Tween Hobo Read online

  Tween Hobo

  3/12

  So, this happened.

  So broke I had to put my retainer in hock.

  March 14

  * * *

  Kansas City, Missouri (Not Kansas? #wtf)

  Been out on the road two months now and I owe debts all over SimCity. In Chicago I started a lemonade stand, and for a minute I thought I could have it all. But while I was climbing the corporate ladder, one of the acorn babies in my shoebox rolled away. Plus demand dried up when neighborhood parents realized I was just rinsing out my yellow watercolor brush and selling the results to their kids.

  Now according to Stumptown Jim, here’s the difference between hobos, tramps, and bums: Hobos want to work. Tramps are just looking for adventure and good times, and bums, well, they mainly drink and steal (hotlink: Toothpick Frank). If you want to get technical about it, I’m somewhere between a hobo and a tramp (it’s a spectrum). But right now, in my circumstances, I’d do just about anything to turn an honest dime.

  Here’s the difference: Tramps roam. Bums steal. Hobos work. And Tween Hobos #twerk

  See, you’d never guess it by my blinged-out strawberry Ring Pop, but I’m flat broke. Folks, I’m not looking for a get-rich-quick scheme—I’d settle for a plain old get-less-poor scheme. Trouble is, there ain’t no work to be found. And it’s not as if I don’t work hard. I mean, when it comes to pretending to be a chimney sweep? I’m a workaholic!

  But I won’t ask for your pity. I will present you with the facts, and you can make up your own mind as to whether or not there is someone with two thumbs who has not been given a fair shot by society and it’s this tween. Yes, my dudes, the deck is stacked. And the game’s not Yu-Gi-Oh! The game is Life.

  As soon as I realized I’d spent my last nickel on that plush green M&M’s guy at the Disney Store in Times Square (the plush green M&M’s guy who now just stares at me with desperate eyes), I got serious. I basically took myself to Take Your Daughter to Work Day. I pulled down the shades of my mental conference room, flipped on my mental multimedia projector, and kicked off a full-scale mental PowerPoint presentation. Unfortunately, when the first slide clicked on, it said “Job Search” and I got so bored I had to grab my sticker collection and use two oversize banana stickers to tape my eyelids open so I’d stay awake. Then I looked so funny that I had to take out my phone for documentation, and post a selfie of me with these eyelid banana stickers, and then I had to take another picture of my feet in the rainbow-striped toe socks I was wearing, and then I had to skid around the boxcar for a while. Turns out I’m amazing at skidding. Can you get paid for that?

  Anyway, I was attempting to snap the perfect shot of myself midskid when Tin Cap Earl lowered himself down into the boxcar from the roof. He asked if he could borrow my phone to check something called Grindr, which, I don’t really get how a phone can be a coffee appliance, but, okay, Tin Cap Earl. I told him I’d trade him my phone for some career advice. He said make it the phone plus one of those banana stickers and you got yourself a deal. We did our special Dr Pepper hand-slap routine and shook on it.

  Tin Cap Earl’s first tip was this: Every hobo’s got a thing he does real well so he can make a little scratch from time to time. A craft, a trade. What’s yours? And I said, friendship bracelets. But I’m low on string.

  Then he asked me, what are your credentials? I told him how I got a Penguin Level Two badge in figure skating. Which he said probably makes me overqualified for most positions.

  Then we got into a long discussion about something he called the Creative Class, which sounds like it would involve Magic Markers and kids with severe ADD but is apparently a whole “twenty-first-century economic reality” where a lot of grown-ups with fancy degrees do endless amounts of writing and graphic design and stuff for next to nothing. They’re always working for free, which I guess is why they call them freelancers. It started to dawn on me that I was a member of the Creative Class and that I had been forking over my valuable Tween Hobo™–brand goods left and right to the Man, such as yesterday when I slam-dunked another Google novelty logo with peace signs, a flag, ten yin-yangs, a SpongeBob, and WHAT ELSE DO YOU NEED, GOOGLE, JUST PAY ME. Or how ’bout the fact that Instagram could up and sell most of my pics as advertisements for blurry zoomed-in spiderweb companies. Well, I was off that merry-go-round. It was time for this little hobo to monetize.

  So I rolled up my sleeves (which is hard to do in a tank top) and asked Tin Cap flat out if he knew of anybody, anywhere, who was hiring. He said he’d heard of a farm nearby that would pay you minimum wage to lay out sprinkler pipes in their cornfields. (Thanks to global warming, it hasn’t rained in weeks, and the farmers are more or less freaking out. The corn is def not as high as an elephant’s eye, unless that elephant is lying down flat on an IKEA futon in the middle of the afternoon because he’s so depressed.) I asked Tin Cap why he didn’t go hit up this farm himself and he said, “TMI” (Too Much Irrigation). I agreed that working in the hot sun didn’t sound superfun, but then I heard the word sprinkler and perked up. Maybe the farmer would have a Slip ’N Slide.

  Spoiler alert: The farmer did not have a Slip ’N Slide. The farmer also refused to hire me. He said I should go start a lemonade stand. I said been there, done that. He said child labor was illegal in America last time he checked, and he would never hear of such a thing. So I had no choice but to walk away as a bunch of Mexican dudes lined up to hand over thirty-two pounds of fresh-picked tomatoes for about fifty cents each.

  Also, turns out cornfields can be a li’l tricky to find your way out of.

  * * *

  My next shot at the American Dream was more entrepreneurial. It was so businesslike I needed shoulder pads. At the same time, it’s funny to me that I didn’t think of it sooner. I guess it was just one of those ideas that you’re so close to, you actually need to take a few steps back before you can see it. There I was, a red-blooded capitalist tween with flexible afternoons and a dynamic group of friends (hobos). What other choice was there? I started a babysitters’ club.

  Well, starting the club was fun (see following for more details), but I’m not sure we’re ever going to turn a profit. There’s just no honest work in this two-horse town. Can’t find work, can’t find food, can’t find my purple jeggings :( Maybe it’s time to move on. Maybe a kind old lady with failing sight will pay me a nickel to recap some YouTube vids. Maybe I should start a Kickstarter . . . for my life.

  It’s hard to pull yourself up by your bootstraps when you’re wearing UGGs.

  Hobo Babysitters Club

  Here’s how my hobo babysitters club works: you make one phone call, you reach six hobos, any of which might be free to come handle your kids. The members of the club are:

  Stumptown Jim (President)

  * * *

  I let Jim be president even though the club was my idea, because everyone respects him. It’s his job to lead the meetings, and also every now and again to kind of emotionally look out into the distance like he’s seeing all the way to that big hobo babysitters club meeting in the sky. He also came up with the idea for the Kid-Kits (more on that later). Jim’s signature accessory is a blue bandana. He’s kind of a tomboy (really, even for a thirty-year-old man) and, like Kristy from the real BSC, he’ll probably never need to wear a bra.

  Tween Hobo (Vice President)

  * * *

  I made myself veep of the club like Claudia Kishi, not because she is my favorite (Stacey is my favorite, more on that later), and not because I am Asian American (as stated, I am half-Jewish), but because, like Claudia, I am addicted to SNACKS. It is my job to provide hella candy at every meeting, which, to tell you the truth, I usually don’t, because (a) we are hobos and never have any food, and (b) if I do get candy, I’m probably not going to tell anybody about it. But I did use my glitter pens and a stack of cardboard to make each club member a personalized begging sign to hold up at freeway intersections that says Will Work for SweeTarts.

  Tin Cap E
arl (Secretary)

  * * *

  Tin Cap is club secretary because he has really good handwriting. (I learned this the other night when we went out graffiti bombing and I saw him throw up a dope piece on the side of an overpass. His tag is Steady Hustlin with a bunch of zigzags and arrows coming out of all the letters.) He’s in charge of the club notebook, where we all have to write down little accounts of the jobs we do, like whether the kids behaved, whether the parents were nice, and if for example there was any #soup. We haven’t gotten a single job so far, but Tin Cap went ahead and tagged the cover of the notebook.

  Blind Hank (Treasurer)

  * * *

  You have to assume when you set up a hobo babysitters club that whoever the treasurer is will probably steal all the money. That’s why I gave the job to Blind Hank: I figured he can’t see the shoebox where we keep the cash, so we can just steal all the money from him. Unfortunately Blind Hank overheard me explaining this logic to the other guys, so now he’s onto me, and his feelings are hurt. Plus that shoebox used to be my cardboard dollhouse where my acorn babies lived, so now my acorns are homeless. Which is just sad.

  Toothpick Frank (Alternate Officer)

  * * *

  Believe me, I was not psyched about letting this guy in the club. He’s drunk and mean and he smells like 9/11. It’s one thing to send a brave, humble, modern-day folksinger type like Stumptown Jim over to tend to some children; it’s quite another to send a confirmed psychopath like Toothpick Frank. But Jim said we had to let him in on account of Frank has been feeling left out ever since I hopped the train and became Jim’s new BFFL. Apparently they used to sit together at campfires, and now Jim always sits with me? I didn’t want to start the whole Mean Girls drama up again so I just caved. But he better D.A.R.E.—To Keep Kids off Moonshine.

  Hot Johnny Two-Cakes (Associate Member)

  * * *

  You know how the regular Baby-Sitters Club had one member, Logan Bruno, who was a boy? Well that’s kind of the role played in our club by Hot Johnny Two-Cakes. Even though all the other hobos are technically boys too. And even though Hot Johnny Two-Cakes, with his hair and everything, kind of looks like a girl. I don’t know. It’s confusing. Things are always confusing when it comes to Hot Johnny Two-Cakes. Let’s just say he adds a little spice.

  So, that’s our club. We meet every day from 3:30 p.m. to 5:30 p.m. down in Hobo Jungle. Our phone is a tin can. The Kid-Kits, which we take along on babysitting gigs to give the kids something fun and possibly educational to do, consist of one arrowhead and a Zippo lighter. Oh—and for the record, Stacey is my favorite because she has diabetes and I have shingles.

  OMG, we’re getting our first call!!

  Hello, Babysitters Club! . . . Yes, we have one sitter available—however he is drunk and has no teeth, is that okay? . . . Hello? (shakes tin can)

  Tween Hobo

  3/16

  The Babysitters Club had an unproductive meeting last night.

  I can’t help it—I’m jealous of ladybugs.

  BUG TALK

  Being a hobo means being outside a lot. I’m technically an indoor kid so I’m not used to this at all. But with my new lifestyle, I’ve learned a lot about bugs and other animals. Here’s some straight talk about the facts.

  • Spiderwebs: hate the players, love the game.

  • If a snail leaves a little bit of slime on your hand, you are “going out.”

  • Lightning bugs are my jam.

  • If there was a soccer team for bugs, daddy longlegs would volunteer to coach. He’s just that kind of dude.

  • Crickets get crunk.

  Bird poop

  (poop means “facts” #LOL)

  * * *

  • I blame crows for almost everything.

  • In a pinch, you can text via woodpecker.

  • Meadowlarks need to chillax.

  • HelloGiggles rejected my listicle about whip-poor-wills.

  Random Animal facts

  * * *

  • Reckon I’d name a pet squirrel Juliet.

  • I used to be BFFs with a gopher, but she scurried away.

  • Stray dogs are not necessarily looking for love.

  • A murder of crows. A warren of rabbits. A sparkle of bronies.

  • Know what’s top-notch? A sea horse.

  • A deer that you shoot will respect you because game recognize game.

  • Rainy day activity: upcycle a worm into a pet.

  With birds you can’t tell the difference between a tweet and a retweet.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  3/17

  Kansas City, preacherman boards the train, says the best book of all is God’s words. And I’m all, okay, so Stephenie Meyer is GOD. LOL.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  3/18

  Know what always bucks my spirit? Unicorn stuff.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  3/19

  Crossin’ thru the Great Plains I’m all, this is how flat my chest is :(

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  3/20

  Lookin’ up at the moon on a cold prairie night, I swear I saw the Biebz shinin’ down on me. . . .

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  3/21

  Johnny Two-Cakes and I robbed the post office and they didn’t even have any Disney stamps. #fail

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  3/22

  It sucks when the boy you like gets put in a different section gang.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  3/23

  If it was rainin’ soup, I couldn’t buy myself a tin spoon—but if it was raining glitter. I’d be psyched.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  3/24

  Kind lady at the local greasy spoon offered to buy my breakfast, but they didn’t have Frosted Mini-Wheats so I was like kthxbai.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  3/25

  Sometimes the most beautiful thing is just a plastic bag, blowing around on the tracks. I’m kidding, that sucks.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  3/26

  If you don’t feel like watching a fashion show, then you shouldn’t be up on top of the train.

  There are still one or two facts I don’t understand about mermaids. Like are they real or not?

  Mermaids

  When we crossed the mighty Mississippi it mostly made me think about a very important subject, which is

  MERMAIDS.

  What’s this mess about mermaids being real?

  I keep hearing this stuff about mermaids being real, and I’m like, is that true? Is that correct? What’s the scuttlebutt here on this one?

  I would like to be a mermaid in the mighty Mississippi. I would either float on a raft or just swim.

  I can get pretty close to being a mermaid. What I do is I stick my legs in a sack and flop around like “Up where they WALK / Up where they RUN / Up where they PLAY all day in THE SUN” . . .

  You’re wondering why I’ve been so quiet today. Well, that’s what happens when you sell your voice to a sea witch for legs, DUH.

  This has been a report on mermaids. Real? Or not? I hope we clear the mess up soon.

  An Email from Mr. Brink

  Today I got an email from my teacher!!!! Reproduced here in its entirety. All redactions courtesy of Harriet the Spy, I mean Harriet the NSA Surveillance Systems administrator.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Sent: 3/28, 2:15 PM

  Subject: We Miss You

  Hey kid,

  Parent-teacher conferences are coming up and I don’t know what I’m going to tell your folks, because you haven’t been to school in almost three months. I’m pretty concerned that you might have taken some of my words the wrong way, like for example when I told you about train-hopping. That was kind of a “do not try this at home” situation. But I guess I didn’t make that sufficiently clear.

  Anyway, we miss you around here. . . . Tessa and the othe
r girls built a little shrine to you, with pictures and Post-it notes, and they spend every recess inside just holding hands around the shrine and crying. It’s actually kind of creepy.

  I should also let you know that in your absence, the fifth-grade class has been lucky enough to acquire a class pet. He is a very tiny turtle, and we haven’t named him yet because everyone agreed it wasn’t fair to name him without your valuable input. He is so tiny that his head is smaller than a strawberry. So put your thinking cap on, and we hope you come back soon—because this little guy needs a name.

  Also, you owe three months’ worth of homework.

  Wherever you are, be safe . . . and, hey, if you run into my brother—say hi for me. (I’m kidding. Kind of.)

  Worriedly yours,

  Mr. Brink

  P.S. xxxxxxxx juice-box xxx.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  3/29

  This world’s short on mercy and long on Chipmunks ringtones.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  3/30

  Townspeople can be really exclusive.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  3/31

  This world ain’t nothin’ but bums, thieves, and frenemies.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  4/1