First time the train stopped, we was in Dallas. I’d never even been outside Red River Parish; now here I was in a whole other state. The city was big and close. Intimidatin. Then the railroad police started messin with us, so me and that hobo fella hopped another boxcar outta there and rode the rails for a while. He showed me the ropes. After a while, I decided to see how I’d make out in Fort Worth. Stayed there a coupla years, then finally made it out to Los Angeles and stayed there another coupla years. Met a woman, stayed with her for a while. Me and the law didn’t get along too well out there, though. Seemed like I was always in trouble for somethin or other, so I went on back to Fort Worth.
I tried to find work here and there, odd jobs, that kinda thing, but I learned purty quick there wadn’t much call for cotton farmers in the city. Only reason I made out was ’cause Fort Worth was what the rail tramps called “hobo heaven.” Said anybody that was passin through could always get “three hots and a cot” from some different outfits that was tryin to help. And there was plenty a’ real nice Christian folks, too, who was willin to give you somethin when you ain’t even askin, maybe a cup a’ coffee or a dollar.
Now if you think the only way homeless folks gets money is by standin on the corner lookin pitiful, that ain’t true. Me and my partner met another fella that taught us how to turn nothin into somethin. First thing we was taught was the “hamburger drop,” a purty good trick for keepin a li’l money in our pockets.
First thing you had to do was get you a little grubstake, which usually meant scrapin up about a dollar. That don’t take long if you go to the part of downtown where the smart people work, the kind that wear a coat and tie. Some of them gentlemen’d give you a whole dollar right outta the gate if you just make like you hungry enough. Some of em’d give it to you quick, too, so you’d hurry up and get outta their face so they wouldn’t have to smell you too long. But other folks seemed like they really wanted to help—they’d look you in your eye and maybe even smile. I felt kinda bad hustlin a dollar off a person like that just so I could pull off the hamburger drop.
Anyhow, here’s how it worked. After I’d get my dollar for that day, I’d go on down to the McDonald’s and buy me a hamburger, take a coupla bites out of it, and wrap it back up. Then I’d pick me out one of them big, tall office buildins that’s got a trash can on the sidewalk out front. When nobody was lookin, I’d stick that wrapped-up burger down in the can and wait.
Soon as I saw somebody comin, I’d pretend like I was diggin in the trash. Then I’d come up with that hamburger and commence to eatin it. For sure somebody always gon’ stop and say, “Hey, don’t eat that!”—and they gon’ give you some money ’cause they think you eatin outta the garbage can. They feel real sorry for you, but they don’t know it’s your garbage that you done put in the can in the first place!
You can’t fool all the same people all the time, so you got to change locations. And you got to be on the lookout for folks you done fooled already and let em get on down the road ’fore you start hustlin some other fella.
At the end of the day, me and my partner’d put our hamburger-drop money together and go to some joint and eat us a decent meal. And if we done real good that day, we might have enough money left over for a half-pint a’ Jim Beam, what we called “antifreeze for the homeless.”
Next time you walkin around in Fort Worth and you see some homeless folks, you might notice that some of em’s filthy dirty and some of em ain’t. That’s ’cause some street people have done figured out ways to stay clean. Just ’cause you homeless don’t mean you got to live like a pig. Me and my partner kept on the same clothes all the time, just wore em till they wore out. But we figured out how to keep from smellin. That same fella that taught us the hamburger drop also taught us how we could get a good bath: at the Fort Worth Water Gardens.
The Water Gardens is a city park with a big ole fountain in it look kinda like a little stadium with walls made like steps or seats. The water flows down the sides of the fountain and makes a great big pool at the bottom, almost like a swimmin pool, ’cept it ain’t blue or nothin. There’s lots a’ trees all around it and back then, the workin folks would take their lunch and go down and sit in the shade around the edges, and listen to the water rush and sing.
There was lots of tourists, too, ’cause folks from outta town just loved to sit and watch that water dance down the walls. Me and my partner learned how to act like tourists. We’d wait till afternoon when there wadn’t too many folks around, and we’d walk up to the Water Gardens with our shirts unbuttoned halfway, and some soap and a towel in our pockets. Then, when the coast was mostly clear, one of us would act like the other one was pushin him in the water. Then the one in the water pulled the other one in, laughin and jokin like we was just friends horsin around on vacation.
We wadn’t supposed to be in that water, and we sure wadn’t supposed to take our clothes off. So we soaped up under the water where nobody could see, soapin our clothes and our socks just like you would your body. When we’d get through washin up and rinsin off, we’d climb up on a high wall that was part of the park and sleep till the sun baked us dry. We’d laugh and laugh while we was in that water, but it wadn’t no fun. We was like animals livin in the woods, just tryin to survive.
Over the years, I got a few jobs through something called the Labor Force. You ever go down to the city and seen a buncha raggedy-lookin men crowded on the sidewalk in the early mornin, then you mighta seen a place like the Labor Force. I was one of them men, showin up in the mornin hopin to get a job doin work nobody else want to do—like pickin up trash, cleanin out a ole warehouse, or sweepin up horse manure after a stock show.
I remember one time they took us way on over to Dallas to clean out the Cowboys stadium. They even let me look at the game for a while.
I wanted to work a regular job, but I couldn’t read and couldn’t write. I didn’t look right neither ’cause I only had one set of clothes that was wore out all the time. And even if somebody was to look past all that, I didn’t have no paperwork like a Social Security card or a birth certificate.
At the Labor Force, you didn’t even have to tell em your name. Somebody just pull around in a truck and holler out somethin like, “We need ten men. Construction site needs cleanin.” And the first ten fellas to climb on the truck got the job.
At the end of the day, we’d get $25 cash money, minus the $3 the Labor Force done advanced you for your lunch. Then they charge you $2 for drivin you to your job. So at the end of the day, you’d get maybe $20, not even enough to rent a room. Now let me ask you somethin. What you gon’ do with $20 ’cept buy yourself somethin to eat and maybe a six-pack a’ some-thin to help you forget you gon’ sleep in a cardboard box again that night?
Sometimes it’s drinkin or druggin that lands a man on the streets. And if he ain’t drinkin or druggin already, most fellas like me start in once we get there. It ain’t to have fun. It’s to have less misery. To try and forget that no matter how many “partners in crime” we might hook up with on the street, we is still alone.