Date: Thu, 10 Aug 2006 02:15:06 -0400
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: HOBO TEEN - 8

Copyright 2006 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the author.  However based on real events and
places, "Hobo Teen" is strictly fictional.  Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.  As
in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold gradually.  Comments on the
story are appreciated and may be addressed to the author at
carl_mason@comcast.net

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both
adults and teenagers.  As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the
personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults.  If you are not of
legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you
trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral
dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally, remember that maturity
generally demands safe sex.

This story is highly indebted for its inspiration and many of its details
to the book Riding the Rails; Teenagers on the Move During the Great
Depression by Errol Lincoln Uys.  New York: Routledge, 2003, and the
award-winning documentary film by Michael Uys and Lexy Lovell, Riding the
Rails, produced by WGBH Educational Foundation, Boston, 2005.


CHAPTER 8

(Revisiting Chapter 7)

Some nine days later, the preacher, a deputy sheriff, and Cali drove out to
the DOT camp where Cy - pardoned by the Governor - was to be released.  As
they approached the deserted yard, Cy rose from a bench outside the fence.
Beyond his shaved head, Cali noticed that he wore neither shirt nor shoes -
and his trousers were falling apart (which didn't hide very much) - but he
was clean and managed a weak smile.

Several days after that, the boys - rested, well fed, their possessions and
money restored, and one-way passenger train tickets to Denver in their
pockets - resumed their odyssey.

(Continuing Our Story - Cocked and Ready to Go)

Cali giggled and lightly punched his big brother as they rode atop a
boxcar, hopefully on their way to a job in eastern Colorado.  At least, the
bos in Denver said that there were always jobs in harvesting hay at this
time of year and they had a couple of names.  Their belts were carefully
passed under the runner on the catwalk and hooked through their trousers.
They had now been in enough jungles to know that simple step had kept many
a lad from falling off the train when he fell asleep.

"I don't think much of your haircut," the irrepressible little blond
guffawed, but that tan and those new muscles of yours really send me!
Besides, you finally got rid of that damned jock that made you look as if a
jocker had taken a knife to you and cut it all off!  I like what I see, Big
Bro; I really like what I see!"  "You're hopeless, Cali," Cy said with a
tone of disgust that didn't quite conceal his pleasure.  "Who would believe
that a new superjock couldn't be found in all of Arkansas?"  "Well
sur-r-r-r-e," Cali drawled, really hamming it up.  "You have to have your
stuff ready for action - cocked and ready to go!"  "Yeah, cocked and ready
to go!" the sixteen year old responded, laughing go hard that he just about
rolled off the roof.  "Easy there, muscles," his little bro advised.

In retrospect, the haying jobs provided some of the happiest moments of
Cy's days as a harvest tramp.  Yes, the harvest was well underway by the
time they arrived, but they had the names of a couple foremen and,
consequently, were offered replacement jobs on a crew that worked a wide
region.  For some weeks, for example, they worked on farms in eastern
Colorado, southern Wyoming, and even one in far western Nebraska.  By and
large, the bunkhouses were adequate, the grub decent, the weather good, and
the quality of their fellow 'bos way above average.

A few farmers had horse-drawn mowers, but generally the grasses had to be
cut with scythes.  Teams of men would slowly advance, swinging the great
blades until the entire field was completed.  About six inches of grass
were left in order that the cut material would not lie directly on the
ground.  The crop then had to dry so that most of the moisture was removed.
Under close supervision, long lines of men would turn the drying grass over
with long forks, break the stems of some grasses, and generally fluff and
spread it out to facilitate drying.  If storms didn't interrupt their work
- and this year they didn't - and when foremen determined that the
moisture-level was right, the hay could then be "rowed up" and laboriously
forked onto flatbed trucks or wagons to be carted to barns for storage.
Labor-intensive work?  Yes, indeed - at least until better economic
conditions and the needs of war allowed farmers to purchase the tractors
and other laborsaving machinery that revolutionized farming in the United
States.

Many of the men covered up as thoroughly as they could, for one could
develop quite a "hay rash" as bits of grass clung to the skin and itched
like crazy.  Cy generally dismissed this as "baby stuff" and worked long,
hot hours in as little clothing as possible.  Many a farmer's wife or
daughter - and not a few workers - remembered the heavily tanned, blue-eyed
youngster...increasingly muscled, increasingly beautiful...  who worked the
fields during that glorious early summer of 1934.  By the time the harvest
wound down, he was quite a specimen for sixteen!

In any case, harvests do wind down.  Although Cy and Cali now had a little
money in their pockets, they were disturbed that corn and wheat did not
appear to be widely ready for harvesting.  Hence, they decided to head back
to Denver temporarily to seek other kinds of work.  Given their ages, one
might guess that the money disappeared as if they had holes in their
pockets!  No matter...  They were young and a new day meant new
opportunities to live!  They paid for a bed at the YMCA when they had a few
coins; they stayed at the Salvation Army or other shelters when they
didn't.  However shaggy, their bright blue eyes, handsome faces, and
youthful grins allowed them to get a host of temporary menial jobs that
generally kept the worst of hunger at bay.  (Americans are suckers for the
young!)  Over the better part of a month, they pearl dived (washed dishes),
cleaned windows, sold tamales on the street, worked two carnivals, fought
the first forest fire of the season in the mountains to the west of Denver,
allowed a zealous missionary to talk them into attempting to sell Bibles
door-to-door - and did some begging.  It was a wild, fascinating, crazy
period - and the scars on the boys' souls slowly healed as it unfolded.

One of the more amusing incidents took place towards the very end of their
Denver stay.  It was the Fourth of July weekend and not a bed was to be
found for young transients in all the city.  To top it all off, they were
hungry.  Remembering Harrisburg, they had been walking back in forth in
front of a restaurant window for an hour, looking forlornly at the patrons,
hoping that lightening would strike and they would get a meal - or at least
some leftovers.  They hadn't had a bite!  Suddenly, a beautifully dressed
young woman exited the restaurant.  "What a dish!" the pubescent Cali
mumbled into his fist.  Spying the boys, she walked over to them.  "Ooh la
la," she exclaimed, "such handsome boys.  You do not have...what is it
called...a holiday meal?"  "No ma'am," responded the sad-eyed, always
prepared young hottie, removing and holding his cap - which, of course,
allowed his shaggy blond hair to fall down over his eyes.  Giving his head
an impatient jerk, he added, "And we don't have a place to sleep either!
Please, ma'am..."  "Oh, my, this cannot be on your nation's birthday!"
trilled Mlle [Mademoiselle or Miss] Josette.  "You must spend the night in
my home.  Both a nice dinner and a comfortable bed will be yours."  With
completely straight faces, the two youngsters thanked the vision of
loveliness and dutifully followed her home.

Once inside a large and comfortable house located in one of the best
districts of Denver, the young lady introduced the lads to her friends.
"Gawd, why did they all have to be women?" Cy thought, though he carried on
manfully.  The women made much of the handsome boys, promising them a fine
meal after they had a chance to clean up.  "Do you like French food?"
inquired Madam Camille.  "For sure," said Cali, giving her one of his
widest, toothiest grins.  "Very well, then," Madam continued.  "Mlle Sophie
will take you upstairs and see to your needs."  Once in the bathroom where
comfortably warm water was already filling the large tub, the boys were
provided with large, fluffy towels, plus fine soaps and other toilet
articles.  Mlle Sophie also left two expensive- looking bathrobes hanging
on the back of the door before she departed, trilling, "Now enjoy your
bath, mes jolis."  "Is that French?" asked the growing little blond as he
dropped his trousers.  "Yep," Big Brother responded authoritatively.

All went as expected until the boys were about half way through their bath.
Suddenly the door sprang open and both Mlle Josette and Mlle Sophie
entered.  Cali, who faced the door, yelped and tried to cover his now
substantial genitals.  "Ooh la la," whispered Josette.  "In your country,
don't young men expect their backs to be washed when bathing?"
"Oh...sure," gasped Cali, his face flaming as he leaned far forward in the
water.  "And you, my Adonis," Sophie whispered seductively as she moved
over to Cy, her cloth held at the ready.  "I would so like to wash
you...thoroughly."  The handsome, muscular youth sat there in a state of
complete shock, a stupid grin plastered on his face.  There was no way, of
course, that he could have covered up had he wanted to - and he really
wasn't sure that was what he wanted!  After a few minutes - during which
time a few small liberties were taken - the young ladies departed, telling
them that they would be back shortly to take them to dinner.  Wear your
nice bathrobes, my loves," Josette said with a giggle.  "Your clothes will
be cleaned while you eat and sleep."  "Where are we, Cy?" asked an
increasingly concerned young boy.  "Dunno, Cali, but I don't think it's
dangerous," Cy responded.

Dinner was an uproarious affair.  The food was excellent.  As the boys ate
their fill, girl after girl dropped in and said hello.  Mlle Fifi even sat
down on Cy's lap, but got up a moment later with a startled look on her
face.  "You are so wonderful," she breathed as she stroked his face and
kissed him saucily on the tip of his nose.  After the two had been taken to
their bedroom, they collapsed in giggles and muffled, half-joking curses.
"I think I've figured out where we are," Cy allowed.  "Is this REALLY one
of those...houses?" Cali asked, his eyes wide, but his lips set in a
lascivious smirk.  "Yep," Big Brother responded authoritatively.

As the evening wore on, it became increasingly difficult to sleep due to
the...activity and the hum of voices that surrounded them on every side.
If the reader has guessed that this stoked adolescent fires, he could not
possibly have been more correct!  Close to midnight - or, perhaps, a bit
thereafter - the bedroom door suddenly swung open and a somewhat disheveled
Mlle Josette stood silhouetted against the light in the hallway, her flimsy
red robe allowing the boys a clear view of the small bits of black clothing
below.  Startled, Cy raised his head from the bottom of Cali's torso, his
lower face dripping like the vampire movies of the period.  (One must note,
of course, that it wasn't blood that was dripping from his lips and shining
in the light!)  "Ooh la . . ." Mlle Josette trilled until the words died
and rattled in her throat.  "Oh, I'm so sorry, boys.  I didn't know," she
choked in a broad Chicago blue-collar accent, a look of utter
disappointment on her face as she unsteadily closed the door behind her.
From that time onwards, the boys always had a surefire winner (even when
necessarily censored) whenever storytelling began among their fellow 'bos!

(Darker Days)

Rumor soon had it that work was available in the corn and wheat harvests.
Cy and Cali headed for the rail yards the first time the magic word were
heard.  Unfortunately, their journey was delayed, for the rail yard was
crawling with police.  Earlier that morning, a workman had discovered blood
dripping from a reefer (refrigerated car).  When the car was examined, they
found the body of a boy beneath all the ice.  Dangerous things, those
reefers.  With walls that were ten feet deep and slippery, it was easy to
get trapped.  The cover of the hatch on the roof could, and sometimes did,
slam shut.  Even if it didn't, three hundred pound blocks of ice could do a
job on a sleeping or unwary 'bo!

In one sense, that accident was symbolic of the period upon which the boys
were entering.  Traveling several hundred miles to the east, they did find
work, but it was among the most backbreaking, grinding work found on farms
in the pre-mechanized period.  Further, the pressures of the Depression
were weighing ever more heavily on farmers, and instances of dishonesty
were being encountered much more frequently.

An important crop, corn was used not only for grain, but the stalk and
leaves made good feed for horses, cattle, and sheep.  Harvesting it on the
wide plains of the Midwest, on the other hand, was no easy task.
Interminable days that stretched on for weeks saw crews of weary men
chopping down cornstalks one at a time and stacking them in shocks to dry.
As the crews passed, fields of shocks, bringing to mind Indian villages,
marked their path.  After the stalks had dried, they had to be loaded on
wagons and taken to the farmstead.  Then they were shucked by hand or by
machine.  Some parts went into the barn for livestock, while the ears were
moved to a corncrib for further drying.

Uys (Riding the Rails) reports that "one farmer was known as an eight-hour
man - eight hours before lunch and eight hours after lunch.  He paid one
dollar a day and board for labor."  Three of the farmers for whom Cy and
Cali worked wanted their corn shucked in the field from standing (uncut)
stalks.  In this case, the ears had to be stripped from the stalk and
tossed into a wagon that moved slowly through the field.  It was a
horrendous task, a task made worse by the fact that two of the three
farmers tried to stiff many of their workers.  In fact, when the boys had
to move on into wheat fields, one of the two still hadn't made good on the
miserly wage he had offered.  To add insult to injury, he had gone into his
community and stirred up a great deal of negative feeling towards the
hoboes.  At best, the general population had very mixed feelings towards
them.  The swarms of men seeking work did narrow the work possibilities for
their own people.  And why, asked many, were these healthy young people
gallivanting around the country and expecting others to support them?
Further, deep in the American psyche, one finds the belief that misfortune
is your own damned fault, the wages of sin, as it were.  They had to be the
result of a choice, a choice that is your own responsibility.  Poverty,
AIDS, even homosexuality itself...it doesn't matter.  When times were bad -
and these times were very bad - it wasn't difficult to stir up a hornets'
nest.  Cy, Cali, and their fellow 'bos weren't tarred and feathered and
ridden out of town on a rail - or escorted beyond the county line by
police.  For a while, however, it was touch and go.  If the hard-pressed
farmers hadn't needed their crop to survive . . .

As late summer turned into early fall, the boys encountered Archie at a
jungle outside Wichita, Kansas.  Not having seen or heard of each other
since they parted in New York State in the spring, all three of the boys
thoroughly enjoyed exchanging tall tales of the road and wild boasts.  When
he learned that the two were going to head for Idaho to work on potatoes
and sugar beets, Archie argued long and loud that they shouldn't miss the
Grand Tetons in Wyoming.  Indeed, after they unsuccessfully followed rumors
of some late wheat jobs, had been thrown off a train by a pair of really
rough railroad bulls, and had been jumped by a gang of jackrollers who
robbed Cy of part of his wheat money, the two were ready for a short break.
They only had a couple of days, but they did come to realize how much they
meant to each other - and how much they had failed to tell each other in
the fatigue, dirt, and pressure of each work day.  Finally, they knew they
had to leave - even though Cali always complained of not having seen a
bear.  Other than riding on the roof of a boxcar and just about being
inundated in live coals, cinders, and noxious fumes when the train went
through a low-clearance tunnel, the trip over into Idaho in earliest
October went surprisingly well.

Harvesting began a few days after frost had killed the potato vines.  There
had to be a little time for the skins to thicken, for harvested too early,
potatoes easily "skinned" during the harvesting and handling period and did
not store well.  Once again they found themselves heavily involved.  The
foremen kept broadcasting the message: The potatoes would be lost if they
weren't dug up and collected before a heavier frost went deeper into the
ground - and, for God's sake don't bruise them!  Transients joined by a few
wives and many school children let out of school for the harvest would
arrive in the field, often before sun-up - unless the ground or air were
frosty.  As did Cali and Cy, they generally worked in pairs, each having a
wire basket.  The best pickers could average over 200 sacks a day and,
perhaps, earn as much as $100.00 for the season.  Two filled baskets would
be emptied into a "halfsack," a burlap bag, picked from those scattered
along the rows by the farmer. The work was backbreaking; partners would
take turns holding the sack while the other dumped the baskets. The rate
seemed to be the same on every farm, but one hoped for a field with big
potatoes and with few weeds and clods!

When first dug, they were placed in piles and allowed to go through a
sweating period in order to "cure" any bruises or cuts.  Left in the field
during this process, they were covered with burlap or some other material
to prevent sunscald.  Naturally, they had to be protected from fall rains,
if need be by piling the tubers under a makeshift shed roof.  Eventually,
of course, they were moved to more permanent locations.  If the worker had
managed to make it through the season without being stepped on by draft
horses, he was home free.

Inasmuch as sugar beets were harvested slightly later than potatoes, the
boys were able to get some work before the colder fall weather set in.
Admittedly, they had no love for this crop.  Harvesting required many
workers, most of whom spent long days bent over.  Although the roots could
be lifted by a plough-like device which could be pulled by a horse team,
the rest of the preparation was by hand. One laborer grabbed the beets by
their leaves, knocked them together to shake free loose soil, and then laid
them in a row, root to one side, greens to the other. A second worker
equipped with a beet hook (a short handled tool something between a
billhook and a sickle) followed behind, and would lift the beet and swiftly
chop the crown and leaves from the root with a single action. Working this
way he would leave a row of beets that could then be forked into the back
of a cart.  Men who worked hard could earn $3.50 a day.

After working only a couple of beet fields, both Cy and Cali had had it.
Though they had both grown and put on hard muscle, it had been a long year
and a hard year.  They had some dollars in their pocket, especially from
their work in Idaho, but they were bone tired.  The weather was
deteriorating, and they had grown weary of always being hungry.  The
decision was to go south to Texas where it was still reasonably warm and
see what the possibilities were there.


To Be Continued