Hobos I Have Known

by Art Burton

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  NO ONE TURNED AWAY

  Despite my memory of those first four men, I never laid eyes on them again. This was true of most of the hobos who came to our house. They were just passing through. One meal and gone.

  There were a few exceptions to this rule. Two immediately come to mind. One good. One bad. Truth be told, the bad experience was another first. It only happened the once. Bad things have a way of sticking with you longer than the good ones. I’ll tell you about it first.

  It was his second or possible his third visit that stands out. It was early in the morning. My father and younger brother had gone to the barn for their morning chores—milking, cleaning, feeding, everyday routine things. Ordinarily, our dog, Sandy, would be back in the kitchen after rounding up the cows for morning milking. He was not back yet.

  The knock on the door was heavy, more of a banging than knocking. I could smell him before I saw him. Rat-Trap Johnson. His reputation in the community for aggressive behavior preceded him.

  "Get me something to eat," he said as soon as I opened the door. Even though this was back in the ’30s, no man talked to me like that.

  "Breakfast is not ready yet," I said. "You’ll have to wait. Sit out here until I call you."

  "Feed me now. I’m not waiting." He started to force his way passed me.

  I had never seen behavior like this before. I’ll tell you, I was a little scared.

  "Wait on the step or I’ll call my brothers." My voice was raised to give it some authority that I didn’t feel. I held the door partially closed to deny him access. He was still pushing against it and I was losing the battle.

  "Your brothers are in the barn with your father. I watched them go. Now give me something to eat and be quick about it."

  I held the door with both hands. He was stubborn but I was more determined. I had fear giving me a boost.

  "George," I said. Just the one word. Spoken sharply. A vent in the ceiling led to the bedrooms upstairs. Its intended purpose was to allow heat to pass to the upper floor from the kitchen wood stove but sounds passed equally as well.

  Thump. Two feet landed on the floor of the bedroom over my head. The force on the door lessened. The sounds of pounding feet on the stairway echoed throughout the house. In a flash my older brother showed up in the hall doorway still fastening the buttons on his pants.

  "What the hell is going on here?" His voice had a menacing quality that comes to you automatically when someone is mistreating your younger sister. He advanced towards the kitchen door.

  "Wh-who are you?" Rat-Trap asked, a surprised look on his face.

  "Are you the clown that’s terrorizing all the women in the neighborhood?" George stood slightly less than six feet tall and had shoulders like an ox. Rat-Trap stumbled over his own feet as he tried to back out the door. Two steps and George was across the floor. He grabbed the hobo by the collar and lifted him to his feet.

  "God, you stink," he said and manhandled the ’bo towards the sink room. "Nobody this filthy eats in our house. Get some soap and water on your face and hands." George pumped the handle of the upright pump splashing some cold water into a basin. The other hand still firmly held the now silent hobo.

  "When you’re clean, wait outside on the step. You’ll eat when the rest of us eat."

  Despite the hobo’s bad behavior, no one was ever turned away hungry. That wasn’t the way things were done in those days.

  The hobo didn’t know this. He studied the basin of water in front of him. Slowly, he put his hands into the water as if it were a vat of acid.

  "Wash," George said and then returned to the kitchen.

  When breakfast was ready, the hobo appeared with clean spots on his face surrounded by a buildup of dirt that would only disappear under hours of scrubbing. He quietly ate two eggs, over easy, and some toast and tea. His bluster was gone. When the meal was over, George escorted him to the door. In a low voice, but one that still carried, I could hear him say: "If I ever hear of you threatening any of the women around here again, I’ll come looking for you." There was no additional threat, no dire consequences described, just a simple warning. That was the last meal I ever prepared for Rat Trap Johnson.

  Later that night another knock came to the door just as we were about to sit down to super. I looked at my brothers. The events of the morning had left me a little gun shy about answering the door to strangers. I realized how vulnerable I was when alone. You might say I was stripped of my innocence. George got up and went to the door. A smile lit up his face as he looked through the window.

  "It’s Lone Jim," George said. He swung the door open. "Perfect timing, as always. We’re just sitting down to supper."

  "How fortuitous," the man at the door said, and then laughed.

  Lone Jim would show up at the house about once a month. He was well dressed, in a worn sort of way, clean and always alone.

  "Lone Jim’s the name," he told us on his first arrival. "Would sure enjoy the opportunity of sharing your repast this evening." Unlike the others, Lone Jim wasn’t just in, eat and out. He was thought of as more of a visitor. He was the modern day version of the troubadours of old. He traveled from town to town bringing news from one area to the other and shared these stories in an entertaining fashion. His visits were looked forward to.

  On one of his earlier visits my youngest brother asked Jim if he had ever been a school teacher. That was the local rumor.

  Jim laughed a deep throated laugh. "No, never a school teacher, my boy. I studied to be a lawyer," he paused, "but at the wrong bar."

  Those were the kinds of responses we expected from Jim, expected and enjoyed.

  We shuffled around the table and made another spot available. Lone Jim sat in and acknowledged everyone by name. His plate was filled and he dug in with such gusto that it made one proud to be the cook.

  "I hear you had some excitement this morning," Jim said after the dishes were cleared away. We all looked at him with surprise. How did he know?

  Jim ignored our surprise and continued. "That Rat-Trap Johnson makes it hard on everybody. Actions like his and the next thing we know, no one is answering the door to us. A couple of days without food and people can get mighty upset."

  "Come on, Jim," George said, "how did you know he was here and what happened?"

  "What happened?" my dad asked. We hadn’t given him all the details. It would have only worried him. He looked from George to me to Jim.

  "Rat-Trap got his face washed," Jim said. "I met him down by the tracks and there was this little clean spot shining out at me. I asked why and he poured out his story of how you folks abused him. Thought I’d drop in and hear the truth." Jim waited.

  George related the morning’s events, toning it down a little for my father’s benefit. Jim could read between the lines. He knew and disliked Rat-Trap.

  "Like I said, men like him make it hard on the rest of us. If he keeps on acting like that and the food dries up, poor old Rat-Trap may wake up some morning and find himself dead." There was silence in the room.

  "He’s from the city," my father finally said.

  Lone Jim nodded. "I believe so."

  "City folks don’t understand that people in the country are basically law-abiden," my father continued. "We don’t have all the silly rules they have in the city. We don’t care where you cross the road or where you spit." All eyes were on him now. "But we do look out for one another. We protect our own."

  George was glad to hear his father express this view. He picked up the theme. "Depending on whose daughter, wife or sister he tries that on again, you may be right, Jim." He looked at my father. The message was passed that the incident was a little more serious than described.

  "Well, folks in the country have been handling things like this for a good many years," my father said. "You could die of old age waiting for policemen to arrive from the city. We don’t even bother to send for them. Take care of things ourselves. System seems
to work. Rat-Trap Johnson may have to have this explained to him." He gave his head an emphatic nod. "Or maybe a good face washing was all he needed to clear his brain." The others smiled. The subject was closed.

  Those two men stand out more than any of the others in my hobo related experience, one as good, one as not.