Hobo Jungle

[The Dirt]

Hey, Murph and Roger, I went back to see what I'd missed.

In reference to me, that with which you kind and good gentlemen are suffering is what we in psychiatry call "folie-a-deux".

[rogruth]

Dirt,

Be careful what you call old guys.I might have to get out my deux ex machinegun.

[The Dirt]

Roger-

Brooklyn's broken out in fights...

[The Dirt]

There's a traffic jam in Harlem...

[rogruth]

So where is that car 54?

[Rufus T. Firefly]

So where is that car 54?

Between 53 and 55?

[rogruth]

Probably not.

[Tramp]

Terry went to Florida twice, the second time almost killing him.

The first visit was during the early eighties in a three-hundred-dollar Chevy Nova he'd bought in Chicago from a large black guy who insisted the rig had a racing transmission. What the car had was an indestructible straight-six, rusted out floors, tasteful dents, a driver door that would barely open, and a trunk with two spares and five tire irons. Terry Gunked and tuned the engine, cut plywood floors and painted seven large silver-green cascading arrows on the faded red exterior. Of course it was the transmission that finally ended the Nova's seven-thousand-mile legacy.

The southern trip began the summer after his father had died and during the six-months he was getting divorced from Giselle. He was drinking beer every day from around noon until darkness. His partner riding shotgun was a friend from high school who nervously placed Terry's beer consumption on a timer, a faint beep from his new digital watch. One beer an hour, which was okay with Terry. He realized he wasn't at his best in many ways, but the friend had struggled to even steer the car, which took unusual adaptability and sensitivity to its idiosyncrasies, so it was up to Terry to drive.

There was a moment on the way to Florida. It became one of Terry's favorite moments of his life though he knew most people wouldn't understand why it appealed to him. After about a week on the road, they had spent the night in New Orleans, and since they always slept in the car, one in back, one in front, they found a rural spot east of the city once they'd had their fill of crawdads, Dixie beer, and tourists. As they tried to sleep, the intolerable stagnant heat and viral mosquitoes vied for most irritating. They experimented with windows rolled up—less bugs more heat, and the inverse—neither worked. At the bluing of dawn, Terry pulled a beer out of the tepid cooler water—he purchased blocks of ice instead of cubes—and got the Nova rolling eastward again, his partner still attempting sleep behind him.

The sun rose with foreboding intensity over the empty four-lane coastal highway, but it was still a quietly crystalline Fourth of July morning without any traffic yet, a sign for Biloxi, Mississippi visible against the dully lapping water of the gulf on his right.

During this era, Terry cut his hair over a paper bag, and since he couldn't easily reach the back or see it, he simply left it. Years later he realized he'd been sporting a full-blown mullet, though for him it was a mullet of convenience not style. He had an Abraham Lincoln type beard, a jut of red on the chin, the sides skinny as a woman's finger. His signature outfit was sleeveless or V-neck T-shirts, worn-out jeans, and red flip-flops, never shorts. If he swam, he simply took off the T-shirt. That morning he felt particularly beat. Not quite as beatific as Kerouac would hope for, but that state of final willingness to encounter pretty much anything, a state brought on by a season of major emotional disappointment resurfacing as acceptance and an almost submerged amazement in everything living.

He took a pull on the warming breakfast beer, a leftover Lone Star, and slowed for a stop light. The first slanting rays of the morning sun glittered across his sunglasses. He heard a big-throated roar and a bike gang headed the other way braked for the same light on the other side of the road. Numbered about twenty, Terry could tell immediately that these guys were the hardcore one-percenters whom everyone feared. Thundering cobbled-together choppers with raked-out front-ends, bizarre handlebars requiring awkward apelike grips, massive beer guts and tree-limb-thick bronzed arms, ragged shoulderless dungaree vests, eternally unshaven, eternally unwashed, each expression as grim as a hangman's three-legged mutt.

They stared at Terry, and he sipped his beer and stared at them.

And then his moment arrived. The light greened, the Harleys grumbled, barked, roared, and to the man, all twenty outlaw bikers, they gave Terry the raised-fist salute as they tore past. He simply held up his bottle in response and eased the Nova forward.

[rogruth]

What year did you experience this,Tramp?

[Tramp]

Roger, why do you assume it's true?

The date, by the way, is mentioned in the second sentence.

[webenda]

Yeah Roger, why?

Nova.jpg (41.67 KiB) Viewed 1960 times

[The Dirt]

He heard a big-throated roar and a bike gang headed the other way braked for the same light on the other side of the road. Numbered about twenty, Terry could tell immediately that these guys were the hardcore one-percenters whom everyone feared. Thundering cobbled-together choppers with raked-out front-ends, bizarre handlebars requiring awkward apelike grips, massive beer guts and tree-limb-thick bronzed arms, ragged shoulderless dungaree vests, eternally unshaven, eternally unwashed, each expression as grim as a hangman's three-legged mutt.

Hey, that was Hev's and Jon's gang!

New story in the works, Tramp?

So where is that car 54?

Roger, LOL! I sang the jingle to my child-bride the other day, and she had no idea what it was for, and had never seen the show. She said when she started watching TV, the main cop show was "Adam-12".
Little did she know the classic TV she's missed!

[rogruth]

Roger, why do you assume it's true?

The date, by the way, is mentioned in the second sentence.

Tramp,

You are writing about as if it happening in the early '80s.Might not have.It just sounds true.I remember things from my younger days but do not have the ability to write them in a readable and interesting manner as you have.

No offense I hope.

[Tramp]

Roger, you have a record on this forum of consistent kindness and thoughtfulness. I on the other hand have a record of being a bit of a prankster.

[Mitch]

Terry went to Florida twice, the second time almost killing him.
Of course it was the transmission that finally ended the Nova's seven-thousand-mile legacy.
They stared at Terry, and he sipped his beer and stared at them.

And then his moment arrived. The light greened, the Harleys grumbled, barked, roared, and to the man, all twenty outlaw bikers, they gave Terry the raised-fist salute as they tore past. He simply held up his bottle in response and

.....

floored the Chevy as all the bikers swung around after him. The transmission slammed into 1st gear an instantly the engine ran away, screaming, as the slipping transmission refused to pull the car. Oh shit, 'nother a$$ whippin' comin' up!