Hi, Diary.
"My dad says there's no such thing as a Hobos' Jungle," announced Paul Peterson. As usual his brother, Glen, didn't say much.
"I'm just telling you what the hobo, Julius, told me," I said. "I didn't make that up."
Paul continued as if he hadn't heard a word. "Dad says Bum Jungles, not Hobo Jungles, have been in towns with railroad tracks ever since tracks were first laid. Bums stay close to the tracks because they either hop into empty boxcars and wait for the train to take off, or they hop on slow moving boxcars until railroad detectives catch 'em and toss 'em off. That's what Dad says, and he knows everything."
I laughed.
"Why are you laughing?" demanded Paul.
"I'm not laughing."
"You are too."
"Am not."
"Too."
"Okay, I was laughing. If your dad knows everything, how come he works at Preway?"
"Not everybody is born with a silver spoon in his mouth like your old man, Gordy Hoffman."
"Hah. Grampa Hoffman is a Chicago street car conductor. Does that sound like my dad came from a wealthy family?"
That's when Glen finally spoke. "My, uh, our dad, Paul's and mine, he had to quit high school so he could help his ma and pa with the money he earned. They didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out. Did your dad hafta quit high school?"
"No."
"So, there," both said.
"Okay," I said, "I'm sorry for laughing—pffffffffffft." You won't believe it, Diary, but my front tire was suddenly flatter than a squished squirrel, run over by a concrete truck. I got off the bike, turned it upside down, and sat it on the handlebars and saddle. I was then able to twirl the front wheel. "I found it. A nail," I groaned. "Would you believe it? I'm going to have to go to Habeck's and get it patched. I felt the two dimes in my blue jeans pocket. Lucky I got the money for a cold pa—"
"We don't wanna wait at Habeck's until you get the tube patched," shrieked Paul in his usual blaring voice.
Glen nodded. "Me, neither. Who wants to watch? Waiting for you to get that flat fixed would be boring."
"So, Glen and me,” said Paul, “we'll go behind Preway to find slugs to use in candy and pop machines."
"They never work," I said. "We tried them before. Besides, aren't we supposed to be going to the Hobos’ Jungle?"
"Bums' Jungle," corrected Paul. "Glen and me agreed we'd go to Preway after we went to Bums' Jungle, but now we'll go to Preway first, instead."
Nobody said another word for a long, long time. I figured the Petersons were waiting for me to say something. So, reluctantly, I said, "Okay." That's when we went our separate ways, me pushing my bike, Paul and Glen, riding theirs. Darn it. When I arrived at Habeck’s, Leonard Habeck was busy, washing windshields, lifting hoods, checking dipsticks, filling tires with air, and pumping into fuel tanks ethyl or regular gas. "Sure, Doc. Go inside the bay and get whatever you need, but you better return 'em or I'll cut off your nuts."
I laughed. Dad recently said, "Leonard is morally unrestrained but a good man." Len's a rounder, all right. "You don't have to worry about me," I told Len. So, I found a needle nose pliers to remove the nail plus a crescent and an open-end wrench to loosen both wheel nuts, and, of course, a screwdriver to pry the tire off the rim so I could reach in and pull out the inner tube. I didn't work fast, and neither did Len, who charged me fifteen cents for the patch job. Down to a single nickel to my name, I finally made it to the Preway yard behind the factory, close to the Green Bay and Western railroad roundhouse.
"We struck gold," said Paul, wearing a big, wide grin, and showing me a handful of slugs, each nearly the size of a nickel. Their pockets were bulging
"Let's go," I said.
"Don't you wanna get some slugs?" Glen asked.
"Nah, they don't work. We tried 'em, remember?"
"These might, though," said Paul.
"Then, you're richer than I am because I only have one nickel. You have a hundred. So, let's go." Finally, Diary, finally we made it to the open field, but it was only two blocks down the right turn past Irving Grade School, not three. We laid our bikes in some tall weeds and walked to the woods that hid the railroad tracks from sight. Once inside, we discovered Hobo Jungle was cool and dark, brush and weeds and grass worn away. Hard, compacted (Thank you, Readers Digest Word Power Page) dirt remained. Smoke rose lazily from a few fire pits. Lying on the ground around them were pots and pans made from different-sized tin cans. I figured some hobo must’ve made a single cut down the side of a can and where he ended that cut, he cut sideways until there was about an uncut inch left. Then, he bent the strip's ends over, which became a handle. Paul lifted what looked like a fry pan. "Neat-oh," he said.
"What're you doing here?" roared what sounded like a lion, escaped from a circus. Shaking like leaves in a tornado, we couldn't move as we beheld a big, tall American Indian, meaner looking than a spitting black cobra, pictured in the latest National Geographic magazine. And I thought that cobra was the meanest thing I'd ever seen. Boy, was I wrong.
"My dad says there's no such thing as a Hobos' Jungle," announced Paul Peterson. As usual his brother, Glen, didn't say much.
"I'm just telling you what the hobo, Julius, told me," I said. "I didn't make that up."
Paul continued as if he hadn't heard a word. "Dad says Bum Jungles, not Hobo Jungles, have been in towns with railroad tracks ever since tracks were first laid. Bums stay close to the tracks because they either hop into empty boxcars and wait for the train to take off, or they hop on slow moving boxcars until railroad detectives catch 'em and toss 'em off. That's what Dad says, and he knows everything."
I laughed.
"Why are you laughing?" demanded Paul.
"I'm not laughing."
"You are too."
"Am not."
"Too."
"Okay, I was laughing. If your dad knows everything, how come he works at Preway?"
"Not everybody is born with a silver spoon in his mouth like your old man, Gordy Hoffman."
"Hah. Grampa Hoffman is a Chicago street car conductor. Does that sound like my dad came from a wealthy family?"
That's when Glen finally spoke. "My, uh, our dad, Paul's and mine, he had to quit high school so he could help his ma and pa with the money he earned. They didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out. Did your dad hafta quit high school?"
"No."
"So, there," both said.
"Okay," I said, "I'm sorry for laughing—pffffffffffft." You won't believe it, Diary, but my front tire was suddenly flatter than a squished squirrel, run over by a concrete truck. I got off the bike, turned it upside down, and sat it on the handlebars and saddle. I was then able to twirl the front wheel. "I found it. A nail," I groaned. "Would you believe it? I'm going to have to go to Habeck's and get it patched. I felt the two dimes in my blue jeans pocket. Lucky I got the money for a cold pa—"
"We don't wanna wait at Habeck's until you get the tube patched," shrieked Paul in his usual blaring voice.
Glen nodded. "Me, neither. Who wants to watch? Waiting for you to get that flat fixed would be boring."
"So, Glen and me,” said Paul, “we'll go behind Preway to find slugs to use in candy and pop machines."
"They never work," I said. "We tried them before. Besides, aren't we supposed to be going to the Hobos’ Jungle?"
"Bums' Jungle," corrected Paul. "Glen and me agreed we'd go to Preway after we went to Bums' Jungle, but now we'll go to Preway first, instead."
Nobody said another word for a long, long time. I figured the Petersons were waiting for me to say something. So, reluctantly, I said, "Okay." That's when we went our separate ways, me pushing my bike, Paul and Glen, riding theirs. Darn it. When I arrived at Habeck’s, Leonard Habeck was busy, washing windshields, lifting hoods, checking dipsticks, filling tires with air, and pumping into fuel tanks ethyl or regular gas. "Sure, Doc. Go inside the bay and get whatever you need, but you better return 'em or I'll cut off your nuts."
I laughed. Dad recently said, "Leonard is morally unrestrained but a good man." Len's a rounder, all right. "You don't have to worry about me," I told Len. So, I found a needle nose pliers to remove the nail plus a crescent and an open-end wrench to loosen both wheel nuts, and, of course, a screwdriver to pry the tire off the rim so I could reach in and pull out the inner tube. I didn't work fast, and neither did Len, who charged me fifteen cents for the patch job. Down to a single nickel to my name, I finally made it to the Preway yard behind the factory, close to the Green Bay and Western railroad roundhouse.
"We struck gold," said Paul, wearing a big, wide grin, and showing me a handful of slugs, each nearly the size of a nickel. Their pockets were bulging
"Let's go," I said.
"Don't you wanna get some slugs?" Glen asked.
"Nah, they don't work. We tried 'em, remember?"
"These might, though," said Paul.
"Then, you're richer than I am because I only have one nickel. You have a hundred. So, let's go." Finally, Diary, finally we made it to the open field, but it was only two blocks down the right turn past Irving Grade School, not three. We laid our bikes in some tall weeds and walked to the woods that hid the railroad tracks from sight. Once inside, we discovered Hobo Jungle was cool and dark, brush and weeds and grass worn away. Hard, compacted (Thank you, Readers Digest Word Power Page) dirt remained. Smoke rose lazily from a few fire pits. Lying on the ground around them were pots and pans made from different-sized tin cans. I figured some hobo must’ve made a single cut down the side of a can and where he ended that cut, he cut sideways until there was about an uncut inch left. Then, he bent the strip's ends over, which became a handle. Paul lifted what looked like a fry pan. "Neat-oh," he said.
"What're you doing here?" roared what sounded like a lion, escaped from a circus. Shaking like leaves in a tornado, we couldn't move as we beheld a big, tall American Indian, meaner looking than a spitting black cobra, pictured in the latest National Geographic magazine. And I thought that cobra was the meanest thing I'd ever seen. Boy, was I wrong.
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