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THE HOBO'S DINNER

by BUD TANT

1990
Cummins Unit
A rainy day


THE HOBO'S DINNER


Chief Seattle wiped the mouth of the Cribari bottle with his sooty hands. A man could never be too careful about germs when he was drinking with a rough crew like this one. He turned the gallon jug up awkwardly and let some of the red liquid wash through the wide gap where his front teeth should have been.

"HEY, INDIAN! YOU AIN'T GOT TO TAKE A BATH IN THE GODDAM SHIT! THERE'S OTHERS HERE HELPED PAY FOR THAT GODDAM BOTTLE!" Frisco Red was getting irritable. Hadn't it been him who'd charmed that old broad in the supermarket parking lot out of that last quarter? Goddam right, it had been, and he was sure as hell going to get his share. Frisco Red hefted the stick he'd been using to stir the smoky fire and waved it menacingly at the drunk Indian.

Frisco Red was only 5'6" tall and, even wearing the ragged army field jacket with the many pockets filled with an assortment of can openers, matches, metal slugs and other crucial survival items, he wouldn't have weighed more than 130 pounds. But the little redhead's temper was well known among the hobos and tramps from Seattle to Mobile and few who knew him would willingly tangle with him unless the dispute was of major proportions.

Chief wiped the spittle from the corner of his slack mouth with the filthy sleeve of an old lumberjack coat he was wearing and grudgingly passed the big bottle to the man sitting at his left.

"Mighty obliged. Yessir, ain't nothing better than a bottle of Cribari when a man's among friends," the old man said gratefully.

"Oh, shut up and drink," Frisco Red told him.

The old man skillfully lifted the ungainly jog to his toothless mouth and drank deeply, sending large bubbles gurgling the length of the bottle. When he lowered the jug, he too, wiped his mouth, but unlike his predecessors, he removed a piece of rag from a pocket of his old suit coat and daintily removed all traces of the wine from around his pinched mouth.

The old man's hair was as white as snow and shrouded his wrinkled brown face like a cloud. He wore a dirty white shirt buttoned to his leathery neck, and his blue gabardine dress slacks were relatively clean for a man traveling so close to the ground. His name was "Tennessee" and he'd climbed off a westbound freight about an hour before.

The old man edged up to the small fire and rubbed his arthritic hands briskly over the dancing flames. "Last time I was in Santa Barbara they had a carnival set up over yonder at them showgrounds," he said, pointing across the railroad tracks toward the manicured haven called the Earl Warren Showgrounds. The old man let out a long whining belch and continued, "Had some sorta ride that turned them kids plumb upside-down, and I'll tell you, we got some silver that day. Yes, sir!"

The three hobos stood in the firelight beside some railroad tracks. The hobo camp they were using was perhaps the most unusual of any camp in the country. It sat smack in the middle of beautiful Santa Barbara, California. A wealthy lady had willed the land to the city of Santa Barbara for a park, but she had inserted an iron-clad clause in the will specifying that a two-acre parcel be designated as a permanent haven for the hobos. The City Fathers had spent considerable time and legal expense trying to vacate the offending clause, but they had been unsuccessful, and the last federal magistrate to hear the suit had made it clear that the conditions imposed in the generous will were in fact, legally binding. The city could accept the terms of the will, or they could forfeit all claims to the 80 acres she had left to the general public.

Whoever this lady philanthropist was, she certainly must have possessed a sense of humor. Word has spread among the vagrants who rode the silver rails across the country from border to border and coast to coast, until a steady parade of colorful tramps began arriving in scenic Santa Barbara, much to the chagrin of the local citizenry.

Frisco Red picked up a piece of broken lemon crate and fed it to the fire. Tongues of flame reached out and accepted the offering gratefully. "I ain't had a good meal since Sacramento," the fiery redhead commented as he watched the thin wood blacken and curl among the coals of the campfire. "I swear, I could goddam near eat some of my ex-old lady's cooking.," he cackled, pleased with his own wit. "Only problem with this goddam town is the lousy supermarket owners keep their dumpsters locked to keep us from getting anything free to eat. They do that on purpose, you know/"

The old man nodded sagely and said, "Yeah, these city folks are downright stingy with their food. Now, iffen a man was in Tennessee, why he could just walk up to any farmhouse and know he'd get a scrap of two of something from those folks."

Chief Seattle snorted drunkenly. "Yeah, well if it's so goddam nice in Tennessee, what in the hell are you doing in California? Every time I travel through the South they give me a grand tour of their shitty little jails. If I don't never see no more goddam grits again in this lifetime, it'll be too soon for me!"

"Why, I'd give my shoes for a good ol' homemade biscuit, a slice of smoked Tennessee ham and some grits right now," the old man said reverently.

"All that bullshit ain't gonna get us fed," Frisco Red admonished. "We need to scout around and scrounge up some grub. They's plenty of pots and pans, and I found some bottles of salt, pepper and some seasoning salt beside the mirror and razor. It ain't got to be much, but by God, we're gonna have to hustle up something before my old stomach sticks to my backbone."

Frisco Red stumbled over to where the Indian was sprawled against the side of a eucalyptus tree and roughly confiscated the gallon of wine the Indian had become so attached to. The Indian looked up defiantly. "One of these days, Frisco, me and you gonna tangle," the Indian slurred, looking at the little redhead through deranged, bloodshot eyes. The Indian braced both hands against the grass and, with an effort, stood upright. He stood glaring at the redhead like a scarecrow wavering in a stiff March wind.

Red watched the Indian out of the corner of his rheumy eyes. The Indian had one hand stuffed inside his coat pocket. Red knew that those goddam Indians were famous for carrying knives, and he made a mental note to keep his eyes on the drunk apparition swaying back and forth across the fire.

"Look, Tennessee, you keep the fire goin' and keep an eye on my sack, and me and the Indian will go find something to cook up," Red told the old man.

"There's a produce warehouse about a half-mile south of here," Tennessee informed his companions. "Fella might be able to scare up some carrots and maybe even some onions and tomatoes for a stew."

Frisco Red nodded respectfully at the wisdom of the old man's thinking. "Chief, I'll make the run to the warehouse and you can check the alleys behind the stores. Maybe you can bum a bologna butt or something to sorta flavor the stew."

"You just get some goddam tomatoes, carrots and an onion if you can find one. Let me worry about the meat," the Indian said cockily. "The day I can't come up with a little meat for a hobo stew's the day I get a goddam job," he said as he began walking toward the neon lights lining Highway 101.


Chief Seattle kicked the locked gate in disgust. He was behind the last store in the long line of businesses, and he was still empty-handed. "Cheap sons-of-bitches!" he muttered to himself as he studied the lock on the gate. It was no use. The large stainless steel security lock couldn't be defeated. Not, at least, by Chief Seattle. He'd known a few tramps in his day who could have picked the lock, but even sober he couldn't pick even the simplest of locking devices, and he was nowhere near sober this night.

He'd shot off his mouth about his prowess at hustling for a living, and now it looked like he would return to their camp without anything to add to the stew. That goddam Frisco Red would probably have ten pounds of produce, too, and then he'd have to listen to the little redhead's bragging. Thoroughly disgusted the Indian turned and stumbled down the alley.

When he reached the end of the line of buildings, the Indian paused and looked up and down the busy thoroughfare. Two major hamburger franchises sat side-by-side on the next block. Experience had taught the Indian that if you could keep from getting rousted by the cops, a man could scrounge enough bits and pieces of discarded hamburgers out of the trash cans to put plenty of meat in a hobo stew. He wiped his grimy face with the woolen sleeve of his lumberjack coat and began walking toward the golden neon arches.

When he reached the well-manicured hedges surrounding the restaurant, Chief Seattle quickly scanned the street for any police cars that might be in the area. He saw none, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. The Indian cut through an opening in the hedges and made a beeline for the nearest and largest dumpster.

When he reached the dumpster he started to open the door, but was startled to hear noises coming from the container's interior. Suddenly, the door opened and a frizzy head of blond hair burst from it. The head was followed by a muscular body. Chief Seattle immediately recognized the scavenger as "Hillbilly", one of the regulars traveling the circuit from the Canadian border to the Mexican border.

"Any luck?" the Indian asked.

Hillbilly handed the Indian a small sack and began brushing debris from his faded Levis. "Nah, not much. These fuckin' rich people don't leave a fella much," he said in disgust. "I'll bet there ain't a half pound of meat in that sack, and that's the second dumpster I hit!"

No sooner had Hillbilly said that than the sound of screaming rubber on asphalt filled the air. They quickly looked up and saw a patrol car braking to a halt in the McDonald's parking lot. Chief Seattle made a dash for the bushes, with Hillbilly following in hot pursuit.

""HALT!" screamed a young cop, as he jumped from the patrol car. Chief Seattle lunged through the hedge, tearing the bottom out of the bag on one of the branches. Hillbilly nearly ran over the Indian as he pushed his way in front of the drunk redskin. Seeing that he was now holding an empty sack, Chief Seattle threw it to the ground and kept running.

When they had gone a block or so, the two winos slowed to a walk, glancing apprehensively behind them. The policeman hadn't followed them, so they stopped and stood gulping giant breaths of the soft evening air into their lungs.

"Well, there goes the goddam stew meat!" muttered the Indian.

The two derelicts began slowly walking across a shopping center parking lot. "You just get in?" Chief asked.

"Yeah, I hitched a ride with an eighteen-wheeler from Chico," Hillbilly explained. "Was up there picking lettuce for a while but, hell, they got that shit so's a man ain’t make nothin' anymore."

"Frisco Red's here and we got our sacks over at the jungle," the Indian told him, automatically peering inside each car they passed in the parking lot. A good tramp knew that sometimes careless shoppers left their car doors unlocked and a fellow never knew what treasures he might luck up on inside one of the cars if he just kept his eyeballs peeled.

"Got any money?" the Indian asked.

"I got a few bucks," Hillbilly said vaguely. "But I ain't layin' to spend my roll on a crew of broke-dick tramps."


"Like I said, Hillbilly, now we got us this big ol' pot of delicious stew simmering and you know how good a little wine goes with stew," the Indian said craftily.

"Why don't you draw a Frisco Circle, then?" the muscular blond asked.

A Frisco Circle was the customary manner in which hobos took up a collection. A circle was drawn with a stick on the ground beside the fire. Anyone wishing to share the bottle or the stew was expected to toss any spare change he had into the circle to pay for the fare.

"Ain't but three of us, and we already spent what we had getting the makings for the stew," the Indian lied.

"Alright, Chief, I'll spring for a bottle of Red Mountain, but that goddam stew better be good and there better be plenty of it. Here, hold my bag," Hillbilly said, handing the Indian a filthy laundry bag tied at the end by a piece of hemp rope.

"I'll be down here at the end of the shopping center," Chief told Hillbilly as he watched him walk toward a grocery store.

Chief Seattle walked toward the arranged rendezvous point, still burglarizing the cars with his eyes. When he got close to the vacant lot at the end of the shopping center he heard a yapping noise coming from the interior of a late model Lincoln parked on the fringe of the asphalt. The Indian looked closely and saw a champagne-colored miniature poodle standing on its hind legs inside the luxurious automobile, with its front paws braced against the inside of the door, barking furiously. The Indian's eyes next checked the locking mechanism on the door. He was in luck; the hapless owner had failed to lock the driver's side door.

Chief Seattle looked around stealthily. The nearest shopper was a couple hundred feet away from the Lincoln and the big car was parked outside the perimeter of light case by the shopping center's street lamps. Without hesitation, Chief Seattle opened the car door and reached for the frightened poodle. With a sharp cry, the little dog scrambled for the safety of the back seat, but he was too slow and the big Indian's hands closed over his frail body. The dog whimpered pitifully in fear as the Indian choked his tiny neck until the animal's pink tongue protruded from between his small white teeth. The Indian was still choking the dog as he ran into the shadows on the far side of the car.

Reaching the darkness beside the end of the shopping center, the Indian squeezed the dog's neck until the animal was limp in his hands. Then, looking around to make certain this dastardly act hadn't been observed, Chief removed his wool lumberjack coat and wrapped the now-still carcass inside the smelly piece of clothing.

"YO! CHIEF!" Hillbilly was standing on the edge of the parking lot looking around.

"I'm over here!" the Indian called to his friend.

Hillbilly quickened his stride and came around the side of the building. He was cradling a medium sized brown paper sack. Chief Seattle grinned greedily. He could see the outline of the gallon jug clearly inside the paper sack.

"Whatcha got inside your coat?" Hillbilly asked curiously as they began walking toward the highway.

"Meat," Chief Seattle said shortly.


When they reached the busy Pacific Coast Highway, they stood and waited for an opening in the traffic. An opening appeared and they made a mad dash for the safety of the far side of the road.

When they were safely standing on the park side of the highway, Chief Seattle said, "You go on down to the jungle and tell Frisco Red and the boys that I'll be there directly. Tell 'em to get that pot boilin' because I'll be there with the meat in about 15 minutes." He lengthened his stride and began walking toward the edge of a small pond situated in the middle of the park.

Hillbilly could smell the fire before he even saw the glow cast by the yellow flames. He moved briskly along the well-worn path and emerged from a clump of bushes into the clearing made many years before.

Frisco Red looked up from a pile of bruised and rotting produce he had been cleaning of worms and other critters. Red's sharp eyes immediately recognized Hillbilly, and they also noticed the bottle of wine in the grocery sack Hillbilly was carrying. "Hillbilly, ol' partner!" he called in greeting. "Pull yourself up a piece of real estate and take a load off yer ol' dogs!"

Hillbilly stopped at the edge of the firelight and surveyed the small group of tramps sitting and lying around the fire. Two more vagrants had arrived at the camp since Chief Seattle and Frisco Red had departed on their survival scavenger hunt. An illegal alien sat dumbly on a large rock with his large brown eyes studying the gathering with suspicion. Tennessee was stirring a collection of carrots, potatoes and onions in a blackened aluminum pot filled with water.

Rocks had been piled around the fire and someone had located an aluminum rack that looked like it came from somebody's refrigerator long ago. The blackened pot sat solidly atop the rack and steam was beginning to rise from the water.

"Sit a spell," Tennessee invited the new arrival. "Stew'll be ready in another hour or so and they's plenty for all."

Hillbilly approached the fire. He stooped and picked up a piece of lemon crate and drew a wide circle in the barren dirt. "If ya' want to drink, just fill the rink!" he announced to the onlookers.

Frisco Red glared at Hillbilly balefully. "If you want some grub, better up that jug," he groused at the blond figure standing beside the fire.

A tall, gaunt figure wearing a pair of bib overalls moved slowly from the shadow of a tree and tossed an assortment of nickels, dimes and pennies into the circle. The wetback, taking his cue from the tall man, reached into the pockets of his khaki work pants and tossed a handful of coins into the ring.

Hillbilly looked at the men approvingly and nodded. "That's better," he said, removing a gallon jug of Red Mountain wine from the brown bag. He broke the seal and turned the bottom of the bottle toward the heavens. When he had taken several large gulps, he lowered the bottle and handed it to the tall man in the overalls.

The tall newcomer accepted the jug and peered around cautiously. His eyes were slits and seemed as depthless as a rattlesnake's. He removed a sweat-stained felt hat he was wearing and threw his head back as he lifted the bottle to his lips. He had a long, sinewy neck, and each time his Adam’s apple bobbed, a huge bubble rose from his mouth and traveled the length of the gallon jug.

Frisco Red noticed that the man was missing the index finger on his right hand. The tall stranger's hair was matted with sweat and was plastered to a long, pear-shaped head. "What's yer name?" Frisco asked the silent man.

"They call me 'Okie'," the man stated flatly. He turned the bottle skyward once more and took another long pull from the bottle.

When he had lowered it he handed the bottle to the Mexican, who was squatted on his haunches staring vacantly into the fire. The Mexican took a small drink from the bottle and passed it to Frisco Red. Just then Chief Seattle came into the clearing, striding purposely. He carried a bundle of wet newspapers.

The Indian handed the bundle to Tennessee, who had designated himself as tonight's chef. "What's this?" the white haired man asked.

"Meat," the Indian muttered as he took the gallon jug from Frisco Red.

Tennessee unwrapped the package and saw that some small animal had been skinned and quartered and now lay slickly inside the wet newspaper. "What the hell's this, a possum?" he asked suspiciously.

"Nah, it ain't no goddam possum and it ain't no goddam cat, so just throw the shit in the pot and shut yer ol' trap!" Chief Seattle took several well-deserved pulls off the bottle.

When he handed the bottle to Tennessee he squatted beside the fire and peered into the pot. The water was boiling now and he watched potatoes, tomatoes, onions and carrots roll to the top of the concoction and then disappear below the murky stew juice. He breathed deeply above the pot and his mouth watered at the savory aroma of the steaming vegetables.

"Like I said, the day ol' Chief Seattle can't hustle up a little meat for a camp stew is the day I find me a nine to five and give this shit up!" he reiterated.


Hillbilly turned the jug up and drained the last drops of wine from the bottle. When he was sure not another mililiter of life remained in the jug, he tossed it toward a pile of trash on the edge of the circle. A collective sigh escaped from the lips of the well-fed and moderately intoxicated gathering.

"Guess you all heard about Little Danny," Hillbilly commented.

Frisco Red was lying on his back staring drunkenly up at the stars. He turned on his side and looked questioningly at Frisco Red. "Heard whut?" he asked.

"He's dead," Hillbilly stated matter-of-factly. "Gassed hisself in some flophouse in Portland. Took a little girl with him. Law found him and the girl deader 'n doornails on Christmas morning. Crazy son of a bitch gassed both of 'em! Newspaper said it looked like murder/suicide."

Tennessee looked up from the aluminum pie pan he'd been using for a plate. "Well, I'll be... Wonder what made him want to go and do a thing like that for?" he asked incredulously.

"You talkin' about the Little Danny with the bum leg?" the tall stranger's tongue had loosened somewhat by the magic of the wine.

"Yeah," Frisco Red said. "He had pretty much settled down in Portland the last time I heard of him. Ain't no percentage in staying too long in one spot," he continued. "Cops get to where they know you and before you know it you got a heap of troubles. I'll ride the rails all the way to the graveyard. You know what they say about a rolling stone gathering no moss," he expounded drunkenly.

Chief Seattle was standing beside the fire, staring dreamily into the inferno. He raised one foot and emitted a long, wailing fart. "That was the best goddam stew I ever ate," he said.

Tennessee again removed the piece of cloth from his suit coat pocket and dabbed at his purple lips. "Yes, even if I did make it, I'll have to say that was a good one. Now, if you fellas will excuse me," he said, picking up an old wool blanket that had been rolled and tied with twine. I'm going to say 'goodnight'."

The Mexican was already sleeping, curled up in the shadows of the trees. Frisco Red pickup up a burlap bag which was leaning against a eucalyptus tree and yawned expansively. "Yeah, me too. I'm all in for this day."


The fire burned down until dark smoke smoldered from the dying coals. The night was filled with the rhythmic breathing of the campers. A soft California breeze wafted through the park and millions of tiny insects began buzzing incessantly, adding background to the harmony of snores in the camp. Somewhere, a late freight's whistle pierced through the stillness of the evening.

All was peaceful...


Frisco Red rolled over and groaned. Something was sticking him in the back. Without opening his eyes, he reached behind him and felt around beneath his bedroll until he located the offending object. It was a small, sharp rock and, by the way his back hurt, he could tell he had slept on it all night. He opened his gritty eyes and the early morning light immediately stabbed him right in the brain with a dagger of rays.

"Ohhhhh!" he said, as he sat up. He dragged his tortured body out from between the folds of his threadbare blanket and studied the camp. Only three other bodies other than his were still present at this hour. The Mexican and the gaunt man who called himself Okie had slipped out of camp. Tennessee was sitting on a piece of cardboard beside the re-kindled fire. He was freshly washed and shaved and was reading a newspaper.

"Good morning," Tennessee chirped congenially. "I got some coffee boiling," he said, pointing toward a burnt coffee can atop the aluminum cooking rack.

Frisco Red's face twisted in a grimace. He ran the lump that used to he his tongue along the desert of his palate. His mouth tasted as sour as a compost heap. "I could sure use some," he mused, making more pained faces.

Hillbilly rolled over and squinted one eye at the two men standing beside the fire. "Damn! A man can't even get a little sleep without you two flapping yer goddam jaws!" he complained.

Frisco Red walked over to a pile of rags. "Get up, Chief!" he commanded. "We got to come up with a short-dog of Ripple to wash away last night."

The Indian cracked a reddened eye and gave the feisty redhead a dirty look. Without speaking, he crawled out from beneath the shrubs and began dusting dirt from his filthy denim pants. "I told you me and you was gonna' tangle, and if you ever kick me again we're damned sure gonna' do it, too!"

"Calm down, amigo," Red soothed. "But we gotta fan out and beg up sixty-five cents."

Hillbilly stuck his greasy hands inside his old Levi pocket and pulled out a fistful of change. He began counting to himself, and each bum silently read his lips as he audited the coins. When he had counted the change, he closed one eye and stood for a moment as if trying to reach an important decision. Then he looked at them and said, "I tell you fellas what. That stew was pretty damn good, and if we spend too much time panhandling, we're gonna miss out on that freight that leaves Sunkist in another hour. I'll spring for a bottle of Tokay, but I'm gonna expect you to pay be back when we pull into L.A."

His announcement was met by a chorus of agreeable voices. "C'mon, Chief, let's me and you hit the old supermarket," he said to the Indian, as he began walking across the park.


When they arrived at the shopping center, Chief Seattle began searching cars, while Hillbilly went into the market. Each car had some advertising pamphlet stuck between the windshield wipers and the windshield. As the Indian watched, a man approached a Volkswagen and irately removed the pamphlet, throwing it to the ground. The man then got into the little car and backed out of the parking space.

Chief Seattle walked over and picked up the discarded piece of literature. He looked at it and saw that it was a black and white photo of a miniature poodle. In huge block letters the word 'REWARD" was printed at the top of the page. At the bottom of the piece of paper, "$1,000" was written in the same bold type. Smaller print on the flyer said that the dog had been "lost or stolen" from the Del Rio Shopping Plaza the night before.

Chief Seattle didn't read the rest of the printed message. He was standing in the middle of the parking lot, dumbfounded, his mouth agape, staring at the poster when Hillbilly approached.

"What's that?" Hillbilly asked conversationally.

"Hey, Hillbilly," the Indian asked numbly, "how many jugs of wine could a man buy with a thousand dollars?"

Hillbilly laughed, as he began walking back across the parking lot. "More than you're likely to see in your miserable lifetime," he said.

Like a man reading his own obituary, Chief Seattle wandered after him in a daze, still staring at the reward poster...

Blood Cows
Blood River
Dark & Evil World
The Farm
Bloodbath
Free Chewy



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