People, they see a tramp ridin’ in a boxcar, an’ they might think, man, that’s the life, goin’ from town to town an’ seein’ diff’rent places. It looks easy to ‘em. It ain’t. Ain’t so easy as it looks.  Trampin’ ain’t no romance er nothin’ like them writers make it out ta be. Ya might git on the railroad thinkin’ ye’ll beat the nine ta five, but trampin’s a heap more work than any nine ta five I ever done. On a nine ta five, ya put in yer eight hours, an’ yer through fer the day. But trampin’, hell, trampin’s a twenty-four hour a day job. All the time scroungin’ up enough to eat, an’ lookin’ fer a place to sleep where ya won’t git clubbed on the head. ‘N ya gotta keep at it if yer to survive. Plenty times ya go hungry an’ scrounge outta garbage cans. Nothin’ wrong in it. Ya git the outta date stuff an’ it’s OK. These drive-in rest’rants, they got hamburgers, chicken, ever’thing in their dumpsters. There’s a law, they gotta throw out all the food that’s cooked an’ not sold when they close each night. A tramp once come into a jungle one night with thirty, forty hamburgers in a box. Fed all of us, eight tramps. Them places throw that stuff away. Only trouble is the homeguards git most of it. A tramp pullin’ into a town don’t git much of a chance at them dumpsters. Them homeguards’ll beat ya to ‘em ever’time. They know the right times when ever’thing gits throwed away an’ whatnot, leavin’ a tramp with second pickin’s.

Ain’t nothing fer a tramp ta go hungry fer a few days at a time. Long’s I got my tabaccer an’ water, I c’n make it. Use’ to be ya couldn’t git food stamps ‘less ya had yerself a perm’nent place to live. No address, no stamps. What changed all that was a couple tramps died from hunger, malnutrition er some shit. Now, ya can walk inta the food stamp office, give ‘em yer social security number, tell ‘em yer a tramp, an’ ye’ll git yer stamps. Might be ye’ll hafta wait ‘round fer a week, but ye’ll git ‘em. They might ask ya to draw ‘em a map showin’ where yer jungled. Hell, that ain’t no problem. I know most of these yards like the back a my hand. In Wenatchee, one time, I drawed up a map like ya never seen. Had the railroad tracks on it; the mainline goin’ into the yard, an’ the yard tracks fannin’ out like they does, an’ the river runnin’ long the east side a the yards, an’ the crik that flowed inta the river, an’ the apple orchard ‘longside the crik. I was jungled ‘longside the crik, an’ I put an “X” there, an’ the woman at the office looks at my map an sez I oughta be workin’ fer Rand McNally er one of them comp’nies.

Some towns won’t give ya yer stamps ‘less ya show ‘em ya got somethin’ ta cook in, fryin’ pan, anythin’. Hell, one time they gimme that story, an’ I don’t carry a banjo. I cook up in a gunboat er anythin’ handy. There’s always a gunboat er two layin’ ‘round the jungles. They tell me I couldn’t git my stamps on account a I didn’t have nothin’ ta cook in. Hell, I didn’t argue. I went out ta the parkin’ lot, popped a hubcap off a car, come back in an said, “Here’s my fryin’ pan,” an’ walked out with my stamps.

‘Nother time there’s a whole line a tramps waitin’ at the food stamp office. ‘N them people in the office started pullin’ that cook pot rule. The guy goes in, an’ comes out ‘thout his stamps.  He tells us, “They won’t give ya yer stamps ‘less ya got a pot er pan ta cook with.” Only one tramp in line had him a banjo, an’ he passed it up ta the first guy. That guy went inta the office, got his stamps, an’ come back out an’ give the pan ta the next guy. Them food stamp people saw the same goddamn fryin’ pan all mornin’ long. I ‘spect the handle got wore out jus’ from bein’ passed back an’ forth.

63.