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Authors: Sam Torode
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who sent me out. He got in an accident and lost his sight.”
“I’m sorry,” Craw said. “How did it happen?”
“A bird shat in his eyes.”
He leaned in closer. “I can hardly hear with these old ears of mine. It sounded like you said—”
“Bird. Shat. He got drunk and passed out on the lawn. A bird flew over and—”
“Say no more,” Craw said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I know what it’s like to have a drunk for a father.”
“He’s not a drunk,” I said. “It was the only time he’s ever touched the stuff. He’s a Baptist preacher.”
“ Say no more .”
Craw scooted away and started carving at the wall with his hook. After a while, I saw he was carving a rhyme:
Baptists and Catholics, all have their creeds;
Still the doubt is, where true Christianity be.
“You’re a poet?” I asked.
“No, but I dabble.”
A minute later, Craw made his way to the back of the car to pee. He unzipped his pants and looked back over his shoulder. “My pecker’s a poet.”
“How’s that?”
“He’s a longfellow.”
+ + +
By now, I knew Craw was more a braggart than a pervert. When I asked him about his travels, he spun tales of riding the rails and stowing away on ships, bumming all the way from Alaska to Timbuktu and back—twice.
I asked if he’d ever been to France. “Oh yes,” he said. “Those French women love black men.”
“Why’d you ever leave?” If I could have gone to live with the French Lady, I sure as heck wouldn’t have come back.
“The ol’ wanderlust, I suppose. Leaving’s in my blood.”
I wanted to hear more. “Is it true that all the ladies in France, you know, don’t shave under their arms?”
Craw rubbed his chin. “I can’t say for certain. You see, I didn’t have time to inspect them all …”
“But as a general rule?”
“My boy, no woman in the world shaved her armpits till Mack Sennett’s bathing beauties started the craze. That was back about nineteen-and-sixteen.”
“1916?”
“That’s right. I was nineteen, and the bathing beauties were sixteen. But that’s a whole nuther story.”
+ + +
As the afternoon wore on, he asked more questions about my journey. “So what beckons you to Glen Rose?”
I hesitated. Lying is an important skill to have on the road, and I’ve always been terrible at it. My lips may say one thing, but my face always gives me away. And I surely didn’t want any hobo to know about the money.
When I stammered, Craw nudged me with his elbow. “A girl, eh?”
“Heck no,” I said. “It’s only my uncle. He owns a farm, and my father’s sending me to work for the summer.”
“Be grateful you have a job waiting for you. That’s better than most.”
That gave me an idea. I needed a guide, and Craw needed money—maybe we could strike a deal. “If you’re looking for work,” I said, “I’ll bet my uncle could use a extra hand.”
Craw held up his hook. “So could I.”
“Are you interested in work?”
“Work?” Craw snorted. “I’ve never worked a day in my life. Work is for chumps.” He waved his hand around the boxcar. “Look at me—I’ve got everything a man could ask for.”
My heart sank. There was no way I could make it to Glen Rose on my own. Even if I did make it there, I wan’t sure I could find the money. My father’s map was shredded in a hundred pieces somewhere along the tracks in St. Louis.
For a long while, neither of us said anything. Then Craw picked at his empty tin can with his hook and tossed it across the car. “I’ve been thinking about your offer,” he said. “Do you suppose your uncle could use the services of a carpenter?”
My eyes lit up. “I’m sure he would. So you’re a carpenter?”
“No—but for a bed and two meals a day, I’m willing to learn.”
+ + +
Later that afternoon, we crossed over into Oklahoma. My throat was parched and my stomach so empty it didn’t even bother growling anymore. My bones ached from
the
“I’m sorry,” Craw said. “How did it happen?”
“A bird shat in his eyes.”
He leaned in closer. “I can hardly hear with these old ears of mine. It sounded like you said—”
“Bird. Shat. He got drunk and passed out on the lawn. A bird flew over and—”
“Say no more,” Craw said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I know what it’s like to have a drunk for a father.”
“He’s not a drunk,” I said. “It was the only time he’s ever touched the stuff. He’s a Baptist preacher.”
“ Say no more .”
Craw scooted away and started carving at the wall with his hook. After a while, I saw he was carving a rhyme:
Baptists and Catholics, all have their creeds;
Still the doubt is, where true Christianity be.
“You’re a poet?” I asked.
“No, but I dabble.”
A minute later, Craw made his way to the back of the car to pee. He unzipped his pants and looked back over his shoulder. “My pecker’s a poet.”
“How’s that?”
“He’s a longfellow.”
+ + +
By now, I knew Craw was more a braggart than a pervert. When I asked him about his travels, he spun tales of riding the rails and stowing away on ships, bumming all the way from Alaska to Timbuktu and back—twice.
I asked if he’d ever been to France. “Oh yes,” he said. “Those French women love black men.”
“Why’d you ever leave?” If I could have gone to live with the French Lady, I sure as heck wouldn’t have come back.
“The ol’ wanderlust, I suppose. Leaving’s in my blood.”
I wanted to hear more. “Is it true that all the ladies in France, you know, don’t shave under their arms?”
Craw rubbed his chin. “I can’t say for certain. You see, I didn’t have time to inspect them all …”
“But as a general rule?”
“My boy, no woman in the world shaved her armpits till Mack Sennett’s bathing beauties started the craze. That was back about nineteen-and-sixteen.”
“1916?”
“That’s right. I was nineteen, and the bathing beauties were sixteen. But that’s a whole nuther story.”
+ + +
As the afternoon wore on, he asked more questions about my journey. “So what beckons you to Glen Rose?”
I hesitated. Lying is an important skill to have on the road, and I’ve always been terrible at it. My lips may say one thing, but my face always gives me away. And I surely didn’t want any hobo to know about the money.
When I stammered, Craw nudged me with his elbow. “A girl, eh?”
“Heck no,” I said. “It’s only my uncle. He owns a farm, and my father’s sending me to work for the summer.”
“Be grateful you have a job waiting for you. That’s better than most.”
That gave me an idea. I needed a guide, and Craw needed money—maybe we could strike a deal. “If you’re looking for work,” I said, “I’ll bet my uncle could use a extra hand.”
Craw held up his hook. “So could I.”
“Are you interested in work?”
“Work?” Craw snorted. “I’ve never worked a day in my life. Work is for chumps.” He waved his hand around the boxcar. “Look at me—I’ve got everything a man could ask for.”
My heart sank. There was no way I could make it to Glen Rose on my own. Even if I did make it there, I wan’t sure I could find the money. My father’s map was shredded in a hundred pieces somewhere along the tracks in St. Louis.
For a long while, neither of us said anything. Then Craw picked at his empty tin can with his hook and tossed it across the car. “I’ve been thinking about your offer,” he said. “Do you suppose your uncle could use the services of a carpenter?”
My eyes lit up. “I’m sure he would. So you’re a carpenter?”
“No—but for a bed and two meals a day, I’m willing to learn.”
+ + +
Later that afternoon, we crossed over into Oklahoma. My throat was parched and my stomach so empty it didn’t even bother growling anymore. My bones ached from
the
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