He+was+my+Brother

Hammerin’ Hank Hobo Story ** He was my Brother  ** I reckon it’s been two years since I ran away. I used to live in California with my pa and my ma and my two sisters. We lost our house cause Pa lost all the money in the stock market. So I, Henry Moore, had no choice but to runaway to find a job. I left in 1931 when I was 16, hitchhiking to Los Angeles. I hopped a train on the Southern Pacific Railroad with only 32 cents in my pocket. It was there where I met Jet. Jet was a funny looking fellow with dirty hair and ripped trousers. I found him sleeping on the top of the train, with a piece of grass between his teeth. He looked bout as young as I did. And he slept so calmly that I thought he was dead at first. I didn’t talk to him at first cause he didn’t really talk to anyone else. But on the third day when he was sleeping again, I saw the tracks turning right up ahead. Since I seen others fall off while they try to sleep, I woke him. He thanked me and then we started talking. After that we was best friends. We rode to Texas, then to St. Louis, then to New York. I ain’t saying that it was easy getting to the city. Jet got sick so we had to stop in St. Louis. The problem was, there was no doctor who wanted to help us, so we had to spend a week sleeping with a couple of old homeless guys. They showed us how to help from them townspeople, cause they didn’t like hobos much. They was nice and gave us food. Its funny, cause we don’t have homes either, but we always keep moving. Then we was stopped by the bulls at a station in Ohio. We was trying to switch trains, but they saw us and ran us down. They caught us right before we made it to the other train. We was arrested and put in a jail cell. We was there for a day before we paid them all two dollars in our pockets. The thing was, it was one of the best nights of sleep we ever did have. And we always had to cough and when we did, black smoke would come out of our mouths cause we’d swallow so much smoke from the trains when they’d go in tunnels. In New York, Jet and I did little jobs, but they never lasted more than a week. Most of the time, we was paid very little or nothing at all. Sometimes we’d spend the nights in the missions, but usually we slept wherever we could. I remember the missions well. They would take us in, but said we could only stay for one night. But they would make us listen to a preacher talk about God. I don’t believe in God no more, cause if there was a God, he wouldn’t make me and Jet suffer so much. I felt bad pretending to believe in God for free food and a bed to sleep in, so we didn’t stay in them often. Then one day we got tired of the city, so we decided to ride the freights again. Jet was so excited, he didn’t like the city much. We wanted to hitchhike to the station cause Jet liked meeting new people, especially ladies. We walked to the road and put our thumbs up. I remember my heart beating cause I missed the excitement that we used to have. We got into that Ford and we saw that there was only a man driving in the front. We was disappointed, but we ask him to go to the train station and he said he would. We was on the way when we stopped by the side of the road. The man took out a gun and said, “Get out and put your hands up.” I did cause I didn’t want no trouble. Jet was different. He didn’t like taking orders and he yelled at the man. Then I remember a loud bang and Jet’s body falling out of that car. The man took my fifteen cents and drove off. I remember the cloud of dust that filled my lungs and the black, smoky cough that I had after that dust. I also remember Jet’s face. His hair and face was covered in dirt, like the first time I met him. And if I hadn’t heard that gunshot, I may have thought he was only sleeping like the first time I met him. I lay his body under a pile of sticks and went back the road. I reckon I should have buried him, but I didn’t have no shovel. Tears fell from my face cause he was my brother, the only one I had. I decided that I didn’t want to be a hobo no more, and to go back to my Ma and Pa. They probably needed my help. With a piece of grass in my mouth, I raised my thumb at the side of the road where Jet had died. And in a way, I knew I’d miss the trains. I was free with Jet, and we got by alright. But Jet was killed for fifteen cents. That don’t make no sense. No wonder I don’t believe in no God. The I saw a car in the distance. I pictured riding in that car then catching a train. Once more tears filled my eyes, as I knew this would be my final adventure on the rails. Henry “Hank” Moore perished on the Southern Pacific Railroad in 1933 at the age of 18. He fell off the top of a freight headed to Los Angeles from Texas. The train had changed direction while he slept. He was not the first.