Ghost of a Hobo

Making a beckoning motion with the gun, Pete pointed in the direction he wanted the victim to go. The man stared at him for a second before complying.

On wobbly legs, the man stumbled to walk in a path taking him away from the left side of the car. Pete turned to follow at a distance. With Pete's attention diverted from my direction for that moment, it was now or never. I decided to make my move. I could already picture my body, along with that of the car owner, lying in the scorching sun, feasted upon by vultures.

I mentioned earlier that I played football. In a move that might have resembled a linebacker recovering a fumble and immediately running with it, I rushed to a fist size rock lying to the rear of the car. Losing no time grasping the stone, I continued my momentum in Pete's direction, bringing the rock over my head.

I was five feet behind this facsimile of Buddy Hackett before he turned his head in my direction. Not having time to turn, he scrunched his head into his shoulders, leaning forward in anticipation of the impending blow.

The rock, intended to collide with his head, missed. However, it added weigh as my forearm impacted across his shoulders as he began to pivot his body. Aided by his sudden turning motion, the gun became dislodged from his hand. Continuing my forward motion, colliding with him, we both fell.



Ghosts do not haunt me. I simply do not believe in such. I readily dismiss the claims of those who profess to have seen the spirited essence of some long dead entity. However, occasionally a wispy image comes wafting through the dense fog of my memory. That I can explain, or at least offer my own rationalization. These are my ghosts. Ghosts of my memories. They are never vivid, having no distinct faces to put with the wispy masses. Time has removed any defining characteristics. Yet they refuse to completely die. Fortunately, they hardly ever manifest themselves in my waking hours, but on rare occasions, they establish a presence in the miasmic substance of my dreams. As stated, seldom do I pain myself with guilt. If so, it has not been a prodigious factor in my life. Perhaps that is a flaw of my character. Then, perhaps not. After all, I am not the one who rendered them ghost. However, I know who did. If I may take the liberty of tweaking an old cliché, I don't know where all the bodies are buried. I do know the proximity.

With that said, I will attempt to divulge what I experienced a lifetime ago. I will do so in a chronological order, relating the events not only as they unfolded, but the circumstances surrounding them. Simply bear with me.

In the summer of 1961, a naïve seventeen-year old boy undertakes hitchhiking to Houston, Texas. With less than four dollars in his pockets, he hopes to find employment for the summer. Not geographically enlightened, the first night finds him at a transient mission in Monroe, Louisiana. There, an older traveler persuades him to forget Houston and accompany him to Los Angeles. This will be an ineffable mistake.

Shortly, the teenager spends the last of his meager funds on boloney sandwiches. Little did either know it would be a while before they would eat another meal.

The older man lauds the advantages of catching an empty boxcar as opposed begging a ride. The younger man, having heard horror tales of how railroad police dealt with hobos in prior years, refuses. Some days later, they find themselves in Amarillo, Texas where they spend two days on Route 66 thumbing a ride to no avail.

Leaving the beaten path and traveling the roads less taken, at one point they are abandoned in the desert during a dust storm. Haggard, hungry, tired, dirty and sun baked, they reach Gallup, New Mexico. There they meet the individual who will play havoc with the teenager's life and make him an unwilling witness to a pointless spree of murder, mayhem and robbery.