The Hobo

The street of Loren in late August is a dusty, hot and dry maze of faded asphalt and exhaust fumes. On any weekday, the white collars of Loren busy themselves in air-conditioned offices and meeting rooms. And in between the floors, the heat has made these poor air-pumps work on unpaid overtime. Thus, they groan like draft horses, and in turn blow great gusts of cool, refreshing air in and around the great glass houses in every corner of the city.

Loren, known for its very own miniature Silicon Valley, also harbors a great number of ne’er-do-wells and undesirables. These now clog the streets and entrances in swells, staying as near as they can to the moving glass doors of these great houses of industry. And every time these doors swing open, the chill would spill out and soothe their sun-roasted skin, thus giving them respite if only momentarily.

Among the men sits someone with the name of Cal. With a wife-beater sticking close to his brown skin, he also wears faded olive cargo-pants and sits last in the line to these waiting men. And like them, he too is also hiding under the shade to cool off. However, unlike the rest Cal has with him no possession nor prizes outside of a single empty wallet. And at any time of day, one could always see Cal seemingly hypnotized by the slides of photographs contained within. Curious, one of the older men sitting next to him brave a question:

“Is that your little girl?” – he says with a raspy voice.

But Cal’s expressions only harden at the old man’s raspy words ‘your little girl.’ Almost by instincts, his calloused thumbs gently rest themselves on the faded skin of said little girl, as if hiding her away from the unwelcomed gaze.

“And that?” – the old man points at the metal chain on Cal’s neck.

“Is that what I think it is?”

And again, Cal does not respond. Quietly, he folds up the photographs into neat stacks and stuffs the wallet into his back pocket. With a twist of his brow, Cal is just about to dust off his shorts and find himself a new line to occupy. A new line of men that would not bother him with questions. Yet, when his one good ear catches a slight, familiar jingle of metal, Cal stops and turns to the old man. The sight of the old man’s scratched up dog-tags in the hard palms of his hands half surprises Cal, and half saddens him.

“Bag-Daddy.” – the old man snorts – “Get it? Baghdad? Bag-Daddy?”

But said bad comedy only makes Cal frown even harder. Again, he attempts to get away from the old man that is clearly out of his mind. Only, he suddenly feels a warm hand reaching out from behind. In a moment of reflex, Cal could feel his heart sinking through his bowels when his instincts kick into overdrive. Then, his eyes shoot wide open and his limbs flex and move with a mind of their own. And just a moment later, Cal comes to, his breathing ragged, his teeth grit, his balled-up fist grabbing at the old man’s cuff, the other poised high and ready to bring down the hammer. It has been fortunate to have stopped right before the big thing, Cal thinks to himself. Yet, what amazes him is that even though he is this close to doing it, the old man seems almost unfazed by the sudden predicament.

“Easy, sonny. Take a deep breath, in and out, that’s it.” – he says, still with that same unphased raspy voice before.

“That’s right. You’re home, now, son.”

After a few moments waiting, Cal calms down his wiry nerves, and says a few curses at the old man. And as he is just about to take his leave, the old man tugs lightly at him and says:

“You look awfully tired, sonny. The sun is getting to you.”

And just like that, Cal finds himself precisely where he has been sitting at, ready to give the old man another chance. But just a while later, he soon comes to regret his decision.

“So?” – the old man asks.

“So?” – Cal frowns.

“Why are you here?” – the old man turns and look.

And the question cuts deep. For quite some time Cal has also asked himself that same question over and over. In the endless weeks where summer jobs again come in demand, he has drifted from one part-time job to another. He has pulled carts, washed dishes, even scraped and cut his knees and nearly broke his back working the heavy construction stones and timbers. All of that, only to again find himself out here among the lines of rejects from society. Why, Cal frowns to himself, why indeed.

“I see…” – the old man nods. As if he has heard all of that from just looking at him.

“See what?” – Cal snaps.

“See that it’s been rough. Heh, ‘rough,’ that’s not even the half of it, am I right?” – the old man snorts.

“And what the hell do you know?” – he snarls.

But the old man does not have a respond to such open hostility. Unable to give an answer, he simply nods, and then looks solemnly forward to the coming and going traffic beyond. For a while, silence gives way to the screeching of passing cars, and the click, clack and whining of the metal hinges as their doors swing open and shut. Unknown to Cal, even the lines of men have long distanced themselves away from him. Thinking he has won the little dispute, Cal again attempts to take off, but almost finds himself unable to move. There, wordlessly, is that same rough hands of the old man, giving him a slow pat on the shoulder.

“You’ve done well…” – he says.

“What….” – Cal frowns.

“You’ve done well, Son.” – his voice soft, almost breaking.

“Are you … Are you mocking me?” – Cal again snarls at him.

But the old man simply keeps quiet, keeps on solemnly looking forward. For some reason, though he wants to, Cal could not bring himself to remove the gentle hand that rests on his shoulder. And then, one single thought bursts into his mind. It has truly been a long, long time since he had felt this warmth from someone. And the warmth has made him realize just how much he has craved to feel this again, to feel that he belongs, that he isn’t among the rejects, that…

“Everything would be alright, son. I just know it.” – the old man looks on.

Now, there is no stopping it. From somewhere deep, somewhere neglected, somewhere that Cal has worked tirelessly day in day out pushing down, something boils over inside of him. At once, he could feel his eyes burning up, he could feel his brow tightening, his teeth biting down into his dry, crack lips to keep from shivering. And there at the corner of his eyes comes the first drop, like the first drop of rain amidst hot summer. And just as quick as it has come, Cal has also wiped it away. Trying not to show it, he turns with a feeble grip and tries to untangle himself. But now that he could feel the fire burning inside of him, the fire that threatened to boil his most innards emotions over, he could not. And as the old man wrap his arms around Cal’s shoulders, he then pulls him close to his own. And here Cal could not help but find within that kindness the strength to let go of that grief and pain that has been boiling up from so long ago and breaks into silent tears.

The streets of Loren in late august is a maze of dry summer’s heat and even drier, dustier winds. Here, a man named Cal calls it his home and calls it his place of birth. And on such a morning, bright and hot, Cal realizes that he has dozed off to sleep along its dusty roadsides. Looking around however, Cal could find no old man, nor does he remember how he looks like. Only, he could hear still hear his raspy voice, that everything would be alright for him. That, and a small patter of rain drops coming from the rolling heavens above. And he could smell the odor of the earth that always come before the cooling rain.