Call Me E.

Call Me E.
all stories and essays by Sean Rein

My Secret Life

It happens every autumn, around mid-month. The phone rings and an operator's voice asks me if I'll accept a collect call from Frank.

"Yes, I'll accept. Hello?"

"Sean."

"Yes."

"Sean, it's Frank. Meet me a the Liquor Depot on Washington Avenue in 30 minutes."

Click...dial tone.

It is a request that I can't turn down; that's why the conversation is short. I owe Frank my life and he reminds me of that every year.

This all started in the spring of 1988. I had just finished my first year of college and nearly flunked out. There were lots of reasons why but I pin it solely on a woman. I had a nasty break up with my high school sweetheart, and I thought my life was over. An 18-year-old boy has no grasp on love and relationships and I was no exception.

While I was strolling through the neighborhood next to campus, I ran into a hobo. Yes, there still are hobos that jump freight trains and travel around this country. This guy's name was Blackie. Iowa Blackie, to be exact, and he was passing out little cards that said:

Vote Iowa Blackie for Hobo King
I was immediately intrigued by this, skipping over the obvious point that you don't vote for kings, and asked Blackie how a guy like me could go about voting for Hobo King.

I was told that I needed to go to the hobo round-up on the North side of Des Moines, Iowa. There was a camp there just outside of a railyard where the nations hobos meet every June to swap stories and vote for the new hobo king and queen.

This was just the sort of thing I needed to do to get my self out of the funk that I was in. So that night I packed a backpack (hobos have too much stuff for bindle sticks nowadays) and jumped my first freight train, headed for Iowa.

The car I chose had several men already in it. They were all passed out except for one: Frank. Frank was on his way to the same place I was, and I have to admit that I did not like him at first. His hobo name was Frank and Beans because of his affinity for the canned delicacy. His horrible flatulence backed up his name.

Frank took me under his wing because he knew that I was a rookie rail rider and that there were bad people jumping trains that wouldn't think twice of slitting my throat and taking everything I had, which wasn't much.

Later that night, one of our traveling companions attempted just that. As it turned out, a tramp by the name of Jimmy the Shiv woke up from his slumber and tried to stab me in the neck with a sharpened spoon. Frank stopped him just in time and threw him out of the boxcar.

I was just as alarmed as I'm sure you all are right now. I grew up thinking that all hobos were happy drunks that sat around the campfire playing the banjo and spinning tales. Well, there are singing hobos and there are stabbing hobos. Frank and Beans saved me from a stabbing hobo and that is why I owe him my life and will spend the rest of my days answering his calls until I repay him my life debt.

I was a little late when I arrived at the Liquor Depot. That's because I parked my car several blocks away where I knew it would not be towed overnight. When a guy meets Frank at a liquor store, you know that you're in for a long night.

Frank was there with some of his best friends. Hobo Joe who likes eating rats. Two Scoops, the fattest hobo I ever saw. Burlap...when Frank found him he was wearing a burlap sack and had no other possessions. And Scrimshaw Steve who believes that he worked on a whaling ship before taking up a life on the rails.

Frank told me that we were going for a ride on the "Night Train" tonight. This meant that I would run interference while the rest of them would steal as much cheep wine that they could carry.

I was good at this. I would walk into a liquor store, wait while the hobo crew spread out, and then go into a combination of an epileptic seizure and a Tourette's syndrome fit. Down I went into a shaking, swearing free for all.

It's how I earned the nickname "Twitch."

While I was down on the floor, the cashier was on the phone calling an ambulance, and the other four guys robbed the place blind. They got out of there with seven bottles of Thunderbird, eleven bottles of Mad Dog 20/20, twelve bottles of Night Train (thus the name of the evening), and one cold, 40-ounce bottle of Mickey's Malt Liquor for me. Apparently, I'm their lowbrow friend who prefers beer to wine.

Ambulances in Minneapolis take forever to arrive, so I shook and twitched and cursed for a few minutes after my associates vacated the premises and then shot up to my feet and ran out of there. I did not stop until I met up with the gang down by the river where they were already guzzling the cheap wine and swallowing a rainbow of pills.

I am not one to pass on anything that comes free, especially free booze and free pills. I grabbed a handful from Frank and washed them down with some malt liquor. I felt the cold beer wash the pills down my throat and not much after that.

I woke up the next morning in a Hennepin County holding cell in the arms of a gigantic African-American man. He told me to lay still and be quiet. Before I could argue, a couple of guards shouted out, "Hey Rita, let go of that pretty white boy. He just made bail!"

My wife must have sent my lawyer looking for me because he was standing there in his cheap suit and holding that beat-up briefcase when I was released.

"Sean, you owe me $450 for bail. Should I put it on your tab?"

"Yeah, I'm good for it."

"You know, Sean. I usually advise my clients to stay out of trouble, but you are going to pay my children's way through college."

Great! More lawyers.

Steve, my attorney, says that I'm looking at two to four months this time. Frank told me that he'd see me in the joint.

Of interest: Hobo Kings and Queens