“Hey, Ralph! Gotta smoke?”
Ralph reached into the back pocket of his tattered dungarees,
while leaning close to the shed along the tracks. “Here!” he grunted, as he tossed a crinkled pack of Marlboros to Tony. “Watch where you smoke ‘em. We don’t want
anyone seein' us before the Northern Pacific comes by to refill its water tank.”
“That ain’t ‘til after sundown and I’m bored,” Tony, ten
years younger, complained.
“I’m tellin’ ya, Tony, if yer not careful, we won’t be gettin’
to Ma’s before she ‘kicks the bucket.’”
“Okay! Okay! It’s just not as easy as I thought it would be!
Ridin' the rails would be fine, but hidin’ out or hikin' from town-to-town…
well, I got a blister on two toes and these shoes ain’t holdin’ up neither!”
“Listen!” Ralph whispered sharply, after a twig snapped
nearby. “Let’s scatter.”
“Hey, fellas! Whatcha doin’ around here! I haven’t seen ya
in this here hollow. Where ya from?”
Tony looked at Ralph with his eyes and mouth wide open…
waiting.
Ralph looked the sheriff straight in the eye. “We’re just movin’
through and takin’ a rest break in this here shade. Is there somethin' wrong with that?”
“No boys, but I’d say yer rest break is over. Now move on
out or I’ll bring ya in for questioning.”
Ralph slung his pack over his shoulder, with his stick, hook, and cork bobber sticking out and picked up his blanket. Tony quickly stuffed
the Marlboro’s in his pocket and grabbed his bag and homemade bow and the two
began moving away, knowing that the Northern Pacific wouldn’t be carrying them
closer to their destination that night.
I wrote this at my
Practice Writing Group, with a prompt of “hobos” (or, “hoboes”) for 10 minutes,
plus one or two additional minutes, and edited it slightly.
Precious Linda, c. 2013
