See, some parts a the country’ll let ya ride, bulls never bother ya. City cops neither. They need tramps comin’ ‘roun’ doin’ the work, pickin’ fruits ‘n the like. Hell, I seen trains stop fer tramps ‘long them spur lines in fruit country. Stop in the middle a nowhere, jus’ like there was a damn station there. Ye’ll see four er five tramps out there flaggin’ down the hoghead, ‘n he’ll slow jus’ enough so’s they c’n all git aboard.

There’s jus’ some places in this country’d dry up ‘thout guys like us comin’ in ‘n doin’ the work.  A lotta that fruit’s gotta be picked at jus’ the right time else it goes bad ‘n ain’t worth a shit. So, lotta towns don’t mind seein’ a tramp come ‘roun’. Up in Okanagon, they built a three-sided shed so’s  tramps c’n git in outta the rain. Got a big tin shed built in amongst the jungles ‘long the tracks.

Ya c’n sure as hell tell when the season’s over. Like when the hayin’s done ‘roun’ Elko. The city cops drive through the yard ‘n tell ya they don’t allow no campin’ in the city limits. Ya wouldn’t catch ‘em doin’ that when they need tramps to git the hay in. ‘N tramps is all they git, the way they pay, ten dollars a day. ‘N once yer out on that ranch, they ain’t about to drive ya back till they got a month’s work outta ya. Oh, ya c’n quit alright, if ya’ve got a mind to walk forty miles back to Elko. It’s like that purty near ever’where. They be glad to see ya when the crops need pickin’. But after that, fergit it, ya ain’t nothin’ to ‘em.

There’s a story I heard ‘splain’s it: ‘Roun’ harvest time, a man ‘n his son are walkin’ down the street in a place like Wildwood, Florida. The boy sees a tramp, ‘n he sez, “Dad, look at that dirty ol’ bum.” ‘N the ol’ man repriman’s the kid, “Why son, that ain’t a bum. That there’s a migrant worker, ‘n ‘thout him, the oranges’d rot in the groves.” Then sometimes after the oranges are in, the same father ‘n son see the same tramp, ‘n the kid sez, “Hey dad, look, there’s a migrant worker.” ‘N the ol’ man sez, “Son, that’s jus’ a dirty ol’ bum.”

86.