Date: Mon, 14 Aug 2006 00:08:16 -0400
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: HOBO TEEN - 9

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 9

(Revisiting Chapter 8)

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.

(Continuing Our Story - "Way Down South . . .")

Two experienced bos set out on the long lines of track that led south.
They knew well that they shouldn't ride atop loose loads such as scrap in
gondolas; they knew well that if they slept on the roofs of boxcars, they
had to be wary.  All too many young hoboes, perhaps sleeping soundly in
their unaccustomed fatigue, fell between cars when the train jerked - or
failed to see that a fast-moving train was going into a long curve and, off
balance, were swept from the train and to their deaths.

Nevertheless, each mile south brought a bit more warmth and even some sun
to wipe away the memories of the cold, weeping northern skies.  Having
turned into something of a fun-loving exhibitionist, Cy signaled his final
approval when he raised his arms in mock worship of the light, stripped,
and lay down on his back on the boxcar roof...for a sun bath!  Cali had to
catch his breath at that one - nor was he the only one!  His hero had
turned into a complete hunk - his head that had regained its crown of curly
chestnut brown hair, wide muscled shoulders that gradually tapered towards
a sculpted masculine waist, veins that popped out of tanned, silken skin
that barely stretched over heavy muscles, thighs and calves that quivered
in the power of his youth, and equipment that marked him as bodaciously
hung, but still did not seem quite as outsized as it had earlier on a
smaller frame.

The boys both instinctively liked the High Plains country of West Texas and
found a solid welcome in the jungle near Lubbock.  (More cotton was, and
still is, produced in Texas than in any other state in the Union.  A cotton
picker could start work in south Texas in June and "pick his way" to the
plains, where he could work until Christmas.)  Now in November, the gins
were still operating eighteen to twenty-four hours a day.  Farmers,
tenants, sharecroppers, and transients brought their hand-picked cotton to
the gin in wagons, often lining the roads for miles.  There was still
plenty of work - albeit miserably hard and miserably paid work - for bos
who were ready to put everything they had into it.  Part of the problem, of
course, is that there were hordes of young men who were swarming over the
landscape in search of work - any work - and, consequently, enough money to
keep themselves alive.  Their competitors - tens of thousands of them -
were Texas small farmers, sharecroppers and the destitute of its towns and
cities who also desired to maintain life and, often, support their
families.  What else was there for so many in America during the mid 1930s?
Even for the vagabonds, a quest for "life meaning" had turned into a
nightmarish quest for bread.

As the crop in one area approached maturity, it continued to grow and
developed an enormous amount of foliage and bolls.  The cotton rows were
six feet apart, and the plant grew from nine to thirteen feet, which would
come to the height of a man on horseback.  The limbs of the plant
overlapped each other and, at the last plowing, the team and plowmen could
not be seen more than a few yards down the row.  The rows were long, and
often there would be several hundred acres in one field.

Although there were several approaches to picking cotton, the foremen for
whom Cy and Cali worked took great care and pride in picking clean cotton
and not allowing any leaves or trash to fall in the sacks. Each picker has
a sack made from about six yards of eight-ounce duck with a strap across
the shoulder by which he dragged the sack down the middles. Dragging this
sack filled with up to 50 pounds of cotton was one of the heaviest physical
tasks in cotton production. When the sack was full, it was thrown across
the shoulder and carried to the scales at the cotton wagon where it was
weighed and emptied. The amount of cotton picked each day varied with the
individual. About two hundred pounds was it for most, even though the fast,
skilled worker might pick upwards of three hundred pounds.  When the cotton
wagon was loaded with about sixteen hundred pounds of seed cotton, it was
hauled to the nearest gin. Wages differed, depending on economic
conditions, but a dollar a day was not uncommon for the average worker.

As hard as the work was, Cy and Cali seemed to have overcome much of the
negativism of earlier in the summer.  Part of the story, of course, is that
their relationship was prospering.  Simply put, Cy became an ever more
attractive human being as he realized that he had made it through several
hard months, experienced the respect of his fellows, and enjoyed the
absolute worship of his little brother.  As he grew, physically and
psychologically, and as Cy turned more spontaneously to him for love and
physical support, Cali relaxed and began to lose his great fear of being
cast out.  Christmas approaching, they did decide to head west rather than
follow the crops onto the Gulf Coast.  The thought of being reunited with
his father during the Holidays had occurred to Cy, though he hadn't thought
it through consciously.

Having had some prior experience with travel in the Southwest, Cali
insisted that Cy learn how more safely to handle catching out "on the fly,"
i.e., catching a moving train.  Nothing would deter him, not even the fact
that he was in the middle of his first real growth spurt and had been
feeling a bit "tired" for some days.  It was on one of those days that
tragedy struck.  Just before moving into the Lubbock rail yard, the
freights were moving along at a good clip.  Suddenly, however, they slowed
as the approached the outer limits of the yard.  At that point, the bo
could safely detrain.  Hence, after catching out on the fly, Cali did not
have to travel far before he was able to exit the train safely and find his
way back to his student.  He had demonstrated the proper technique twice,
returned, and begun the third lesson.  Running full out, he headed for the
boxcar ladder.  Unfortunately, his long, thin legs awkwardly collided and,
as he latched onto the steel rungs of the ladder, he lost his grip and was
swept under the train.

Tears running down his face and sobs tearing him apart, Cy sat beside the
tracks in the winter sun, holding his partner who had come to mean so much
to him.  Blood was everywhere, but he gave it no notice.  He didn't even
notice the sheriff who drove up and walked over to him.  "I'm sorry,
young'un," the officer said, laying his hand on Cy's shoulder.  When he
sobbed that Cali was his "little brother," the officer paused and said in a
soft, low voice, "Don't worry, youngster.  I'll see to it personally that
he gets a good Christian burial."  After a moment, he continued.  "Now
about you.  Normally, I would drive you out to the city limits and let you
off, but I guess this ain't a normal time.  How about stopping at my office
tonight and getting some sleep and a good meal before taking off?"  Staring
down at the ground, Cy allowed himself to be guided over to the sheriff's
car that was parked nearby.  When they reached the Sheriff's Office, Cy was
helped inside and allowed to collapse on a bunk in a cell that remained
fully open.  A deputy was sent out to take care of the little guy.  The boy
was never aware of the time, though he realized it was dark when the
sheriff awakened him and led him out into the office where his desk was
spread with an assortment of good food and drink.  "There's a good woman I
know who was happy to fix a little chow," he mumbled somewhat self-
consciously.  In the morning, a deputy said the sheriff had asked him to
check and see if Cy wanted a ride...somewhere. The lad said, "No thanks,"
but that he was grateful...for everything...and left.

The day was cold.  As the westbound red ball that he had caught in a mental
fog roared along, its mournful whistle echoed Cy's cries.  It wasn't until
they began to come closer to Albuquerque that he took notice of his
surroundings.  Actually, he had a full-blown panic attack.  There was no
way that he could search for his dad like this.  His mind was in turmoil;
he was covered with blood.  No way!  What to do?  Archie had always said
that the New Mexico pueblos up around Santa Fe - and Santa Fe itself - were
great.  Maybe he would take a few days and see them.  Maybe he would feel
better...  Gripping his bindle, he left the boxcar as it rolled to a stop
in the Albuquerque rail yard.

(Silver and Turquoise)

Lawdy, he was cold.  After getting a ride out of the city, it seemed that
he had walked five miles under skies that were obviously going to snow.  He
wasn't even trying to hitch a ride.  Suddenly, it started snowing, the big
flakes drifting languidly towards the ground.  An ancient pickup truck
skidded to a stop in front of him, and an older teen stared out at him.
"Hey, bro, this ain't the best time to be out on the road," he shouted.
"Can I give you a lift?"  Beginning to shiver violently, Cy climbed in.
The old Model T backfired and then began to lurch forward, the gears
protesting in a screech of metal on metal.  "Gonna be a bad snow," the
youth mumbled.  "Where you goin'?"  "Dunno," Cy gasped as the tears started
to flow down his face.  "Is that blood on you?" the teen asked nervously.
"Yeah, my little brother was killed yesterday."  "I think maybe you're
coming home with me," the driver continued.  "I live in the Santa Domingo
pueblo."  "You're an Indian!" Cy asked with a burst of boyish excitement.
"Yeah, but relax.  I've kinda decided that you're no mass murderer, and I
promise that your scalp is safe with me.  I'm Alex," he chuckled,
stretching out his hand.

On reaching his home, Alex spoke for several minutes to an older couple,
whom Cy took to be his parents.  The conversation was strictly in their own
language, for the older ones gave no sign of speaking English.  "You are
welcome here," Alex translated.  "First you will wash and then I shall ask
you to follow me."  Seeming to enjoy his company, Alex finally led Cy to
his room.  "We're about the same size, Cy," he said after Cy had wearily
dropped his bindle on the floor.  Tossing the New Englander a shirt and a
pair of pants, he suggested that Cy put on his clothing.  The women would
see what could be done about the blood on his clothing.  When he returned
after a moment's absence, he handed his fully dressed guest an old overcoat
made of a heavy fabric and a worn baseball cap.  "This coat is pretty
ratty, pal.  It's even got holes in it.  People wear it a lot, but you're
going to need it and the hat in the morning, so they're yours."  "Thanks,
pal," Cy murmured.  He had just about frozen on the train from Lubbock -
and it was a lot colder around here.  "Come with me now," the Indian youth
commanded.  "My mother and sisters will have prepared some food for you."

Beyond a few words to Alex in their own language, his mother did not speak
with the weary New England teen, but her gestures and expression made it
clear that he was most welcome.  He sat down to a supper the likes of which
he had never before encountered.  Thank God that Alex was there to explain!
It began with a thick and absolutely delicious stew.  Cy identified the
pork chunks, corn kernels, some celery and potatoes, maybe some tomato, and
specks of something green that were absolutely delicious.  Licking several
of the green specks off his spoon, he grinned appreciatively at his new
pal's mother.  Her eyes twinkled.  "Green chiles - mild and delicious,"
Alex volunteered, "and that's Green Chile Stew."  The stew was accompanied
by a wedge of great cornbread that Cy would have easily recognized...had it
not been kinda blue!  "Special corn around here," Alex laughed.  Some baked
pumpkin completed the entree.  "Wow," Cy thought to himself, "that's
delicious with cinnamon."  A simple rice pudding completed the meal.
"Please tell your mother and sisters that supper was fantastic, and that
I'm really grateful for their kindness," Cy requested.  While the boy
translated, he smiled appreciatively at his hostess.  Again, her eyes
twinkled.  (Strange, he never did see any of Alex's sisters - or any other
siblings - during his short visit.)

The next morning, after donning clothes from which most of Cali's blood had
been removed, an early breakfast of blue corn pancakes with a delicious
syrup, accompanied by eggs (flavored with more green chiles) and coffee
prepared him well for the road.  As he went outside, Alex's father came up
to him and said, in very good English, how sorry he was to have learned of
his little brother's death and that he had said prayers for him.  Further,
his brother was going into Santa Fe to take some jewelry for sale that had
been made by the people.  If he wished, he might ride along.  It wasn't
far.  Fortunately, they had missed the worst of the snow.  Cy stamped his
feet in the cold and was so very glad that he now had an overcoat and a
cap, however ratty!  As he began to get into the old truck, Alex came up
and gave him a quick hug.  He also pressed something wrapped in paper into
his hand.  "For a new amigo," Alex breathed.  Without thinking, he unfolded
the paper to reveal a beautiful armband in silver and turquoise.  Looking
up suddenly, he also saw the quick look that passed between Alex and his
father.  The expression on the proud man's face clearly approved the gift.
Cy was still thanking them and waving as the truck drove off.

With heartfelt thanks and a handshake, Cy left Alex's uncle in downtown
Santa Fe.  There was windblown snow on the streets and sidewalks, but there
wasn't enough to shovel.  "Great town," he breathed, looking around.  "Man,
look at the old adobe buildings.  This town wouldn't look right on Cape
Ann, but it's beautiful!"  After spending a quarter on a nice lunch at a
diner, Cy walked around the city founded by Spanish explorers in 1607, the
oldest capital city in the United States.  Eventually, he slumped down onto
a bench near the St. Francis Cathedral.  It had begun to snow again.  It
was so cold, and he was so tired.  He stretched out his long legs, pulling
his overcoat around him and his baseball cap down over his eyes.
Gratefully, he felt himself falling to sleep.  He had worked so hard; he so
missed Cali.  Would he find his father?  Did it matter?  He was so very,
very tired...

Suddenly, as from a great distance, he heard a voice...and felt something
tapping against his shoes.


To Be Continued