Hobo Jungle
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Jackie Blue
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P&R Pete
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Jackie Blue
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Guest
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San Diegan
Return of the Waterman
Posting from the Mideast. This is one of the stranger places I have been (Turkey). But, they have SBC DSL. Go figure. The Jungle would not be complete without a retelling of the Waterman saga. So here it goes...
The story dates to the era of the hobo Marshall, who left a rune with the synopsis of this epic adventure on a once notorious "Jungle".
I am among the Kurdish faction of my wife's (Jahan's) family, the Gilanizadehi. They would probably accept Marshall (they love story telling), wonder about the crazy Waterman, but appreciate keeping a good Buick running. They don't have trains, but a horse or a tractor is a good thing here. Here, you need to ride a horse well, dance, know how to BBQ (goat and kabob barq are on the menu tonight), and sing. It's is a good reunion with my brothers in law. Some of them have some stories and the telling of them is a ritual that is repeated over and over. Jahan's pictures of the O-Gauge and Standard Gauge layouts have them scratching their heads. Why would someone do that and not charge admission, like a museum? Yeah, I work hard to support my family but I have time for this? It is embarassing to try and justify our hobby to them.
These guys would make good hobos and have the knowledge to make a camp. That knowledge is about 4000 years old and has survived Zoroastrianism, Coptic Christianity, Muslim conquest, and (recently) fundamentalist Xtian evangelism. None of it moves them much. They are what they are and not about to change.
San
Some years ago when hitchhiking west, I was picked up in a cloud
of dust by a broken-looking jacked-up Buick pointed north out of Detroit
headed up through Pontiac to Flint, Michigan. Now the driver of this rig
had a CB and his handle was "the Waterman" and he talked something like
this: "Yall dis da Waderman comin' atcha, yeassur, dis da Waderman, movin'
goood, feelin' goood; I godcha wader, I godcha juice, I god wadcha need ta
git loose." And the response by the truckers in that area was something
like this: "Come agin, good buddy." They didn't understand a
word.
Well--I suggested we get some beer. And once it was understood that
I'd be paying, the Waterman nosed the Watermobile immediately to a package
store. I bought a couple racks of Stroh's--the fire-brewed beer. Back on
route, I snapped one open and proceeded to drink it. The Waterman,
however, just went nuts: "Aww, man, whadchu doin' man. Keep dat ting low,
man. Keep dat beer low!" The low sounding like a long moan. Then the
Waterman gave me a lesson in Drinking Beer on a Highway. First his head
swiveled madly on his neck, his eyes searching insanely--backwards, front,
to the sides, above for helicopters--then he slumped way down on the bench
seat, impossible now for him to see the road, I ready to grab the wheel,
then he yells, "Alright man, gimme da beer. Keep it low!" I slipped him
the Stroh's bumping the thing along the floor mats. Getting even lower he
tipped the beer back and took a swallow. He came up for air then and
hopefully to see if the Buick was still on the road and he handed me back
the bottle, real low. That sucker was empty! Some sip.
Thus we piloted up
the road, I trying to imitate his drinking technique, he muttering crazily
every so often on the CB. After our third beer, the Waterman suddenly
fought the Buick to a lurching stop in the breakdown lane. He hops out and
wrenches up the hood--darn, the Watermobile has died, I figure. I get out
my side to assist, being a bit of a mechanic especially on 60s GM. "Right
man, right, preten' you workin' on da wires, preten' you workin' on da
motor like." But the Buick isn't wounded, the Waterman is just having a pee.
I still use this pee-stop technique today, though I don't keep my
beers quite as low as he did.
The story dates to the era of the hobo Marshall, who left a rune with the synopsis of this epic adventure on a once notorious "Jungle".
I am among the Kurdish faction of my wife's (Jahan's) family, the Gilanizadehi. They would probably accept Marshall (they love story telling), wonder about the crazy Waterman, but appreciate keeping a good Buick running. They don't have trains, but a horse or a tractor is a good thing here. Here, you need to ride a horse well, dance, know how to BBQ (goat and kabob barq are on the menu tonight), and sing. It's is a good reunion with my brothers in law. Some of them have some stories and the telling of them is a ritual that is repeated over and over. Jahan's pictures of the O-Gauge and Standard Gauge layouts have them scratching their heads. Why would someone do that and not charge admission, like a museum? Yeah, I work hard to support my family but I have time for this? It is embarassing to try and justify our hobby to them.
These guys would make good hobos and have the knowledge to make a camp. That knowledge is about 4000 years old and has survived Zoroastrianism, Coptic Christianity, Muslim conquest, and (recently) fundamentalist Xtian evangelism. None of it moves them much. They are what they are and not about to change.
San
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Bindle Stiff
- Posts: 25
- Joined: Fri Mar 12, 2004 4:39 pm
- Location: Colorado
Hobo Jungle International
San, you've brought the Jungle across the globe. Remember when we invited the vikings to visit--and only one showed up? Tramp sends greetings to your family there. Be glad they can't hear me sing, but I used to dance okay. The good old Waterman. Wouldn't he be stunned to know how he lives on? But he might have outlasted his Buick. That rig was something. If he took both hands off the wheel even for an instant, it would buck madly for the breakdown lane.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
Thought some of you might enjoy this little section of my new novel. Jimmy (35) is having his first outing with Brandon (15)--Claire's kid. Jimmy is crazy about Claire, but isn't too sure about her kid. Brandon has never had a father. Feel free to comment. Sorry the paragraphs don't show correctly.
“This is how the railroad turned locomotives,” said Jimmy. “Course they ran power to the thing. There would’ve been a big electric motor under that shack, with a gear running on a toothed track. Too bad they scrapped everything for the iron.”
The sky and the sunlight held them in a vibrant blue grace. They walked through spent dandelions, thistle, burdock bushes, varieties of grasses; much of the old track bed had weeds coming up through the cindered gravel. Scoggton, just the tops of the two hills visible, was lost in the haze of summer noon. A half fallen-in engine house brooded in the heat behind the turntable, its multiple bays like the mouths of some ancient creature that could no longer feed itself. Jimmy pointed out the cement foundation of where he figured a water tower had once stood. It wasn’t easy being with the kid. He had no example or mentor upon which to base his actions except Chevalier, who had said little, was just always honest and direct. But Brandon seemed delighted by everything, so he stopped worrying for the most part, though the kid’s apparent adoration made him uncomfortable.
“So you really rode freights?” the kid said. “That is so awesome. Maybe we could do it sometime together, if you had, you know, the time that is. You must be busy with writing your book and all.”
“I rode twenty years ago. I’m not sure how it is now. Hey, look here.” Jimmy bent down and pointed to something in the center of a railroad tie the color and texture of driftwood.
“What is it?”
“Date spike. Railroads used ‘em so they knew when the tie was put down. Maybe we can find one with your birth year.” They started looking. Jimmy was sweating in the sun, but he wasn’t ready to take off his T-shirt, though the kid would probably like the thing. Jimmy watched him—prancing nervously on each tie with short awkward steps, his skinny neck pointed down searching, his hair in his eyes, sneezing every so often. Funny kid.
“Hey, Jimmy, what’s your year? I think these are too old for mine.” He told him, and within minutes the kid had found one with the last digit correct. He wanted that one. Jimmy dug the spike out—it was more an oversized nail—with his jackknife. “Can I have it, you know, like a memento of our day?” Memento—the kid was too much. “Thanks. This is so awesome. We’ll pretend it’s your year because it’s only off by ten.”
They walked further away from town along the abandoned line until they came to a switch, since welded closed, to the shiny rails of used trackage. Here the gravel was granite-gray and weedless, the ties dark with creosote, some liquefying in the fissures of the wood. The smell brought memories.
“If a train comes by, can we hop it?” said Brandon.
“They got to be going pretty damn slow to jump ‘em. You need open boxcars too. You don’t see many empties anymore.”
“But we could ride it all the way out west together. Right?”
“Your mom might not like that.”
“Yeah. I’m just dreaming, that’s all.”
In the distance was a vague cadence.
“Train,” said Jimmy.
“No way. Really?”
Jimmy reached in his pocket and handed the kid some change. “Put these in the center of the rail. Put a few on top of each other.”
Within minutes, the track was humming. Jimmy showed the kid how to put his ear to the rail. When the headlight showed, he said, “Okay, stand back.” It wasn’t much of a train. Two tired sooty Grand Trunk diesels, a listless wave from the engineer, about two dozen cars all sealed, and no caboose, just a flashing red light attached to the back of the last boxcar.
“Wow,” said Brandon. “That was wicked sweet.” He started hunting the coins. “Look!” He held one up. “Here’s another one.” He ran over to show him. A penny was indented with the impression of a nickel, the softer metal yielding to the other. A quarter was twice its normal size. “You know a lot of cool stuff.”
“More mementos.”
“This is how the railroad turned locomotives,” said Jimmy. “Course they ran power to the thing. There would’ve been a big electric motor under that shack, with a gear running on a toothed track. Too bad they scrapped everything for the iron.”
The sky and the sunlight held them in a vibrant blue grace. They walked through spent dandelions, thistle, burdock bushes, varieties of grasses; much of the old track bed had weeds coming up through the cindered gravel. Scoggton, just the tops of the two hills visible, was lost in the haze of summer noon. A half fallen-in engine house brooded in the heat behind the turntable, its multiple bays like the mouths of some ancient creature that could no longer feed itself. Jimmy pointed out the cement foundation of where he figured a water tower had once stood. It wasn’t easy being with the kid. He had no example or mentor upon which to base his actions except Chevalier, who had said little, was just always honest and direct. But Brandon seemed delighted by everything, so he stopped worrying for the most part, though the kid’s apparent adoration made him uncomfortable.
“So you really rode freights?” the kid said. “That is so awesome. Maybe we could do it sometime together, if you had, you know, the time that is. You must be busy with writing your book and all.”
“I rode twenty years ago. I’m not sure how it is now. Hey, look here.” Jimmy bent down and pointed to something in the center of a railroad tie the color and texture of driftwood.
“What is it?”
“Date spike. Railroads used ‘em so they knew when the tie was put down. Maybe we can find one with your birth year.” They started looking. Jimmy was sweating in the sun, but he wasn’t ready to take off his T-shirt, though the kid would probably like the thing. Jimmy watched him—prancing nervously on each tie with short awkward steps, his skinny neck pointed down searching, his hair in his eyes, sneezing every so often. Funny kid.
“Hey, Jimmy, what’s your year? I think these are too old for mine.” He told him, and within minutes the kid had found one with the last digit correct. He wanted that one. Jimmy dug the spike out—it was more an oversized nail—with his jackknife. “Can I have it, you know, like a memento of our day?” Memento—the kid was too much. “Thanks. This is so awesome. We’ll pretend it’s your year because it’s only off by ten.”
They walked further away from town along the abandoned line until they came to a switch, since welded closed, to the shiny rails of used trackage. Here the gravel was granite-gray and weedless, the ties dark with creosote, some liquefying in the fissures of the wood. The smell brought memories.
“If a train comes by, can we hop it?” said Brandon.
“They got to be going pretty damn slow to jump ‘em. You need open boxcars too. You don’t see many empties anymore.”
“But we could ride it all the way out west together. Right?”
“Your mom might not like that.”
“Yeah. I’m just dreaming, that’s all.”
In the distance was a vague cadence.
“Train,” said Jimmy.
“No way. Really?”
Jimmy reached in his pocket and handed the kid some change. “Put these in the center of the rail. Put a few on top of each other.”
Within minutes, the track was humming. Jimmy showed the kid how to put his ear to the rail. When the headlight showed, he said, “Okay, stand back.” It wasn’t much of a train. Two tired sooty Grand Trunk diesels, a listless wave from the engineer, about two dozen cars all sealed, and no caboose, just a flashing red light attached to the back of the last boxcar.
“Wow,” said Brandon. “That was wicked sweet.” He started hunting the coins. “Look!” He held one up. “Here’s another one.” He ran over to show him. A penny was indented with the impression of a nickel, the softer metal yielding to the other. A quarter was twice its normal size. “You know a lot of cool stuff.”
“More mementos.”
Last edited by Tramp on Thu Apr 01, 2004 11:42 am, edited 3 times in total.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
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Jackie Blue
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P&R Pete
The Idaho Gold(tm) Blues
Every time hobo Willie goes uptown,
the po-lice come and they knock him down,
that Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain
Yeah, Dufus buddy, better fill his cup,
‘cause these po-lice ‘bout to lock him up,
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain
Tramp’s got him a baby, dressed in red,
Got a shotgun, say she’s gonna kill him dead,
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain
Well down is up, and up is down,
believe to my soul Tramp’s gone ‘underground’,
that Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain.
Bill will take Jackie, Rock’ll take Daisy
Ya cain’t tell the difference, they both so crazy,
when that Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round your brain
Bill likes ‘em slender, Rock like ‘em round,
But mostly they’re just happy they came to town,
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round your brain
San, yer ol’ woman sez you ain’t treatin’ her right,
Just take a slug of Gold(tm) and turn out the light,
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round your brain
Make you feel like Superman!
Don’t believe it a bit?
Try jumping out a third-story window,
(you may make it!)
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round your brain
Stiff went to bed last night, singin’ a song,
woke up this morning and his clothes were gone,
ah, imagine his embarrassment.
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain
What happened last night, he has no memory,
sometimes Stiff thinks “that Gold(tm) is bad for me”,
so then he stop thinking.
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain
Dave’s walking down Beale Street, feelin’ kinda bold,
lookin’ for a pretty little woman to sell him some Gold(tm),
that Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain
Dave has himself a plan, tonight he’s runnin’ alone,
Got it in his head to kill two birds with one stone,
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain
That hobo Tin Cup was preachin’‘chastity’ from The Book,
Until our hobo-ladies up and give him The Look,
Gold(tm) pain, run all 'round his brain
Now he’s singing “Hallelujah”, he’s a born-again man,
and he’s drinkin’ that Gold(tm) just as fast as he can,
Gold(tm) pain, run all 'round his brain
Yeah, this Gold(tm) is for horses, not for men,
They tell us it will kill us but they won’t say when,
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round our brain
Yeah, Dufus buddy, come and fill us up,
You da man that keep us with a bottomless cup,
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round our brain,
Gold(tm) pain, run aaaalllll ‘round our braaaaaaaaain!
(apol. to D. Van Ronk)
Every time hobo Willie goes uptown,
the po-lice come and they knock him down,
that Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain
Yeah, Dufus buddy, better fill his cup,
‘cause these po-lice ‘bout to lock him up,
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain
Tramp’s got him a baby, dressed in red,
Got a shotgun, say she’s gonna kill him dead,
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain
Well down is up, and up is down,
believe to my soul Tramp’s gone ‘underground’,
that Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain.
Bill will take Jackie, Rock’ll take Daisy
Ya cain’t tell the difference, they both so crazy,
when that Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round your brain
Bill likes ‘em slender, Rock like ‘em round,
But mostly they’re just happy they came to town,
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round your brain
San, yer ol’ woman sez you ain’t treatin’ her right,
Just take a slug of Gold(tm) and turn out the light,
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round your brain
Make you feel like Superman!
Don’t believe it a bit?
Try jumping out a third-story window,
(you may make it!)
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round your brain
Stiff went to bed last night, singin’ a song,
woke up this morning and his clothes were gone,
ah, imagine his embarrassment.
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain
What happened last night, he has no memory,
sometimes Stiff thinks “that Gold(tm) is bad for me”,
so then he stop thinking.
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain
Dave’s walking down Beale Street, feelin’ kinda bold,
lookin’ for a pretty little woman to sell him some Gold(tm),
that Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain
Dave has himself a plan, tonight he’s runnin’ alone,
Got it in his head to kill two birds with one stone,
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round his brain
That hobo Tin Cup was preachin’‘chastity’ from The Book,
Until our hobo-ladies up and give him The Look,
Gold(tm) pain, run all 'round his brain
Now he’s singing “Hallelujah”, he’s a born-again man,
and he’s drinkin’ that Gold(tm) just as fast as he can,
Gold(tm) pain, run all 'round his brain
Yeah, this Gold(tm) is for horses, not for men,
They tell us it will kill us but they won’t say when,
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round our brain
Yeah, Dufus buddy, come and fill us up,
You da man that keep us with a bottomless cup,
Gold(tm) pain, run all ‘round our brain,
Gold(tm) pain, run aaaalllll ‘round our braaaaaaaaain!
(apol. to D. Van Ronk)
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Jackie Blue
Good one Pete! You have a hit. Although I'll take the highway before anyone takes me.
How much of that Gold[TM] have you had this evening? I swear that stuff's a cure for everything! You're ugly? Give your intended a cup and suddenly you're a top model. Got a lisp? This stuff will make you speak Gaelic. It's a lubricant for achy joints, fertility aid, pain reliever, rust remover, garage floor cleaner (God forbid!), and high-octane fuel for your finest vehicle. Duffy, you've got a real money-maker!
How much of that Gold[TM] have you had this evening? I swear that stuff's a cure for everything! You're ugly? Give your intended a cup and suddenly you're a top model. Got a lisp? This stuff will make you speak Gaelic. It's a lubricant for achy joints, fertility aid, pain reliever, rust remover, garage floor cleaner (God forbid!), and high-octane fuel for your finest vehicle. Duffy, you've got a real money-maker!
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