before the girl had the chance to straighten up, the man moved even closer to her, fists raised and with a look of total fury on his face.

Hobo watched in total fear and total amazement. He couldn’t turn his eyes away. The father of all nightmares was taking shape right before his eyes.  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Then suddenly, from some deep cavern of his mind came the directive:  run, run, as fast and as far away from here as you can.

So he ran.  Later, he couldn’t remember how far he’d run, how long he’d run, or even what direction he’d run.  He only knew that he’d run until his legs had refused to run any more and he’d collapsed in a ditch on some parish road on which he’d never been.  He had no idea where he was. 

He remembered that he’d not even taken the time to retrieve his personal belongings from the camp, or to even put out the campfire. Everything he owned in the world was in his lean-to in the overgrown mill yard behind the clinic. His mind kept flashing to the scene in the clinic parking lot, igniting his fear again and again, until his insides couldn’t take it any more.  He vomited what little food he’d had that day into the tall grass lining the ditch.

Then he picked himself up and started running again.  Running to the horizon.  Running to the ends of the earth.   Running away from the horror that lurked in the clinic parking lot.  He was still running when a loaded log truck slowed as it drew up beside him.  The driver, a dark-complexioned man who looked like some of the redbones who lived on the upper end of Ten Mile Creek, and who was vaguely familiar, leaned out the window and yelled:    “Hey, Hobo, what the hell you running from?  Then, just as quickly, the driver laughed and asked himself:  “Why am I talking to Hobo?  He can’t hear a thing I say.”

Apparently the driver recognized him, and apparently he was talking to him, but he couldn’t place the driver, though he was certain he must have seen him before.  

He stopped and the truck stopped.  He looked at the driver a long time.  The driver just kept right on talking, apparently not aware that he was deaf, or just in love with the sound of his own voice. “I know you can’t hear me Hobo, but you want a ride, or you just gonna run all the way to your next campsite,” the driver asked with a laugh.

“I’m hauling this load of red oak all the way to the furniture factory in Arkadelphia, Arkansas.  Be there about daylight.  Hell of a way to spend Christmas ain’t it.  But can’t quit making a living just ‘cause of Santa Claus.  If you want a ride, hop in.  But remember, just like last time I gave you a lift, keep the window open so you won’t stink me out.  Now either get in, or keep running, whatever.  I have to hit the road,” the driver said.

The driver motioned for him to get in the truck.  After one long, last look back down the road in the direction from which he’d come, he circled the truck an climbed in the passenger side.  He had no idea where they were headed.  And he didn’t care.  A hobo never has an ultimate destination.