I've often said that I'm a hobo by nature. A long-standing quip of mine is that when I met Christy I told her that I was a hobo, and she thought it was a metaphor. Nineteen addresses, three states and an embarrassingly large quantity of careers later, she finds my wit a hint threadbare and worn.
Jim Tully once wrote, "The imaginative young vagabond quickly loses the social instincts that make life bearable for other men. Always he hears voices calling in the night from far-away places where blue waters lap strange shores. He hears birds singing and crickets chirping a luring roundelay. He sees the moon, yellow ghost of a dead planet, haunting the earth."
Sounds A.D.D. to me.
There is something deeply romantic about it all though – the walkabout.
But then, maybe I’m a hobo simply because I titter like a child at the thought of illicitly riding a train; because I have A.D.D.; and maybe, just maybe, because I just don’t like to shave.