Hitching home from NYC I stopped off at my aunt’s home in rural Indiana.  My cousins and I were out playing some football in their lush green yard when they asked about hitching. I told them about freight trains, about places I’ve seen, and people I met.  I imagined my cousins would be in awe. I remember vividly the condescending looks they gave me, and them candidly asking me ‘so, you were pretty much a bum?’.

I was.  I couldn’t claim that I wasn’t.  If I look for a descriptive noun that most precisely described my status, the word was precise, concise, and true. I was surprised how quickly my cousins categorized me to such precision.

That poor rhesus macaque astronaut, Albert II, hurled into space aboard a V2 rocket was pretty much kidnapped. Not a bum.  

Phillip the disciple hitched a ride with a kind Ethiopian driving a carbon negative chariot.  Obediently, Phil had been sent on a mission to spread the good word and baptize non-believers. Not a bum. Called to serve. And me?  Not nearly so obedient, no message to spread.

Jack Kerouac, hitching through many of the exact same destinations common to my own, destinations like Salt Lake City and Flagstaff Arizona? Jackie Boy was thumbing for literary pursuits. Not a bum.

Bum, as a descriptive word, fits my actions at the time.   I was just barely post teenage years, backpacking across the continent, unwashed, broke, aimless, and dependent on the good will of strangers. 

In some ways the bum still dwells deep within my psyche.  Yes, the lonesome call of a freight train whistle still beckons me like a Greek siren. I still initiate vague probing conversations with complete strangers.  I work for an airline now, so I can and do ride empty seats to random destinations.  I have a bum soul, tis true.

Through this blog I will dare to spin my pursuits into something a bit more meaningful.  But don’t buy into my deceits.   The bum in me lives and thrives.  Anyone going in my direction?

Cheers, nca