by Tween Hobo
“Where are you going?” asked the hitchhiker, temporarily ignoring that these people were casually discussing adopting her dog, as if that was even an option.
“We’re going to California!” announced the mom.
“Cal-i-for-ni-ay,” enunciated Winfield.
“Oh!” said the hitchhiker. “Random! I just came from there.”
Everybody stood up straight. The heroic son took a step forward. “You say you been there? Been to California?”
“Um, yeah. Like, a few months ago.”
Gasps. Staring. The son spoke carefully, as if he was worried about his voice breaking. “You say you been there—been all the way to California—and then you turned around and came back here?”
“Um, well, kind of. I’m actually from Virginia? So I’ve never been here before. I’m just kind of traveling around. Trying to see the whole USA, you know?”
“Ain’t nothin’ to see round here,” growled Pa. “Ain’t nothin’ but empty houses. Folks like us used to live in them houses, till the bank came along and kicked us out.”
Pa’s wife touched him sharply, cautioning him against exploding at a child. “Let Tom do the talkin’,” she said. Apparently the heroic son’s name was Tom.
Tom got down on one knee in front of the hitchhiker. She looked into his face. It reminded her a little of another face, the face of her missing friend, a hobo by the name of Stumptown Jim. It was just one of those faces that’s seen a lot and found a way to handle it all without falling apart. The hitchhiker missed her friend Jim, and at the same time thought about asking this Tom guy if he had ever played MASH.
But now Tom was asking her a question. “Tell us, and tell us straight. Is there work out there in California? We seen a flyer said there’s plenty work, picking grapes and oranges and peaches. We ain’t scared’a workin’. Even the little fellas, they’s ready to do they fair share. But tell us. There’s work, ain’t there? Out in that golden land?”
The hitchhiker didn’t know what to say. All she had done in California was get Bieber Fever and lie on the floor of a public restroom chugging Gatorade and hallucinating about celebrities. She tried to think of something to say that would comfort this handsome, distressed young man in front of her, but before she could speak, his father burst in again.
“Course there’s work,” Pa spat. “We seen the flyer, ain’t we? Said they need folks to come pick grapes. Well, we’s a-comin’. Ain’t no kinda work round here no more, but there’s work in California. There’s everything in California. California’s the ticket.”
The hitchhiker suddenly got a bad feeling about this family. Not about them personally, but about their situation. It was all very Hunger Games. They were in for some serious hard times. And then, for the first time since she’d left home nearly a year ago, the hitchhiker was seized with terrible guilt.
What was she doing out here, living like this, when she had a choice about it? When she had a warm house and a loving (in their own way) family and a fridge full of Ocean Spray and even her own little piggy bank containing US $45.68 and a bunch of French francs from when her dad went to Aix-en-Provence to speak at a conference there? What kind of scam was she trying to pull here? She felt like a vulture, feeding on other people’s problems. Worse than a vulture—she felt like her au pair. A tourist.
Ruthie, the little girl, had crept back over and started petting the dog again. The hitchhiker didn’t jerk the rope this time. Tom was still kneeling before her, waiting for an answer. “Tell us,” he said again. “What’s it like out there? In California?”
She took a deep breath and considered lying, but honesty overcame her. “Um, it’s okay. I mean, there’s Disneyland and stuff. And it’s nice out. But it’s not that different there from anywhere else. They have Starbucks. They have Trader Joe’s. It’s kind of—whatever. Basically.”
The family took this in. The pregnant daughter yawned again and said to her skeezy boyfriend, “You can get a job at TJ’s.” He nodded vaguely and tapped the spicy dust at the bottom of his Doritos bag into his mouth. The old lady had already climbed back up into the RV. The tortoise, by this point, was already across the road and slowly vanishing into the high weeds.
Pa stomped his foot and gruffly commanded, “Back in the van now, Ma. We behind schedule. We got to git moving. Got to get to Texas before dark.”
“What about the child?” asked Ma, but the hitchhiker now spoke up on her own behalf.
“No, no, it’s cool—I’m fine. I actually need to be heading East. My family’s back that way, and they probs miss me.” As if on cue, the hitchhiker’s bindle buzzed. “LOL, I bet that’s my mom texting me right now. She’s kind of psychic like that.”
The Greatest Little Dog In America was now fully curled up in Ruthie’s arms. “Come on, Ruthie,” said Tom. “Leave the dog. We got to get back on the road.” Ruthie’s eyes filled with tears.
The hitchhiker made a snap decision. “You can take her. She likes you. And she can protect you—like you said. At night.” Having made this offer, the hitchhiker swallowed, trying not to cry.
Ruthie and Winfield clapped in delight.
Ma nodded approvingly. “That’s real kind’a you. What do you think, Pa? Think we kin take her? I mean—long as the child’s sure ’bout giving her away.”
“I’m sure,” said the hitchhiker. The little dog wagged her tail, as if agreeing to the plan.
“Oh, Pa, kin we take her? Please?” clamored Ruthie and Winfield.
“Well, now, I s’pose,” growled Pa. “S’pose we could use a dog to guard our tent. Don’t know what we’ll feed her, but, heck. S’pose Providence will look after us somehow.”
Ruthie and Winfield jumped for joy. The hitchhiker, with a full heart, hugged her little dog good-bye, taking a moment to enjoy one last slobbering doggy kiss. “Take good care of her,” she said to the kids. “She likes Skittles, but she’s really not allowed to eat them.”
Tom took hold of the dog’s fraying rope leash. “We’ll look after her. Don’t you worry. She’s one of us now. One of the Joads.” And the setting sun burnished his strong profile, like a president on a nickel.
Ma reached into her pocket, which was empty. “Wisht we could give you somethin’ in return,” she lamented. “But we ain’t got nothin’ to give.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said the hitchhiker. “I’m psyched to help you guys out.”
“And ain’t that the secret,” said Ma. “Ain’t that the whole mysterious secret, right there.”
Then everybody was climbing back into the RV. The sun was setting on the Oklahoma countryside. Another day in America was drawing to a close, and the Joads were getting back on the road.
As the family pulled away, the hitchhiker heard her little dog howling farewell. She noticed two bumper stickers on the back of the RV. One said MY KID IS AN HONOR STUDENT AND MY PRESIDENT IS A MORON. The other said THERE’S ALWAYS MONEY IN THE BANANA STAND. The hitchhiker laughed at this one and ambled along in a northeastern direction.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
11/16
Pretty sure I’m writing the Great American Novel. Then again I mostly read Bazooka wrappers
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
11/17
One day I’ll git me a mighty fine padded bra.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
11/18
The best paninis in life are free.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
11/19
When a man’s shamed of his beggin’ ways, he’s all “No hobo.”
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
11/20
Whistlin’ “Dixie,” scribblin’ yin-yangs.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
11/21
Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton, or even cotton-Lycra-blend!
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
11/22
What kind of peddler doesn’t have any slap bracelets?!?!
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
11/23
I
find that parkour never goes as well as I’d expected.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
11/24
Remember, it’s not Thanksgiving until somebody gets trampled at a Best Buy.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
11/25
I’m thankful for the guys who blow up the Macy’s Hello Kitty balloon.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
11/26
Before the internet I s’pose folks looked for simpler ways to spend their Cyber Monday.
In the old days, kids would go from house to house, just crushing all the Hamburger Helper they could find.
How to Make Mulligan Stew
Mulligan stew is a classic hobo dish, and it takes a team effort. That’s what makes it fun! (And perfect for sleepover parties.) Here are the simple steps you and your roughneck clique of BFFLs can follow to make a mulligan.
• Gather all the available hobos together for a hobo huddle. You might want to kick things off by putting all your hands in the middle of the circle and cheering, “Goooo . . . hobos!” Or “Souuuuuupp!” Or whatever.
• Assign tasks. One hobo stays at the campsite (or mom’s kitchen) and builds the fire (or asks permission to use the stove). Others are responsible for rustling up the ingredients, as follows . . .
• Meat. Potatoes. Onions. Bread. If a chicken can be stolen, awesome. If you want to throw in a couple gluten-free vegan meatballs, go for it. The whole point of mulligan stew is that it’s open to interpretation. No two mulligans are alike. Like fingerprints. Or Olsen Twins, if you look carefully. Which brings us to . . .
• Google. The essential ingredient in any modern recipe. Because, if you want to find an actual recipe for mulligan stew, use Google. I’m not writing a cookbook here. So, in short . . .
• Do whatever the internet tells you, which, it probably involves salt. And then when it’s all cooked up, dig in! There should be enough to go around, if you made enough, which I hope you did, even for the less popular hobos in your group. Remember that Jennifer Lawrence was not popular in middle school. So you never know. And also remember . . .
• Beans. They just make everything better.
And THAT’S how you make a mulligan stew! (Ish.)
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
11/28
I know #FF stands for Follow Friday, but what is the abbrev for when you switch bodies with your mom (Freaky Friday)?
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
11/29
A solid internet relationship’s liable to go bust if you run across the fella IRL.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
11/30
Read the Wikipedia page on Tom Sawyer, thinking of setting up my own fake funeral.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
12/1
Trying not to be a bridezilla about my fake funeral.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
12/2
Will it be obvious I’m not actually dead if I live-tweet my own fake funeral?
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
12/3
When the kid you tricked into painting the fence shows up at yr fake funeral. #awkward
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
12/4
You really have to seize opportunities in life to make the Home Alone face.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
12/5
How come boys always want to know if you have a dowry?
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
12/6
Waiting for the Victorian Silhouette filter on Instagram.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
12/7
What the shucks?!!
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
12/8
My superpower is making the same outfit look good two hundred days in a row.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
12/9
I’ve had it with all these robber barons.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
12/10
LOL at naked guys in barrels.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
12/11
All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, plus a blinged-out grill to put over them. #ice #krunk #hustla
Pro Tip: Minesweeper = more fun than actual mining.
December 12
* * *
Boone County, West Virginia
By now everybody’s seen the footage—the story aired around the clock while we were trapped, and since our being safely extracted, they haven’t moved the cameras off my face. Much has been made of the fact that the Mud River Coal Company dim-wittedly hired a preteen girl disguised, by means of a penciled-on mustache and a very fake-sounding accent, as a small Latino man. Huge bribes have been offered by the media to said girl (whose mustache was mostly wiped off by the time she and her comrades emerged from the collapsed mine after their days-long ordeal) in exchange for revealing the sordid details of what really went down, way down, down there in the mine. All of these bribes have been refused, in honor of the “pact of silence” that the thirteen trapped miners (including me, Tween Hobo) swore ourselves to while we were underground. There are some things we will not speak about. Not even in our diaries.
Here’s what I will tell you: Half a mile below the earth’s crust, where it’s always dark as night and what little air there is to breathe tastes like dinosaur farts, you must rely on your fellow man to survive. Civilization is crucial underground. Up on the surface, we can act like animals and get away with it. But down below, we have to behave ourselves. As one headline put it, “Trapped Miners Formed Micro-Society to Keep Themselves Sane.” We sure did. It was like a well-run after-school program down there. We had jobs. Activities. A strict schedule that went something like this: Breakfast. Prayers. Clearing debris. Snack. Seven to eight hours free time. Another snack.
Here’s what else I’ll tell you: Getting trapped in a mine is a kick-ass way to get famous. Go ahead, start your own YouTube channel, build a social media presence, and so forth, but for instant celebrity, nothing beats a near-fatal mining accident. When I finally got “topside” yesterday, it was not only with my life. It was with a book deal and film options. Booyah.
But of course, the best part of yesterday had nothing to do with licensing opportunities or seeing that my name (along with the name of the mine, Boone Coal Mine 1A) was trending on Twitter—or even with the dazzling sensation of the sun hitting my face for the first time in almost a week. It was an even more dazzling sensation. It was when I opened my eyes and blinked and saw who was camped out there, at the mine’s busted entrance, waving a little American flag and waiting for me. Who else but my homey of homeys: Stumptown Jim!!!!!!!!!!
I searched for the words to express my joy, but Jim took the lead and spoke first. “Way to go, kid,” he said in an unwavering voice. “You made it. Had me worried there.” And he opened up his arms and gave me an emotional, patriotic hug.
“Jim!” I cried. “How did you find me?”
“Saw you on TV. You been all over the news. The New York Times website has a little interactive timeline of your life. On the home page.”
I nodded, pretending to be dazed by all the attention, while secretly loving it. “Oh, Jim!” I pressed his hand to my cheek affectionately, if also aware that it would make a nice shot for the reporters. “Oh, I’ve missed you so!”
“You been through a lot since I seen you last,” said Jim, studying me as the rescuers unclipped my safety harness. “Seems like you’ve changed.”
“Well, I’m twelve, for one thing. Twelve and two-twelfths.” I flagged the rescuer, who was walking away. “Hi, yeah—can I get some water? . . . No—not Dasani, God no. SmartWater, if you have it. Something with electrolytes?” I turned back to Jim. “Sorry—you were saying?”
“Yeah, you sure do seem grown-up.”
“Well, thanks,” I said, motioning to Diane Sawyer and her team that I would be there in a few.
“I gotta admit,” Jim continued, “when I ditched you back there in Colorado, I didn’t expect you to keep on train-hopping b
y yourself. Thought you’d be on Travelocity in no time, booking yourself a discount flight home. But you proved me wrong. You got mettle, kid. Moxie. Grit.”
“I wouldn’t go home without finding you. And besides, you knew I was still riding the rails. You wrote me that note in the dirt back in Denver. And your bandana, in Austin. You left it there for me.”
“So you found it. Well, I’ll be.” The light in Jim’s eyes crackled like the warmest campfire.
Just then we were interrupted by my new manager, Todd, who I’d signed with via vacuum-sealed tube while still in the tunnel. Todd gets 15 percent of net received and will represent me across all platforms. He has a goatee. He approached me now with one BlackBerry glued between his shoulder and ear and another one outstretched for me to take. “It’s your dad. I told him he could have five minutes. After that it’s Diane, and then I’m gonna need you to look over some endorsement packages.” I took the phone. Jim looked suspicious. Meanwhile, my father was eagerly shouting at me.
I’m sure it had nothing to do with the book deal or the Capri Sun sponsorship, but suddenly my dad was very insistent that it was time for me to come home. He also wanted to know if Clooney was available to play him in the movie. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Clooney had already signed on to play our brave foreman, Ernesto. Dad put me on speaker and the whole family pleaded with me to come home for Christmas slash Hanukkah. Even Evan was getting hysterical.
I interrupted them. “You guys. Listen. I’m trying to come home. That’s how I got into this mess in the first place. I realized in Oklahoma that I needed to come home, but I didn’t have any money, so I started looking for work, and the first job I found was this mining gig here in Boone County. Which, obviously that didn’t work out very well. But now I got this book deal and everything, so I’m flush, and I’m heading home right away! I’ll be there to light the menorah, I promise. . . . No—I don’t need you to pick me up, Mom. I’ll get home my own way. But don’t worry—I’ll make it. Love you guys.” I hung up and smiled at Jim, who was gazing upon me with pride.
