The Magic Hobo

Featured in the Action/Adventure Newsletter 3/12/09

THE MAGIC HOBO

The sun's rays peeked through the palmetto bush and exposed a tiny salamander resting like a king in his castle. An October breeze ushered in a row of pelicans surveying their opportunities. I took a deep breath.

The morning air served as a stimulus for the tourists and any minute they'd be pouring out of the hotels with children, bicycles, backpacks, picnic baskets, cameras, beach gear, dogs, cats, and everything you can imagine--everything but a care in the world. I lived in a makeshift leanto in the woods behind a homeless shelter, where I regularly ate lunch. My name is Cole Flagler. And this is the day that changed my life.

I shook Cap's shoulder and tugged at his poncho, prompting his usual grunting sounds. Seeing if he was alive began my morning routine. Cap worked thirty years as a shrimp-boat pilot before his wife died, which reduced him to drinking a fifth of rum most days. I know because I brought it to him: running errands was my part for sharing his leanto. The three-sided structure had been constructed with boards wrapped in plastic. Rusty tin, tree limbs and pine needles covered the roof; the carpet remnants reeked of mildew. Blocking the entrance with a rickety gate, supposedly to keep out the animals, concluded my evening routine. It reminded us of a safer and more secure time.

A photo on a lobster trap revealed the strapping man Cap used to be. Now, a saturnine expression exposed a hollow vapor of his former self. In his seventies, and crippled from arthritis, his demons were winning the battle. Many nights he woke half-crazed and made me promise to put him on a vessel before he died. A handful of unsuccessful inquiries couldn't mitigate the sick feeling that took up residence in the pit of my stomach. I knew any day might be his last.

Cap had no living relatives, just a disillusioned roommate. A failed marriage and the simultaneous death of my mother, in the prime of her life, was the zygote that produced the necessary despair for such an existence. I grabbed my guitar from under Cap's cot--the only dry spot in the place--and headed for the shelter. I never went anywhere without it, never.

When I arrived everyone was abuzz about Hurricane Fran. As usual, Singin' Sally had her transistor radio. No one liked eating with Sally because she never stopped singing. Everyone thought she was crazy, everyone except Cap. He said her only problem was being landlocked. I never understood what he meant until later that day. I sat down to hear the weather report, like the rest. There was one stranger at the table.

"I bet the ride of my life is coming," Buddy Beeper said. "I can feel it! I've been waitin' years for a Cane to hit us straight on. The ride of my life I tell ya."

I tasted the potato soup and nodded my approval. Buddy carried a beeper that hadn't worked in years. His friends use to page him when the surf was up, a long time ago, when he had a family and a home. Hooker made a sarcastic face and flexed his strong arms. He thought Buddy was worthless.

"It's gonna turn north," Teapot said. "Mark my words. May hit the Carolinas, but not here. I know 'bout Canes, been studyin' on 'em. Cole, you gonna eat your sweet cake?"

"Take it," I said. He quickly transferred the cake to his plate, pleased he'd thought of asking before anyone else. Teapot was losing his sight to diabetes and only recently learned to read. His goal was to obtain The Description of the World, by Marco Polo, and complete it before going blind.

Hooker spouted off, "Listen here! What the hell you know, Teapot. You ain't no Cracker. No sir! And book learnin' ain't the cat's meow. That Cane will come aground, for sure, don't ya see? Day Labor gonna need plenty good hands ain't 'fraid to work." Teapot lowered his eyes. Hooker possessed a foul temper and refused to accept Teapot as a true Cracker, because he wasn't born in Florida.

"The wind is coming," Buddy Beeper said. "The ride of my life I tell ya! I hope Cap is here to see. Girl, I'm glad you got that radio."

Normally not the recipient of unsolicited attention, and savoring the moment, Sally acquiesced: "I'll sing a song to honor your ride. I've had this radio near on two years."

Sally must've been pretty before the years of homelessness took its toll. Hooker ignored her, as always, and cast his bitter gaze in my direction.

"Has Cap been eatin'?"

"He's almost quit," I said flatly.

Hooker spit on the floor and growled. "I can't believe he let a damn Yankee share his shanty." That's when the stranger spoke his first words.

"Things aren't always the way they seem."

While eyeballing the man and openly clenching both fists, Hooker's response sounded like a dog barking. "What kinda mumbo jumbo is that?" Sally hit the off button; it seemed as if every noise in the building stopped. The stranger answered in a calm, poetic voice, almost musical.

"The hurricane could be a category three by the time it arrives, bringing winds a hundred miles an hour and a storm surge ten feet or more, causing property damage, injury, and possibly the loss of life. Do you think a storm cares if its victims are Yankees?"

There was a long silence. Everyone figured Hooker would beat the man down.

"I reckon your right," Hooker finally said, standing up with a faraway look in his eyes. "Sorry Cole. Meant no harm. Just worried 'bout ol' Cap."

To everyone's amazement, Hooker then said, "I see why catchin' them waves is so important to ya Beeper. Hope ya get a big 'en someday. Sally, you should sing a song when he does." Hooker gently put his hand on Teapot's shoulder. "You're my best friend, hear? You're way smarter than me. Bet ain't nothin' ya don't know 'bout Old Town. I hope you find your books, too." Hooker left before anyone responded.

"Did you all hear that?" Sally gushed, flabbergasted. "Hooker was nice to me! Ain't ever been nice to me."

Teapot chimed in, "Somethin' side-goggled for sure."

As the others pondered Hooker's transformation, I examined the stranger. He made no unnecessary motions while he ate and appeared unconcerned about the fuss, and satisfied with, well, everything. His dungarees were unwrinkled; his shoes carried no dust. A mature countenance balanced his youthful vigor and a perfectly defined body; not one strand of his shoulder-length hair was out of place. He could've been thirty-five or fifty-five years old--I couldn't tell. My heart was pounding when his ubiquitous eyes met mine.

"Something bothering you?" the stranger asked.

I answered straight away. "You had quite an effect on Hooker."

"Sometimes a person needs a push to get over the disappointments that keep them landlocked, instead of getting on with their lives."

"Mister, where you from?"

"Places you don't want to go," he said, maintaining his musical intonation.

"Where do you think I'm headed?"

"That depends," he said, "on whether you finally embrace the random circumstances that define your existence. Dear friend, loss is an important part of life. You should be living in this moment. What--are--you--waiting--for?"

I felt peculiar and light-headed. The stranger's voice was all I could hear, and it was like an echo. "What--would--you--do, Cole, if--you--could--change--anything?"

I remembered the day my mother passed. She desperately pleaded for me to take her to the hospital. Our family had brought her home to die; they argued she wouldn't have survived the trip back. I reluctantly succumbed to their decision but was unable to cope with its consequence.

The radio announcer reported the highest waves in recent history were pounding the First Coast. The stranger smiled as he spoke, "You better hurry on to the beach Buddy Beeper. You too, Sally."

The sky darkened and the rain beat against the windows. The intercom squawked: ANYONE WANTING TO RIDE OUT THE STORM IS WELCOME.

Why hadn't I honored Cap's last request? In a panic, I turned to Teapot. "Watch my guitar. I shouldn't have left Cap alone." I ran out the door and darted through the woods, palmetto blades sporadically cut my face and hands along the way. Memories of my mom flashed with each lightening strike; I arrived out of breath with the taste of blood in my mouth. The leanto was empty, drenched with water. Two volumes entitled The Description of the World lay under Cap's cot with a note: Dear friend, I've set sail. You did all you could. Get on with your life.

P.S. When you fetch your guitar, give these books to Teapot.



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