I must confess that Dylan and his posse made me a little nervous when they started showing up at the Sunday feed. They would roll up in a rusted out, big ass, breaking down, American automobile of some sort. Walk in ten minutes before closing time, high on meth like they owned the place; eat everything in sight and bitch about the quality.
My attitude out there is that you can have whatever attitude you want as long as you do not mess with other people. But the culture at the feed, for the most part, is one of gratitude and kinship. Enough people had words with him and his crew that as the weeks went by they settled down some and were more respectful.
We have slowly gotten to know each other. One thing that I noticed was that Dylan was always kind to people despite the early arrogance. He would lend tools and cigarettes, and fix cars for people who were stuck.
He has balding crazy hair, is rail thin, probably in his late sixties, with a big old Jeremiah Johnson knife strapped to his side. Dylan is a felon and said he was familiar with the prison system in several states. He listed off Leavenworth, San Quentin, Folsom, Boise and Walla Walla among his many stops. Now some of that may be embellished, but not all, I am sure.
With certain cultures, federal time greatly increases your stature. I mention my jail time with hobos now again just to let them know my credentials. I also use it as shock factor when I travel in different circles; people who would never ever dream of having a story that involved jail time. I was like that at one time myself. In fact I remember sobbing my eyes out the first time I got thrown in jail in the Florida Keys; figured my life was over.
I admire Dylan in some ways, he knows polite society hate and fear his type, but he does not give one care or glance to society. He has his friends you see, and there is much loyalty there.
One day I was sitting with him and his friends and they were discussing marijuana. He said he did not prefer it because, “It makes me not want to kill.” I laughed at that and said, “Well if that is the effect you may consider smoking more of it,” which made everybody laugh. The look on his face was either epiphany or cognitive dissidence; like the idea of not wanting to kill had never occurred to him in a million years.
Dylan had a stroke a few months back, but seems to be recovering nicely. He may be entering his wisdom years and allows his friends to help him with things when he gets tired. I saw him recently by Albertsons; a younger guy was pushing him in a wheelchair.
They may have been smoking some of the mary-jane because they came out with a quart of ice-cream, some deadly combination that involved peanut butter.
We watched the people go by from a bench I frequent, and Dylan told a story about when he first had his stroke. He was on the toilet and had to lean so far to one side to finish the job that he ended up falling off the thing, but someone came in and righted the ship, so to speak. There is a little more to the story than that and I will leave it to your imagination. It got us laughing pretty good. A good story from Dylan, who’s a good person.
Hobo John here. There ain’t nobody better than you on this green earth, nobody worse either. I love you with everything that I have. That is my heart song and the truth of things. God Bless.
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