brujabrojer-blog

[brujabrojer-blog]

Baggage

In Hobohemia, a man’s shopping cart is his lively hood. Frances Petermeyer III didn’t always have his own cart. In his nomad days, all he possessed was a sack tied to a stick. He had been a drifter--he preferred the term vagabond--since the day he turned sixteen--he preferred the term vagabond. He was eager to flee his abusive home and find a new life in the big, promising world. Unfortunately for Frances, he made a few wrong turns along the way. 

At first, life emancipated was spectacular. No curfew, chores, or clouts were involved in his decisions. Everything he cherished from his childhood fit into the five pound bindle he carried with him on his odyssey. The freedom to urinate on a tree was more liberating than anything he’d experienced before. He found a job at the railway as a coal shoveler. He was now a man with a man’s job. He’d walk home--wherever he decided it was for the night--covered in soot and it was invigorating. He would walk past store windows just to catch a glimpse of rugged ash smeared across his cheeks. If only his father could see him now. He’d probably just smack Frances for not being dirty enough. “Loser.” he’d say sipping his Scotch, “You can’t even get dirty right”.

However for Frances, life as a railway man was glorious. He had found his intendment his there was nothing his father could do to take that away.

His gaiety was eventually replaced with hunger and other desires he had been missing. His job was good but not good enough to feed his pubescent needs. Day after day Frances was surrounded by muscular, sweaty men. They spit on the ground and grunted as they shoveled. He’d catch himself tightening his fist around his warm shovel as he watched the other men be men. His body was engulfed in puberty. He needed an escape from the hormones that raged through his teenage self. He sought out more erogenous adventure. That’s when he started his life of hopping trains.

He would have never thought up the idea of railway running if it weren’t for Splits--a man he saw jump from a two o’clock arrival. Splits was older, 40 maybe. At least, he looked that age because of his craggy face and unkempt beard. He was tall and slender, with definition in every muscle exposed. His dark brown hair was greased back behind his ears. His clothes were dirty and torn at the knees and elbows. Splits was audacious and Frances wanted to be just like him. Frances secretly followed Splits like a shadow on a sunny day. He was led far beyond the railway and into a forest. He hid behind an overgrown bush as Splits walked into the middle of a vagrant community. The tents and bonfire’s gave it away. Frances was like a small child that caught Santa Claus leaving presents under the tree. A community of people living the life he sought after. They were free from society and living with nature.

Frances had heard of villages like these before. His grandfather was a doctor and told him stories of the hobos that would come to steal supplies. One of the stories was about a man named Xan. Xan begged him for something; anything he could take to the village to be allowed back in. 

Frances knew in order to be accepted into the community he had to make an offering to the captain of the village. He opened his bindle of memories and pulled out his grandfather’s watch. A gold pocket watch etched with an engraving on the back: “Frances Petermeyer”. Frances III always admired his grandfather. He could never understand how the original Frances fathered such an awful man as the II. He closed his fingers around his last memory of the only person in his family that he had loved. He drew in his last breath as a lone wanderer and exhaled with determination.

Frances Petermeyer III mustered up the courage to enter the community with his gold watch in hand. Silence interrupted his confidence as he walked further into the depths of the hobo society. Splits glanced at him and then gave attention to another rugged man--the man they called Khaos. 

It was clear to Frances that Khaos was the man in charge. The man he needed to impress. Every pair of eyes in the village were set on Khaos. They were awaiting his decision of the outsider. Khaos was a large man, not in width but in height. Frances was almost six feet tall and still, Khaos mountained over him. Khaos’ beard was as shaggy as Splits’ but it was the color of ash at the end of a cigarette. It might have been white if Khaos had any other lifestyle. His eyes were as dark as his stare and his hair grew down far below his ears. Khaos studied Frances for a moment. He turned his dark eyes to his people to relieve their worry. 

“Are you some kind’f fly?” Khaos boomed. 

Frances looked at Splits. Splits looked at Khaos. 

“How’d you come ‘round here? And don’t lemme here no bull artistry out yer mouth”. 

“I...I uh..” Frances stuttered as he continued to look at Splits. He was too afraid to face Khaos’ dark stare. It reminded him too much of his father’s.

“I followed him...” Frances admitted as he pointed to Splits, “I’m a wanderer... like you folks”. 

Laughter exploded from the community. 

“Yer nothing like us boy” Khaos spewed, “you ain’t nothing but a cake eater”.

Frances shook his head, trying to shake off his confusion. He opened his hand and revealed the gold pocket watch--his offering. The hobo captain snatched it from France’s trembling hand. Khaos pocketed the watch along with the name engraved on it. Frances Petermeyer III would now belong to Khaos.

------- Tick the Road Kid ---------

“Every stiff has a job to do, boy”, Ginger explained to Tick, the newest member of Hobohemia.

Ginger was the village mother. Since she was no longer able to go on runs, she was stuck teaching and looking after the hobo children. On her last train tour her right leg got caught as she tried to jump from a box car. The camp doctor had to amputate from her knee down in order to keep her alive. Even with only one and a half legs, Ginger was the most alluring woman in camp. Her tattered clothes were always sewn to wrap her body like a wetsuit. She had curly red hair that barely tickled her shoulders. Unlike most of the women in the camp, Ginger was always clean. The last time Tick had seen such glorious breasts he was crying for milk. Ginger belonged to Khaos. Although, Khaos did not belong to Ginger. 

“I teach the kids. Splits gets food. Wolf guards the camp. Doc peddles pills. What are you gunna do?” Ginger questioned as her hand happened to fall on the top of Tick’s thigh. 

Her lessons for Tick always contained more touching than he expected to go on. Of course, a flannel blanket held up with a stick didn’t make for much of a professional classroom. So far, she educated him on hoboglyphics--the signs they used to warn each other about dangers-- and the hobocode--the language they used to keep from being exposed. Today, Tick was learning about the duties of a being man.

His bottom half clenched as a tingle traced his spine. Tick trembled as he replied: “I don’t know, I’m a decent cook, I guess”. 

Ginger’s lips were now at the base of his neck. She breathed heavily, “I bet you are. You ever make Skinner’s Delight?” 

Tick tried to scoot back from Ginger. He wished Splits would walk in asking for a hand with the night’s dinner. Tick always felt more comfortable around Splits. He had taken to him. Splits was the friend Tick always longed for. His voice soothed Tick when he was nervous and his touch warmed him. Splits was the first hobo to invite Tick into his tent. They stayed together every night since. Tick was anxious when Splits was away. He was always worried Splits wouldn’t be able to jump the trains. Maybe he’d die on his run. Or worse.

[brujabrojer-blog]

The Milk Man

The Milk Man

As long as he had his fresh gallon of milk his day would be fine. The voices that screamed inside his head to get out would never be loud enough as long as he could drown them out with his milk. His clothes are so tattered, the cheapest thrift store would deny them as a donation. His 90’s wind breaker is streaked with stains of dirt and dried milk. His grey pants that are too short for his body once knew a life of black. His shoes are tired: One of them screams as his toes push through the middle of them. His socks are more crusted and dirty than anything else on his body. 

His beard and mustache grow a little longer and more speckled with each day. He walks with a limp-- more like a malfunction. One of his arms stays in a 90* angle towards the sky as his hand jerks about as if it didn’t belong to him. He shakes his head as if trying to shake out the voices that squat in his mind. If he doesn’t have his milk he can’t go very far without stopping and conversing with his un-welcomed friends. Sometimes he covers his ears like a child watching a firework show.  His mother used to cover his ears when his father would scream at them in a drunker escapade. They’d rock back and forth on his race car bed. She’d sing his favorite song to drown out the profanities his father was screaming in between gulps of whiskey: “Don't give me no pop, no pop. Don't give me no tea, no tea, Just give me that milk, Moo, moo, moo, moo, moo”. 

“Moo, moo, moo, moo, moo”, he repeats all day, everyday. 

The song and his gallon help him to drown out the tragedy that reply in his mind. The voices inside of him scream out the reminder of his troubled childhood. 

The worst memory took place when the Milk Man was 10 years old. His dad was a special kind of asshole that day. He had already guzzled down two bottles of brandy before the young Milk Man had even woken up. His mother didn’t want him to hear the arguing that was obviously going to ensue. Anytime his father drank, violence occurred, it was only a matter of time. The Milk Man’s mother sent him on a mission to buy a gallon of milk, eggs and bread. “Be sure to take your time, I don’t want you to break the eggs or smash the bread and remember the milk is the most important”, she told him. She handed him enough money, helped him put on his favorite windbreaker jacket and sent him on his way. 

“Don’t give me no tea, no tea. Just give me that milk, MOO, MOO, MOO, MOO, MOO”, the young Milk Man sang all the way to the store and all the way home again. He sang right up until he opened his front door. The house was silent. Too quiet for a morning home with drunk dad. He was expecting shouting and crying from his mother, but he didn’t hear her anywhere. “Mom?” he cried. “Mom, are you home? I got the groceries, I got the milk”.

Silence.

The young boy put the eggs and bread on the counter, excited to show his mom he had completed the mission. But as he opened the door and saw his mother, the gallon of milk fell to the floor, shattering. A red and white sloppy mess becoming shades of pink under the Milk Man’s feet. His father sat staring at the boy humming, “Moo, moo, moo, moo”.