The Extravagant Hobo and Me

The Extravagant Hobo, and Me

I first became aware of Sir Samuel Butterton’s desire to kill me when, tearing skids apart with my father at Thomspon, Son & Co. Steel Yard and piling two-by-fours of all lengths into the trailer for firewood, he stumbled out of the thick tangle of vines, his entourage of hobos announcing his arrival with finger-trumpet sounds, not unlike a chorus of defunct kazoos.

“You!” He shrieked, violently taken with hatred, looking at me square in the eyes, contorting his brow and sneering. He regained his composure, but the intensity in his yellow-brown eyes only increased as he leaned forward and in a gruff, but controlled and somewhat sophisticated voice said, “I….H A T E…yewww”. He was an imposing figure, standing at 6 foot 2, wearing his pinstriped double breasted suit jacket, his black and gold Hermes scarf (the knot facing due 45 degrees from his chin). The credibility of his intimidation, however, was interrupted upon noticing that below the edge of the jacket sprouted two spindly legs clad in bright red long underwear, a hole in the left knee, and two rather ragged construction boots, his left big toe (with a thick, yellow, untrimmed toenail) entirely bare. He spat on the ground, dramatically, and I do believe it was the first time in his life he had ever sullied himself thus. When that spit hit the dusty ground, ricocheting and splashing onto the hub of the trailer wheel, I felt a lead weight drop suddenly from some unknown height into the very bottom of my heart, splashing and sloshing the blood in its wake. He hated me! I could sense it immediately and looked around, frantic, for a place to hide. I am a writer! I create characters! I deal with social insecurities, life’s inadequacies by the rat-a-tat-tat-tat of my Smith-Corona typewriter. I can’t have my characters going around hating me! I dove, head first, into the trailer, gouging my left palm on a nail, tearing the knee-patch off my overalls that my mother had sewn only two weeks prior. Sir Samuel “Humpf”-ed, swept his hands down his chest, straightening his blazer, and walked with head held high, the epitome of dignity, in the direction of the forklift. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, felt the blood of my left palm trickle with every pulse of my heart. I was bleeding! In Pain! And had stigmata to prove it! Oh the travesty! I could not will myself to move a muscle or even take a full breath.

“Thomas!” My father yelled, impatiently. “Would you get out of there? Gah, shit, what’s the matter with you?” My father had no idea there lurked about a man who would sooner see me dead than alive. I drew my legs up into the fetal position, closed my eyes tightly and whimpered.

As consumed as I was with self-pity, self-loathing, fear and other sensations that are the sole property of writers, I could not deny the fact that Sir Samuel’s dislike of me (and here I shuddered as the thought of him brought back those piercing yellow-brown eyes) was well founded. But to believe me, dear reader, you must first understand the life that I gave to Sir Samuel.


Sir Samuel Francis Butterton lived on the gently sloping bank that led down to a small, quaint creek, separated from the steel yard by a thick tangle of vines. His cabin, constructed out of cedar and mahogany had a modest but regal air. It consisted of only one room, but the high ceiling and the single, square window dismissed any notion of claustrophobia. In the room was all he needed and owned: a plush, four poster bed, a simple wooden table with three legs and a branch serving as the fourth, and a wash basin tucked neatly under the table. The perfectly square window was cut into the south-west wall and looked out onto the ravine that was Sir Samuel’s front yard. A single clay pot always sat on the window ledge and contained a single black-eyed Susan which never blossomed, nor decayed but stood erect and proud year-round. A short curtain, silk, white, with light pink water lilies adorned the top of the window and would ruffle its elegant folds in the slightest of breezes, which, owing to Sir Samuel’s disdain for glass, occurred on any given day. In the corner below the window stood a milk crate with exactly five peacock feathers that Sir Samuel had stolen from the peacock themselves in high park.

Sir Samuel kept his cabin in immaculate condition and order. He had the floors scrubbed twice a day, his bed aired out four hours every day, and ensured his washbasin and chamber pot were clean enough to eat out of, not that he was ever so inclined. At one time, Sir Samuel had had a full retinue of servants to do these biddings. He soon found out, however, that without servant quarters it was simply too cramped, and one night when he found his legs being lifted by one servant (to scrub the floor), and his head being abused by a feather duster (being confused for a window ledge) he declared, “Enough! Out! The lot of you! I feel I am surrounded by mastiffs!” And with that he turned them all out, unemployed, with only the clothes on their backs.

As luck would have it, when he watched the last of these servants stumbling up the ravine, he felt a slight tug on the big toe that stuck out from his weathered boot.

“Excuse me, sir” he heard in a tiny voice. When Sir Samuel looked down he wasn’t surprised in the least to see nine tiny figures, none bigger than six inches, gathered around his foot. One of these figures, a small and sprightly seeming one was speaking: “We couldn’t help noticing you firing your servants, and well, we’re out of work and are very well trusted and respected. We’ve run a great number of households, for some of the most demanding of masters.” And here the miniature man began reciting some of the most incredible characters. “Aristotle, Goethe, Swift, Ghandi, Da Vinci…” Sir Samuel bent down.

“Do you have any references?” he inquired. At this, the miniature speaker stopped, reached into his back pocket and pulled out a long list.

“Here are the addresses and telephone numbers from all of our previous employers. You’ll notice that some only have an address; we were employed by them before the invention of the telephone.” Sir Samuel squatted down and between his thumb and forefinger took the list, examined it, looked at the nine characters one last time and said, “Very well. When can you begin?”

“Immediately, Sir”, was the response. “Let me begin by introducing my brothers.” At this, the other eight figures lined up behind the speaker in a conspicuous configuration. When the shuffling ceased, the speaker continued: “My name is Mercury. These are my brothers, in order, Vainus, Eardus; Jupiter is the portly one (he’s susceptible to bouts of excess air in the abdomen, I’ll let you know right now sir; entirely inoffensive though), followed by Satorn who’s always twirling the hula hoop (don’t worry, it doesn’t interfere with his tasks in the least), Uranos who’s always dressed in purple-blue, and finally Nepton and Pluton, neither of which speak and both are constantly cold and shivering. We are called the Nine Wonders of the World.”

“Very well,” Sir Samuel said, straightening back up. “It’s very nice to meet all of you; I trust you’re capable. You’ll find I’m fair but strict. Mercury, you’ll find the list of daily chores on the table. Seeing as they haven’t yet been completed, I’d like you to set right to work.” With this, the nine figures set out to work immediately, but what Sir Samuel soon found was that they worked in concentric circles, the focal point being Sir Samuel himself. Mercury’s circle the smallest, doing all of the most detailed tasks, within a very small area (which proved to be Sir Samuel’s personal maintenance or hygiene), then Vainus around Mercury, Eardus around Vainus, and so on, until all nine were accounted for, Nepton and Pluton doing the slowest, most general tasks on the outskirts of the one-room cabin. Needless to say, Sir Samuel anticipated this as being highly infuriating and demanded they stop immediately.

“But without a center, we are hopeless”, Mercury said, matter-of-factly. “You are our master, and so it only makes sense that you are our center.”

Sir Samuel looked exasperated, but not entirely displeased, at Mercury.

“Very well”, he finally said. “Would you please be so kind, then to at least explain your name. The Nine Wonders? What makes you all so wonderful? I could have perhaps thought of a better name for your group.”

“Ah, yes”, Mercury said (here Jupiter, the poor man, had about of explosive gas, after which it was agreed that Jupiter when traveling with Sir Samuel would have to stay near the feet). “Nostradamus, our father, named us after a prediction he had, but that poor old bugger was always so confused. He predicted the names of our planets, but thought he was predicting the nine wonders of the world.”

“But there are only seven”, Sir Samuel replied.

“Indeed”, Mercury said, sadly, nodding his head. “Another error, I’m afraid.” But then he looked up, smiling. “Perhaps there are two more yet to be discovered!”

Carrying nine men on his person, of course, took some getting used to for Sir Samuel. But soon enough he came to enjoy the company of the constantly working Nine Wonders of the World and was (at least I thought) perfectly content living on his own private ravine.

Every morning the Nine Wonders would prepare breakfast for Sir Samuel, who wasn’t at all disturbed by the pitter-patter of their small feet. At precisely 6am Jupiter was sent with a feather to tickle Sir Samuel’s nose. If this didn’t rouse the old man Jupiter would jump up and down on his chest. After breakfasting Sir Samuel would head off to one of his two jobs (the nine wonders hopping into any pocket or crevice they could to continue their duties). His first post was with the Toronto Transit Commission. This man, who some dared confuse with a hobo, would spend three days every week going from subway train to subway train collecting the refuse that the riders would carelessly throw on the floor, or on the seats next to them. He was not paid, monetarily, for this post, but he would find the most incredibly useful items. The red, full length underwear, his double breasted suit jacket and his Hermes scarf (which was the outfit he could most often be found in) had all been found on subway trains.

On rare occasions, Sir Samuel would also find money on the subways. When he had collected enough, having no use for currency himself, he would go into the closest LCBO and in his most refined voice say to the clerk at the cash register, “I’ll have a bottle of your finest Tennessee Scotch”, depositing the change and tattered bills he had scavenged. The cashiers, well versed with the manners of Sir Samuel, would have to then leave their register (albeit, grudgingly), go to the scotch section and find the cheapest brand of scotch that would fit Sir Samuel’s budget. If a new clerk happened to be working, they would point to the section in which Sir Samuel could find the scotch, but he would look back at them, dignified and bewildered, not sure if he should be insulted, until a veteran clerk came to the novice’s rescue. This bottle of scotch he would deliver as rent to his landlord, Thompson, Son & Co. He would crawl under the vines with the bottle fully intact—Sir Samuel never touched a drop of the vile liquid, needing no embellishment on his perceptions of the world around him—and find Sid, the forklift driver who was, by Sir Samuel’s deduction a man of great importance.

At a bakery not two miles on the other side of the ravine was where Sir Samuel held his second post. He was responsible for keeping the dumpsters, and the property in general, free of vermin such as raccoons and rats. These he would chase away with a waving twig and great flourish of Latin incantations (he had tried using Greek, German, and Hebrew, but the beasts seemed responsive only to Latin). In return for his hard work (of which Sir Samuel prided himself greatly) he would find a bag of baked goods at the rear of the building, each evening.

To balance out his diet, Sir Samuel kept a small garden at the bottom of the ravine, consisting of what he considered to be the essential fruits and vegetables. Williams, his gardener, tended to the garden day and night, sleeping beside the garden bed, and was impossibly lazy and subpar as far as Sir Samuel was concerned. But good gardeners were extremely hard to come by in these parts and Sir Samuel was begrudgingly grateful to have one at all. Nevertheless, whenever Sir Samuel happened to look down to his garden, Williams was inevitably sitting on his wooden chair, his arms folded across his chest and his head bent forward, sleeping. Sir Samuel would storm down to the garden in a great huff, his jacket open, coattails flapping behind him, and begin ranting and raving, swinging his arms wildly, using every curse word he had acquired in his sixty odd years of living. All the while Williams sat unmoved, unaffected. After a while Sir Samuel would get tired of flailing his arms, and, while continuing to hurl insults at Williams, would begin doing the garden work himself. It was the only way any garden work was ever done. He blamed poor Williams for his unsuccessful crop year after year.

It just so happened that on one such occasion, amidst accusing Williams of being a scoundrel and fishmonger and the likes, Sir Samuel caught sight of a tall figure beside his cabin, up on the bank. He ceased his cursing, immediately and went to investigate, as the figure waltzed right into Sir Samuel’s modestly handsome cabin. He barged through his doorway (there was of course no door to barge through) and found that his biting remarks instantly caught in his throat—it was a lady who had entered his cabin, and a beautiful one at that. She was wearing a white and rose dress most becoming of a lady with her fair complexion, for it showed her bare arms and shoulders, but retained a sense of dignified modesty with the cascades of fabric that followed her tapered, empire waistline. The dress was mostly white, but had large, inoffensive roses flowing down to her hips, and the fringe of each successive outburst of fabric below was striped, vertically, with pink rectangles. Sir Samuel blushed, and straightened his Hermes scarf. He began to apologize profusely for his language and began blaming Williams as the cause for his ill behaviour, but found himself cursing again at the mere thought of his lazy gardener so finally looked silently, despondent at the floor.

When he looked up, the lady only looked back at him, with bashful but confident eyes. Sir Samuel immediately crumpled to his knees at this forgiving, innocent woman and wept like a child, with his head in her lap.

The Lady’s name was Annabelle and Sir Samuel took to her immediately—he had long desired to have a lady of the house. He did not know why she chose to stay with him, but he didn’t bother with such details, instead choosing to lavish her with all the attention he could. Flowers he would bring home every night from work; jewelry (albeit found on the subway) he would give to her; and poetry—suddenly he found a streak of the romantic poet in him he had hitherto been ignorant to. Out poured the most incredible similes and compliments; every part of her, Sir Samuel found, could be compared to a celestial body, or an intricate and beautiful detail in nature. His love for her was a love that surpassed all those that had existed before him. He would invite in the most distinguished and noble friends he had. Admittedly, these friends were chosen from the hobos that Sir Samuel often found skulking around his property, and admittedly, he only invited them in to give the air of a convivial country gentleman. Most importantly, however, these afternoon teas presented Sir Samuel with an opportunity to mesmerize his audience with tirades and soliloquies of the most impeccable taste and grace. He would, before each such speech, stand up, rather abruptly, straighten his coattails, clear his throat (which was the indication to his audience that he was about to begin), and start off by saying, “I am but a simple country gentleman, friends, but I have a thought or two about…” and so he would begin.

It should be noted that the Nine Wonders of the World never trusted, or even liked Annabelle and could thus have possibly predicted the eminent catastrophe she would bring. Sir Samuel, initially welcoming Annabelle’s dignified silence, finding her to be the most accomplished of listeners, became wary when his speeches began boring himself. Never a word from Annabelle! Fear and insecurity would overcome him and he would begin accusing her of things that the most jealous and insecure lovers will accuse each other of. All the while, she simply sat there, silent. He would storm out of the house, only to come crawling back apologizing profusely amid a pathetic cacophony of sobs and snifflings.

Alas came that fateful day, after an especially bitter bout of accusations over breakfast, Sir Samuel came home from the bakery, a bag of bread and pasteries in tow, and found Annabelle sitting beside Williams with her head on his lap. The Nine Wonders of the World reacted with a frenzy of activity, crawling about, in, out, over every part associated with Sir Samuel so that, despite his overwhelming grief he couldn’t help but giggling. He fell onto his bed and finally was wracked with sobs, the likes of which are only known to the greatest, most giving of lovers.

So overcome with grief and despair was Sir Samuel that he lay in bed for days. This event marked the beginning of my troubles with Sir Samuel. Hitherto subject to the whimsical notions of my imagination, Sir Samuel began to refuse my Smith-Corona the power it inherently possessed. I ordered him to leave his house and go to work. But he would not. I ordered him to chase after Williams, to find Annabelle; he would not. I ordered him to find solace in his friends—he would not! He refused my influence entirely, and would not let me enter his house or even his mind!

When Sir Samuel startled me by bursting through the vines, I had all but forgotten about him and it was the first time I had ever seen him. He had all but vanished from my mind; I knew not what to think of him anymore or what had become of him. But the second I saw him, I understood. He hated me and had been brooding of vengeance for quite some time!

My whimpering was finally interrupted when my father, overcome with impatience, threw a two-by-four directly on top of me.

“Gah, shit, Thomas, get out of there already.” I stuck my head nervously above the edge of the trailer and peered around; no sight of Sir Samuel. Trembling, sniffling, I carefully stepped out of the trailer, my legs weak. I looked around me once more but could see no sign of my would-be assassin. I bent down slowly, picking up the sledgehammer, scanning every horizon feverishly. I could feel them around me. I didn’t know who, but someone, someone I created, something was around me. Cautiously I began using the sledgehammer again, but was so anxious that my father relegated me to piling only.

And that’s when it happened. My father had just taken the sledgehammer out of my hands, was turning his back on me to face the pile of wood when my feet were suddenly pulled out from underneath me, the culprit a hooked branch. A net was thrown on top of me and I felt a slight prick in the side of my neck. Before I could yell ‘Sweet Mary’ or a ‘Help I’m being abducted by nine miniature men who are a fabrication of my imagination’ a deep darkness came over me and I remember nothing else until a fat six-inch man was jumping on my chest.

“That’s enough, Jupiter” a voice boomed, and I suddenly became aware of my surroundings. To the left of me was a bed, plush; to the right a table with three legs and a branch serving as the fourth; on the south-west wall…I was in Sir Samuel’s cabin!

“Hello, Thomas”, Sir Samuel’s voice said. I looked up into the face of my character. His yellow-brown eyes chilled me to the core. I closed my eyes. This can’t be. This can’t be. This can’t be. I created him. I can uncreate him then! I wished him extinct in my mind, even focused on a tombstone that read

The Extravagant Hobo

Sir Samuel Francis Butterton

????- Valentine’s Day, 2006


but all to no avail, for when I opened my eyes, Sir Samuel was bending over me, the tips of his sullied Hermes scarf nearly touching my face.

“Unlikely, Thomas. You can’t just wish me gone. I know everything you think about me Thomas, and, well me and the Nine Wonders here have come up with a plan for you.” Here, Sir Samuel walked slowly over to the milk crate in the corner that held the five peacock feathers and picked one, gingerly, out of the bunch. He stroked it menacingly as he walked back towards me. I tried lifting my arms, my legs, but I was tied down somehow, and I could hear the Nine Wonders giggling hysterically. The moonlight shone eerily through the silk curtain.

“I’ve been thinking, Thomas. I don’t like you.” the control in Sir Samuel’s voice sent shivers down my spine. “You….” he said. “You….the things you’ve done…to ME…” the icy control left Sir Samuel’s voice but the shivers reverberated throughout my whole body. “A mop and bucket for a wife. A scarecrow for a gardener. My love…my love! Wasted on a mop and bucket!” Here, Sir Samuel crumpled to the floor, anguish contorting his face, sobbing. I had no idea! No wonder this man hated me! I never once cared about his feelings! Finally his sobs lessened so that he could speak.

“Mercury”, he whispered. “Take the feather. You know what to do, Mercury.” At this Mercury moved quickly towards Sir Samuel, plucked a two-inch piece off from the peacock feather and began walking towards me. I began to panic, thrashing my arms and legs wildly against the constraints.

“His imagination”, said Sir Samuel, having regained some composure, but still lying on the floor, and then was silent. I, myself, was beginning to calm down, overcome with interest more than fear. This character, who was mine to begin with, was going to do something to me, his creator, something that I neither condoned nor scripted. This was history! I protested only slightly when Mercury stuck his head into my left ear, placing both hands on either side of my canal and peered in. Without another hesitation, bracing himself on my ear, he stepped right in. I began protesting but, lo and behold, I found that I could see through the eyes of Mercury and he, or we, were traveling down my ear, around a few sticky corners, up through the nose, across the forehead, and into the brain. Immediately, Mercury began searching the brain, poking crevices and folds, invoking memories and odors and other secrets held by the brain. Finally he seemed to find what he was looking for, in the back, left quadrant; he pulled out the feather and began tickling me!

My first sensation was one of wonder. Bright colours, beautiful sceneries, powerful images all flashed before my eyes, and I laughed with delight! My second was profound sadness. Then joy. Fear. Curiosity. Every sensation known to man, all the secrets locked away in my brain, all potential elements of a story, were evoked until finally I relented to utter exhaustion. I opened my eyes, weakly, and saw Sir Samuel kneeling beside me, his yellow-brown eyes brimming with tears. Then, the same deep, darkness overcame me.

I woke up in the trailer, with my father cursing and throwing more wood on top of me.

“Gah, shit, Thomas. That’s it. It’s the last time I bring you with…” I looked around, confused, disoriented, unsure of everything and anything I saw, felt. A note was folded in my hand.


Dear Thomas,

I’ve tickled your imagination dry. I suspect you’ll leave me the rest of my life to live out in peace.


Yours Truly (because Sir Samuel was a country gentleman)

Sir S. F. Butterton

P.S. (because it was true) I hate you.