“Hobos also ride trains a lot. I do that some, but only if I’m stuck somewhere. There are tricks to the trains. I’ve been thinking of learning the ropes.”

“Tricks? Like what?”

“What I know so far is that it’s the pushers, the engines in the rear, that you want to get into. They’ve got bottled water, refrigerators, and a bathroom.”

“There’s no one riding back there?”

“Not usually. But even if someone’s in there, they don’t necessarily throw you out. Once a guy let me stay on with my dog.”

“You have a dog?”

“I did,” he said quickly, as if he didn’t want to talk about it. “The thing is, they don’t really care that much. Having someone ride the train isn’t any sweat off their back, but they have to act like they care. You know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“The most important thing is to stay away from the bulls. That’s the railroad police. Most of them are lazy and don’t bother to search the boxcars, but if they see you, you’re in trouble. But, it’s like I said, that’s mostly hobo stuff. Not that I hate hobos or anything. I’m sociable with anyone on the road. A lot of homeless don’t want you around because they don’t trust anyone, but I’m not like that. I try to give others money if I have any and I always ask if they’re okay. The other day I left two dollars under a bridge and a note that said, ‘Have a beer on me. If you don’t really need this, leave it for the next guy who does.’”

“So how does one start being a tramp?” I asked.

He rubbed his chin. “That’s a good question. In my case, it just kind of happened. It’s not like I was in career day at school and I said, ‘I think I’ll be a tramp.’ It just kind of snuck up on me. I had a crappy home life, so when I was seventeen, a friend called and said he had some work for me in the next state. I didn’t own a car, so I hitchhiked my way there. When I finished the job, someone else called with a job, so I hitchhiked again. Since then I haven’t stayed in one place more than three or four months. I guess I’m always looking for greener pastures.”

“You’re always on the road?”

“If there’s work. But not always. Last winter, I dug myself a shelter six feet into the side of a hill. I even had a stove I made of three five-gallon steel buckets. It was kind of a nice place.”

“Where are you from originally?” I asked.

“I grew up near St. Louis.”

I looked at his sign. “Then you’re going home?”