Hobo Jungle
-
San Diegan
San, you're killing me. Life can't actually be that good, can it?
It's raining here. A gentle spring rain. Anyone else want a beer?
Claire was radiant as they headed out of town. There was something about the way she sat on the bench seat—her posture so straight, her pale blouse shivering in the breeze, her breasts just denting the cotton, her pony tail resting along the top of the seat—it killed him. She’d been right about the weather, too. As they left the mills behind, made the transition from tenements to big Victorian houses, to modern split-levels, to farm fields, the expanse of the grass increased until the greenness was almost a shock. Dry sand from the snowplows still lined the shoulders of the road, but the apple trees were overwhelmed by white, and leaves were beginning to open everywhere, like verdant moths escaping cocoons.
“Hey, what was that?” she said.
“Nothing.”
“Come on, don’t start. I saw you sneak something into your mouth.”
“Just something.” Jesus, she must have eyes in the side of her head.
“Why don’t we make a deal? On this trip we only tell the truth. We’ll call it the Truth Trip.”
“And you’ll hold to it?”
“Maybe.” She started to giggle. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But, come on, what was that?”
“Doctor P.”
“A pill?”
“Yeah, Percocet.”
“Where’d you— Oh, from your arm. Does it still hurt?”
He shook his head.
“And here I didn’t bring any pot.”
“You want one?”
“What’s it like?”
“You’ve never done one?
“People at the Den are always eating those. That or Oxy. Then they start doing heroin ‘cause it’s so much cheaper.”
“These aren’t heroin. They’re just good with beer. Kinda like a modern workingman’s absinthe.” He handed her one. “Chew.”
“Chew?”
“Yeah. Won’t bug your stomach.”
She made a face. “Tasty little bastards, aren’t they?”
He pulled in at the next store and bought beer. Returned to the car, startled to see someone so pretty waiting for him.
“No Ballantine’s?” she said once they were rolling.
“They didn’t have it. The lady said she hadn’t seen it in years, thought they didn’t make it no more, so I figured I’d try this one.”
“My dad used to drink this. It’s Canadian. You like it?”
He nodded, feeling only a slight betrayal.
The country surrounded them—sunlight like Morse code through young trees, small towns huddled between hills with men raking dirt from lawns or raising pendulous clouds of dust as they broomed their driveways, teenage girls strutting with purses and cigarettes, a dog bark caught in the breeze, two kids tossing a football, a motorcycle screaming past, a sawmill with stacks of twenty foot logs kept wet by spraying wands. As they got closer to the mountains, the trees held back their blossoms and leaves, just the occasional blare of forsythia beside a porch. He tried to rein in the memories, and a mixture of fear and excitement kept his hand on the wheel, his foot on the gas pedal.
“Why are you tapping the dash?” she said.
“The car just rolled another thousand.” His fingers kept counting, his lips helping.
“You do it every thousand miles?”
He nodded. “Here—one for good luck.” He waited until her hand joined him.
It's raining here. A gentle spring rain. Anyone else want a beer?
Claire was radiant as they headed out of town. There was something about the way she sat on the bench seat—her posture so straight, her pale blouse shivering in the breeze, her breasts just denting the cotton, her pony tail resting along the top of the seat—it killed him. She’d been right about the weather, too. As they left the mills behind, made the transition from tenements to big Victorian houses, to modern split-levels, to farm fields, the expanse of the grass increased until the greenness was almost a shock. Dry sand from the snowplows still lined the shoulders of the road, but the apple trees were overwhelmed by white, and leaves were beginning to open everywhere, like verdant moths escaping cocoons.
“Hey, what was that?” she said.
“Nothing.”
“Come on, don’t start. I saw you sneak something into your mouth.”
“Just something.” Jesus, she must have eyes in the side of her head.
“Why don’t we make a deal? On this trip we only tell the truth. We’ll call it the Truth Trip.”
“And you’ll hold to it?”
“Maybe.” She started to giggle. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But, come on, what was that?”
“Doctor P.”
“A pill?”
“Yeah, Percocet.”
“Where’d you— Oh, from your arm. Does it still hurt?”
He shook his head.
“And here I didn’t bring any pot.”
“You want one?”
“What’s it like?”
“You’ve never done one?
“People at the Den are always eating those. That or Oxy. Then they start doing heroin ‘cause it’s so much cheaper.”
“These aren’t heroin. They’re just good with beer. Kinda like a modern workingman’s absinthe.” He handed her one. “Chew.”
“Chew?”
“Yeah. Won’t bug your stomach.”
She made a face. “Tasty little bastards, aren’t they?”
He pulled in at the next store and bought beer. Returned to the car, startled to see someone so pretty waiting for him.
“No Ballantine’s?” she said once they were rolling.
“They didn’t have it. The lady said she hadn’t seen it in years, thought they didn’t make it no more, so I figured I’d try this one.”
“My dad used to drink this. It’s Canadian. You like it?”
He nodded, feeling only a slight betrayal.
The country surrounded them—sunlight like Morse code through young trees, small towns huddled between hills with men raking dirt from lawns or raising pendulous clouds of dust as they broomed their driveways, teenage girls strutting with purses and cigarettes, a dog bark caught in the breeze, two kids tossing a football, a motorcycle screaming past, a sawmill with stacks of twenty foot logs kept wet by spraying wands. As they got closer to the mountains, the trees held back their blossoms and leaves, just the occasional blare of forsythia beside a porch. He tried to rein in the memories, and a mixture of fear and excitement kept his hand on the wheel, his foot on the gas pedal.
“Why are you tapping the dash?” she said.
“The car just rolled another thousand.” His fingers kept counting, his lips helping.
“You do it every thousand miles?”
He nodded. “Here—one for good luck.” He waited until her hand joined him.
Tramp, I just now poured my first cold brew of the day!
The 2-6-6-6 is so tempting, but I'm afraid it just would'nt look right on the 072 track. One of the reasons I did'nt mind giving up the Class A. The overhang really looked ridiculous. The Mohawk just passes the test and the Berk looks SHARP on it!!!!
Also I really need to get that Niagara that Gary stashed for me first!!!!
Been a long day, nice to be home, how about you?
The 2-6-6-6 is so tempting, but I'm afraid it just would'nt look right on the 072 track. One of the reasons I did'nt mind giving up the Class A. The overhang really looked ridiculous. The Mohawk just passes the test and the Berk looks SHARP on it!!!!
Also I really need to get that Niagara that Gary stashed for me first!!!!
Been a long day, nice to be home, how about you?
Running that red block Charlie.
I just can't help myself.... 
http://ogaugerr.infopop.cc/eve/ubb.x/a/tpc/f/57660482/m/5501007762/r/1541037762#1541037762
http://ogaugerr.infopop.cc/eve/ubb.x/a/tpc/f/57660482/m/5501007762/r/1541037762#1541037762
"There is no limit to what a man can do or where he can go if he doesn’t mind who gets the credit."
MartyE.com and KodiakJunction.com Home to Kodiak Junction U.S.A.
MartyE.com and KodiakJunction.com Home to Kodiak Junction U.S.A.
LOL, Tramp! Or was it the OGR Beep and the K-line Plymouth, I have? 
Drink up, next on's on me!!
Tramp, that's some beautiful work. I'm homesick.
Drink up, next on's on me!!
As they left the mills behind, made the transition from tenements to big Victorian houses, to modern split-levels, to farm fields, the expanse of the grass increased until the greenness was almost a shock. Dry sand from the snowplows still lined the shoulders of the road, but the apple trees were overwhelmed by white, and leaves were beginning to open everywhere, like verdant moths escaping cocoons.
Tramp, that's some beautiful work. I'm homesick.
Running that red block Charlie.
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