A Box of Weeds

The Hobo

Bob found himself drawn to the old cigar box guitar in the junk shop window. The White-Cat Cigars logo brought back memories of his father and the identical guitar that he owned years ago. He laid the money down on the counter and huffed off.

Outside, a gray drizzle met him as the train pulled into the station. A group of transients formed across the street, strumming homemade banjos and guitars similar to what he carried. The group blocked the way to the depot, where Bob needed to be. His train was leaving in ten minutes.

“Dirty hobos”, he muttered under his breath at the greasy bums. One man with long hair and a rusty old washboard in his hand stepped back and crashed into Bob on his way to the train, causing him to spill his fresh coffee down the front of his shirt.

“Get out of my way.” Bob stepped around the derelict and boarded his train. Why did the only station in town have to be in such a run down, dirty neighborhood?

On the train, Bob stowed his bag and laid the guitar on his lap for the ride across two cities for his business meeting.

When the train reached the destination, Bob rose, grabbed his bag and guitar and headed for the exit. While squeezing through the small doorway, his shirt caught on something, ripping the fabric, leaving a long, flapping tail. He stumbled around the train yard in a fury.

“Look, Daddy, a homeless man.” a child pointed at him.
Bob saw his reflection in the ticket window. He looked like the same hobos with the cigar box guitars.

“Some people would rather be bums than get a job.” The father replied.