Riding The Rails

Whenever I see a steam engine locomotive, I think of hoboes. Hopping on boxcars, riding the rails, free to travel the entire country, taking orders from no one.

As a child, I dreamed of life as a hobo. On Halloween, I would dress up in a tattered jacket, cut the fingers from my wool gloves, and go begging for candy. We once rode the Amtrak to Chicago, and I tried to board the freight car.

I have since learned that hobo life is not so romantic after all. Hoboes are just homeless alcoholics like the one who murdered my father.