Prelude
Star Dust And Ashes
He had always loved the rails, the freedom of riding the boxcars across the country, the thrill of dodging the bulls and the railroad cops, the camaraderie of the hobo life. He had seen the best, the worst, and the meanest of the country, but he never lost his sense of wonder and adventure. He was a hobo to the core, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
But he was old and everything has an end, and his came sooner than he expected. He was riding the west bound, heading to California, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean before he died. He knew he was sick, he had been coughing up blood for months, but he didn't care. He wanted to see the world, not some hospital bed. He had no family, few friends and no one was likely to mourn him. He was alone, but he was free.
He felt a sharp pain in his chest, and he knew it was his time. He clutched his heart, gasping for air, and looked out of the boxcar. He saw the sun setting over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. He smiled, and whispered his last words: "I'm going home."
He closed his eyes, and felt a warm breeze on his face and when he opened them again, his eyes were met by a different scene. He was still on a boxcar, but it was not the same one. It was cleaner, brighter, more colorful. He looked around, and saw other hobos, smiling and laughing, singing and playing instruments. They were dressed in fine clothes, and had plenty of food and drink. The old hobo felt a rush of relief and joy, realizing where he was.
He was in Big Rock CandyMountain, the mythical hobo heaven, where the handouts grow on bushes, and the lakes are full of whiskey, and the jails are made of tin. He had heard the song many times, but he never believed it was real. He pinched himself, and felt no pain. He was not dreaming, he was dead.
He got off the boxcar, and was greeted by a man in a suit and a hat. He had a clipboard in his hand, and a friendly smile on his face.
"Welcome to Big Rock Candy Mountain, friend," he said. "You must be the new arrival. What's your name?"
"Name's Jake," he said. "But they call me Cousin Jack, on account of my accent."
"Ah, yes, Cousin Jack. I have you on my list. You're one of the lucky ones, you know. You've been chosen to be a hobo helper."
"A hobo helper? What's that?"
"It's a special role, reserved for the best of the best. You see, not all hobos make it to Big Rock Candy Mountain. Some of them are still stuck on earth, suffering and struggling, facing hardships and dangers. They need help, guidance and hope. And that's where you come in. As a hobo helper, you get to go back to earth, and help other hobos in trouble. You're like an angel, a guardian and protector. You're a Boxcar Angel."
"A Boxcar Angel? That sounds...interesting. But how do I do it? How do I help other hobos?"
"It's simple, really. You just hop on a boxcar, and it will take you where you need to go. You'll find the hobo who needs your help, and you'll do what you can to help him. You'll use your wisdom, your experience, your skills and your special charm. You'll help them solve their problems, and save their lives and maybe even helpthem make their dreams come true. And when you're done, you'll hop on another boxcar, and come back to Big Rock Candy Mountain. It's a wonderful job, and a noble one. You'll be doing a lot of good, and you'll have a lot of fun. What do you say, Cousin Jack? Are you ready to be a Boxcar Angel?"
Cousin Jack thought for a moment. He liked the idea of helping other hobos, of making a difference, of being an angel. It was much like just being himself. He also liked the idea of seeing more of the world, having more adventures, of being free. He looked at the man, and nodded.
"I'm ready," he said.
"Excellent," the man said. "Then let's get you started. Follow me, I'll show you your boxcar."
The Administrator led Cousin Jack to a shiny, new boxcar, painted in bright colors. It had a sign on the side, that read: "The Boxcar Angel Express. All aboard for a heavenly ride."
"This is your boxcar, Cousin Jack. It's yours to use, as long as you're a Boxcar Angel. It will take you where you need to go, and bring you back when you're done. It's fast, it's comfortable, it's magical and you'll love it, I'm sure."
He opened the door, and gestured for Cousin Jack to enter.
"Go ahead, Cousin Jack. Step inside, and see for yourself."
Cousin Jack climbed into the boxcar, and was amazed by what he saw. It was spacious, cozy, and luxurious. It had a bed, a couch, a table, a fridge, a stove, a sink, a closet, a bathroom, a radio, a TV, a bookshelf, a fireplace, and a window. It had everything he could ever want, and more.
"Wow," he said. "This is incredible. This is better than any home I ever had."
"I'm glad you like it, Cousin Jack.It's your home, now. And it's also your office. This is where you'll get your assignments, all your clues and tips and make your plans for your missions. This is where you'll do your work, as a Boxcar Angel."
He pointed to a small device on the table, that looked like a phone.
"This is your communicator. It's how you'll stay in touch with me, and with Big Rock Candy Mountain. It's also how you'll get your cases. Whenever a hobo needs your help, you'll get a call from me, telling you who, where, and what. You'll also get a picture of the hobo, and a map of the location. All you have to do is follow the instructions, and do your best. Any questions?"
Cousin Jack shook his head.
" I think I got it. It sounds pretty simple, but I really like to see things in my tea. I have always been kind of a tea reader."
"Definitely Jack. It will be your best tool. Any thing else?" Said the Administrator.
"Nope. You've made it pretty easy." Cousin Jack replied.
"It is easy, Cousin Jack. But it's also very important. Remember, you're a Boxcar Angel. You're here to help other hobos, to make their lives better, to give them hope. You're here to do good, to be good, to spread good. You're here to be a hero, Cousin Jack. A hobo hero."
He smiled, and patted Cousin Jack on the shoulder.
"I'm proud of you, Cousin Jack. I know you'll do a great job. And I know you'll enjoy it, too. You're a natural. You're a born Boxcar Angel."
He closed the door, and waved goodbye.
"Good luck, Cousin Jack. And have fun. I'll be in touch."
He walked away, and left Cousin Jack alone in his boxcar.
Cousin Jack looked around, and felt a mix of emotions. He wasexcited, nervous, curious, eager, happy, and grateful and more amazed than he ever had been before in his mortal life. He was for new adventures.
He sat on the couch, and turned on the TV. He saw a news report, about a hobo who had been murdered in a jungle, and the police had no leads. He felt a pang of sadness, and wondered if he could have helped him. He wished he had been there, to save him, to protect him, to be his angel.
He turned off the TV, and looked at the window. He saw a mist, and heard a train whistle. He knew it was his signal, his cue and call.
Jack grabbed his hat, his coat, bindle and stick and the communicator. He opened the door, and saw a boxcar, waiting for him. He climbed on board, and saw a sign, that read: "Next stop: Chicago."
He smiled, and whispered to himself: "I'm going home."
He closed the door, and felt the boxcar move. He looked out of the window, and saw the mist clear. He saw the sun rising over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and blue.
Mad George
Cousin Jack stepped off the boxcar, and as his feet touched the ground looked around. He was in a small town in Texas, near the border with Mexico. He had never been here before, but he knew why he was here.
He checked his communicator, and saw the picture of the hobo he was looking for. His name was George, but everyone called him Mad George, because he was crazy. He was an old man, with a long beard, a dirty hat, and a ragged coat. He had a haunted look in his eyes, and a scar on his cheek.
Cousin Jack also saw themap of the location, and the instructions. He had to find Mad George in a jungle near the railroad tracks, and help him get out of his misery. He had to convince him to go to a retirement home, a special one, made for hobos like him. He had to make him face his past, and heal his wounds, be his angel.
Cousin Jack put away his communicator, and started walking and following the map soon reached the jungle. It was a typical Hobo camp, a bunch of tents, shacks, and fires. He smelled the smoke, and heard the chatter, some laughter, and music and some bereaving moans. He felt the heat, the dust, and the flies.
He walked through the jungle, looking for Mad George asking some of the hobos, but they either ignored him, or warned him to stay away from him. They said he was dangerous, unpredictable, violent. "And he's has a gun and a knife, and I saw a grenade once," someone said, "Not too mentions he is stark raving mad."
Cousin Jack finally found him, in a corner of the jungle, away from the others. He was sitting on a pile of trash, holding a bottle of whiskey in one hand, and a radio in the other. He was listening to the news, but he was not paying attention. He was lost in his own world, a world of nightmares and memories.
Cousin Jack approached him slowly, and greeted him.
"Hello, friend," he said. "You must be George. I'm Jack, but they call me Cousin Jack, on account of my accent."
Mad George looked at him, and frowned. He didn't recognize him, and he didn't like him. He was a stranger, an intruder and a threat.
"What's that you said. Who are you? "What 'da you want?"
"I'm a hobo,like you," Cousin Jack said. "I'm just passing by, looking for a place to stay. I saw you here, and I thought I'd say hello. You don't mind, do you?"
Mad George eyed him suspiciously, and shook his head.
"No, I don't mind," he said. "But don't get too close, or I'll shoot you." He pointed to a revolver, tucked in his belt.
"I see," Cousin Jack said. "Well, I don't mean any harm, friend. I'm just curious about you. You seem like an interesting fellow. You have a lot of stories to tell, I bet."
Mad George snorted, and took a sip of his whiskey.
"Stories?" he said. "Yeah, I have stories. Stories that would make your hair stand on end and make you cry, or scream, or puke and make you wish you were never born. You want to hear my stories, stranger?"
Cousin Jack nodded, and smiled. "Sure, I'd love to hear your stories, friend," he said. "Why don't you tell me one?"
Mad George shrugged, and put down his bottle. He picked up his radio, and turned the volume up. He heard a report, about a war in the Middle East, and a bomb that had killed dozens of people. He heard the sound of explosions, gunfire, and screams. He said, "You ever heard the sound of hell?" as if to no one and everyone.
He looked at Cousin Jack, and his eyes glazed over. He was no longer in the jungle, in Texas, in America. He was in another place, another time, another world. He was in Vietnam, in 1968, in the Tet Offensive. He was in the war, and he was scared.
He began to tell his story, in a low, raspy voice.
"I was a soldier, once," he said. "A young, stupid, naive soldier. I joined the army, because I wanted to seethe world, to fight for freedom, to be a hero. I didn't even wait to get drafted. I didn't know what I was getting into or what war was really about and I sure as hell didn't know what hell was but I found out fast."
George paused and thought for a minute, then went on.
"I was sent to Vietnam, with a bunch of other kids, who didn't know any better either. Most of' em was drafted. We were part of the 101st Airborne Division, the Screaming Eagles. We were supposed to be the best, the elite, the brave. We were supposed to win, to crush the enemy, to end the war. We were wrong.
We landed in a city the south, near the border with North Vietnam. We were caught off guard, unprepared, outnumbered. We had to fight our way through the city, block by block, house by house, room by room. We had to face the enemy, face to face, eye to eye, gun to gun.
Maybe I was one of the lucky ones, I guess, but I still ain't sure. Maybe the ones that got killed were luckier. I survived, I made it out and came back home, but I didn't come back whole or sane. I came back broken, damaged and haunted. I came back with scars, on my body, on my mind, on my soul. I came back with memories, real bad memories that never left me, that have tormented me ever since and drove me mad."
George looked around, shuddered. He took a drink then pressed on, his hands shaking.
"I couldn't fit back in to my old life. I couldn't adjust or cope. I couldn't keep job, a home and my family didn't understand. No one did. For me friend there was no peace, love, and no happily ever after crap. I couldn't find anything, except pain, anger, nothing except the war.
That damn war is still in me. It's stuck in my head like a ragging nightmares. So I became a hobo, a wandering loner that even most other hobos don't get and the ones that do are as mad as me with the same problem and some of' em are worse off. I left everything behind, and hit the road. I rode the rails, across the country, from coast to coast. I saw the sights, the cities, the towns. I met the people, the good, the bad. I lived the life, the freedom, the adventure. I lived the life, and I hated it, chased by donkey. You can run buddy but the donkey always come with you.
So they started calling me Mad George because every time I hear a big noise I dive for the ditch and scream.
Do you like my stories, stranger? Do you want to hear more?"
Cousin Jack listened to Mad George's story. He looked at Mad George, and smiled.
"I like your stories, friend," he said. "They're very powerful, very moving and honest. You have a way with words, you know. You're a storyteller, a writer, a poet. You have a gift, friend. A gift that you should share with the world."
Mad George scoffed, and picked up his bottle.
"Share with the world?" he said. "What world? The world that sent me to war, that forgot about me, that doesn't care about me? The world that hates me, that fears me, that rejects me? The world that's full of hell? That's the world you want me to share with, stranger?"
Cousin Jack nodded, and moved closer.
"Yes, friend," he said. "That's the world I want you to share with. Because that's the worldthat needs you. That's the world that's waiting for you, George. Waiting for you to come back and tell them the truth. You're not Mad George."
Mad George glared at him, and pointed his gun.
"Who are you, stranger?" he said. "What are you, some kind of preacher, some kind of shrink, or are you crazy like me and think you're an angel? Forget it pal. You can't save me or cure me. This is my friend, my only friend that never lets me down." George sneered then took another drink.
Cousin Jack shook his head, and raised his hands.
"I'm not trying to do anything, friend," he said. "I'm just trying to help you, to be your friend and yes, to be your angel. I'm just trying to show you, that there's more to life, than war, than madness, than the hell you are trapped in. I'm just trying to show you, that there's a place for you, a home for you and a family. Guts just like you. Some call it Big Rock Candy Mountain."
Mad George lowered his gun, and frowned.
"Big Rock Candy Mountain?" he laughed. That's just a song. I think you're making fun of me with some kind of joke, some kind of fantasy, some kind of heaven that doesn't exist."
Cousin Jack nodded.
"Yes, friend," he said. "It does exist. I know. I've been there. It's all beautiful and more. It's a place where the handouts grow on bushes, and the lakes are full of whiskey, and the jails are made of tin. It's a place where the sun shines every day, and the birds sing every night, and the flowers bloom all year, where the hobos are happy, and the people are kind, and the angels are real. Just like the song says. It's a place where you can beyourself, friend. Yourself, and not Mad George."
Mad George shook his head, and laughed.
"You're crazy, stranger," he said. "You're crazier than me. There's no such place, no such thing, no such heaven. It's all a lie, a dream, a fairy tale. It's all in your head, stranger. In your head, and not in mine."
Cousin Jack sighed, and reached into his bag. He took out a brochure, and handed it to Mad George.
"It's not in my head, friend," he said. "It's in this brochure. It's a real place, a real thing, a real heaven. It's a retirement home, a special one, made for hobos like you. It's called Big Rock Candy Mountain, and it's in Colorado. It's run by a man named Bob, a former hobo, a former soldier, a former friend. He's a good man, a kind man, a wise man. He knows what you've been through, what you're going through, what you need. He can help you, friend. He can help you find peace, love, and happiness. He can help you find heaven, friend. Heaven, and not hell."
Mad George looked at the brochure, and saw the pictures. He saw a big, white house, surrounded by green fields, blue mountains, and colorful flowers. He saw a bunch of hobos, smiling and laughing, singing and playing instruments. He saw a man, with a beard, a hat, and a coat. He saw Bob, and he recognized him.
He fought with him. He saved his friend from a bullet. Then he lost him in the chaos, smoke and screams and never saw him again. Until now.
He looked at Cousin Jack, and his eyes widened.
"Bob?" he said. "Is that Bob? Is he alive? Is he real?"
Cousin Jack nodded. "Yes, friend,". "That's Bob. He's alive and real, but a different kind of real. He survived the warbut the darkness took him, like it is taking you. And now he's waiting to save his friend George. He's been looking for you, for a long time, for a good reason. He wants to thank you for saving his life, for being his hero, for being his angel when all the demons were casting down on him.
Mad George stared at the brochure, and felt a mix of emotions. He felt disbelief. "Since when does heaven have brochures." He said skeptically.
Cousin Jack shrugged his shoulders and said, "I guess even the afterlife evolves George. But that's not the point. What is in it is."
George looked at Cousin Jack, and nodded.
"Okay, stranger, friend, angel or whatever you are. "Anything's gotta be better than the hell I am living in. I'll go with you. I'll go to this Big Rock Candy Mountain especially if I am going to see Bob. If he's there its gotta be heaven. And maybe I can be me again, not Mad George."
Cousin Jack said with a smile, "I'm proud of you, friend. You're beating the odds."
He helped him pack his things, and led him to his boxcar. He opened the door, and saw a sign, that read: "Next stop: Colorado."
He gestured for Mad George to enter.
"Go ahead, friend," he said. "Step inside, and see for yourself and leave your madness behind."
George climbed into the boxcar, and was amazed by what he saw. It was spacious, cozy, and luxurious. It had everything he could ever want, and more.
He looked at Cousin Jack, and smiled.
Cousin Jack looked back at George, and smiled too.
"I like your stories, friend," he said. "They're very powerful, moving and honest and they're not stories that you should keep to yourself. They ate stories that you should share with the world and you cando that now.
George frowned, and shook his head.
There's a lot of guys out there telling the same story Cousin Jack. What makes mine any different or better?"
"Nothing George. It not about different or better. It's just about strengthening the stories bound together by a common woe." Jack answered
Cousin Jack sighed, and moved closer to him. He put his hand on his shoulder, and looked into his eyes. "And to show you, you're not alone," he said. "You're not mad, either. You're just hurt. You're a soldier, friend, a hero, a survivor. You fought for your country, for your comrades, for your freedom."
George looked at Jack. He smiled, and nodded.
"Okay, stranger," he said. "Okay, friend. You have me, I have you. We have each other. What now?"
Cousin Jack smiled, and hugged him.
"Now, friend, we go," he said. "We go to a better place, a safer place, a happier place. We go to a place where you can rest, where you can heal, where you can live. We go to a place where you can be yourself, where you can be free, where you can be happy. We go to a place where you can be a hobo, friend, a hobo with a home."
George blinked, and tilted his head.
"A hobo with a home?" he said. "Ain't that one of them oxymorons or something."
"Yah. Kind of George but it's a good one."
George stared at him, and raised his eyebrows. "You're crazy.
"No, friend, I'm not crazy," he said. "I'm a Boxcar Angel, and I'm here to help you. I'm here to show you the way, friend, the way to a new life, a new adventure, a new purpose. I'm here to show you the way, friend, the way to Big Rock Candy Mountain, the way to the Hobo Home, the way to heaven."
Thewhistle blew a midnight song and the wind seemed to call like a conductor. "Next stop: Big Rock Candy Mountain."
Cousin Jack walked into the mist. George smiled, a believer now and whispered to himself: "I'm going home."
He closed the door, and felt the boxcar move. He looked out of the window, and saw the mist clear. He saw the sun shining over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of yellow and green. He saw the world, and felt the joy.
"I'm a hobo with a home. What a hoot."
The Adventures of Cousin Jack, the Boxcar Angel
Last Stand in Drygulch Crossing
Lanky Slim had just finished a long and hard harvest of picking cotton. He was tired, sore, and unhappy with the field boss. But it was work, and work was scarce these days. Now it was time to move on. He collected his pay, packed his bindle, and headed for the nearest town, ten miles away. No one offered him a ride, so he walked with a sigh, mumbling, "I'm getting too old for this." But as he saw the bunkhouse and the fields disappear behind him, his mood lifted and he quickened his pace. In three hours, he could catch the next train south, maybe all the way to New Orleans. He hadn't been there in a while.
The miles passed and he grew tired, thirsty, and hungry. He looked forward to a meal in a restaurant, served by a smiling waitress. He finally reached Drygulch Crossing, just in time to see a train leaving and a dozen hobos jumping into boxcars and flatbeds. Lanky wondered why there were so many leaving at once. He went to the Jungle, where he expected to find other hobos camping, but he found it abandoned and destroyed. "Hey, what gives?" he asked one ofthe workers.
"Didn't you hear? The railroad shut this line down and there won't be any more trains coming or going. The cotton farmers are using trucks now. And listen up, old-timer. Since there are no more trains, we don't want any more hobos hanging around our town. We have a new mayor who doesn't like bums and beggars, you see."
"The hobos who worked the field never begged here and your restaurant used to make a lot of money from us," Lanky said, but the worker shrugged and walked away.
Lanky checked a couple of abandoned boxcars and the yard office. Old Ben, the yardmaster, and Bull were there, cleaning out the file cabinets and burning most of the stuff. "Hey, Ben, looks like we're getting the boot," Lanky said cheerfully.
Ben looked up from his work and gave Lanky a sad smile. He said softly, "And the Bos aren't welcome anymore."
Lanky nodded. "So I was told, but I hope they let me eat at the restaurant. It's a long walk to the next town."
"Sorry, Lanky. You won't be welcome there either. All you'll find is a sign that reads, 'No Bos Allowed.' That's because the new mayor bought the place and wants to make it swanky. He plans to turn Drygulch into a tourist town and a retirement community. He's already building senior homes."
"Looks like I'm in trouble then. Can you spare some water, Ben? I'll move on." Lanky said, but just then the sheriff came in.
"You were supposed to be out of here with the last train, bum. What are you still doing here?" the sheriff said.
"I got here as the train was leaving and I didn't know you had changed the rules. I'll be leaving now," Lanky said and tried to leave.
"Nope. You're going to jail and the judge willgive you a fine," the sheriff said and took out his handcuffs.
Just then, an old coal-burning engine pulled in, towing a single car. A man stepped off, seeming to float down the steps. He was wearing a trench coat and a wide-brimmed fedora and carrying a bindle stick that reached his shoulder. As he got to the office, he stepped between Lanky and the sheriff and said, "I don't think you want to do that, sheriff. Old Lanky didn't do anything wrong. Just let him go and all will be well."
The sheriff drew his service pistol and said, "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"Most folks call me Cousin Jack, but since I took the westbound a while back, I'm also called the Boxcar Angel."
"Never heard of you. Move out of the way or I'll arrest you for interfering with the law."
Cousin Jack smiled at the sheriff and lifted his bindle stick a few inches off the ground. The sheriff's hand started to shake and he tried to squeeze the trigger, but he couldn't do it. A second later, he dropped the gun on the ground and just stood there, looking dumbfounded. "How did you do that? Did you use black magic? Black magic is illegal in this town, and so is voodoo stuff."
"Sheriff, I didn't use any kind of magic. You dropped the gun all by yourself, because deep inside you knew what you were doing was wrong," Cousin Jack said.
"Balderspit. You used something. Maybe you hypnotized me or something. I saw you staring at me like that, and you used your stick to distract me," the sheriff snarled and then bent down and picked up the gun. He aimed it and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. "What's this?" the sheriff yelped.
"You took the bullets out, sheriff.Look in your pocket," Cousin Jack instructed. The sheriff looked and sure enough, there were his bullets.
"Now, sheriff, I think Lanky and I will carry on and leave you and your mayor and your town to conduct your lives the way you wish, and I will make sure no hobos ever come this way again and warn everyone else how nasty you are," Cousin Jack said. Then he nodded at old Ben and Bull and motioned Lanky to follow him.
As they left the building, Lanky asked, "How did you do that? I ain't never seen nothing like it."
Cousin Jack smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "It's a trick I picked up somewhere. There's nothing to it, if you know how to do it."
"Well, whatever you did, thanks a lot. He was going to rob me of my farm money. That's what that was all about," Lanky said.
"You're right, but now we're leaving this place and I'll take you wherever you wish to go," Cousin Jack offered.
"Well, I planned to go to New Orleans and buy back my trumpet, so I can play music again. I miss playing, but getting work is hard and things don't work like they used to on the streets, playing for tips, now that everyone is using cards to pay."
"I'll take you to New Orleans, to the pawn shop. The fellow still has your trumpet," Cousin Jack said.
"How do you know about that?" Lanky asked in amazement.
"I'm the Boxcar Angel, Lanky. I have my sources," Cousin Jack replied, then they boarded the train and the ancient steam engine chugged away into a mist. The inside of the passenger car was beautiful, all decked out for comfort, colorful, warm, and welcoming. Cousin Jack said, "We'll have a meal, then you can clean up in the lav and after,have a sleep. When you wake up, we'll be in New Orleans, and the way I hear it, there's work for fellows like you, even if you decide to keep traveling. Just make music, and the music will make you."
After they ate, Lanky said, "That tasted just like Mulligan stew, only better." Then he went and boiled up a little and at last, worn out and weary, laid down in a bed and fell sound asleep to the rhythm of the wheels clacking along the track and the train whistle blowing out a lonesome tune. "Have you ever heard the midnight whistle blow on a quiet night in autumn, while the whippoorwill sings and the wind rushes through the autumn leaves?" Lanky said as he slipped into slumber.
And when he woke, they had indeed found their way to New Orleans, and just an hour later, Lanky was playing his trumpet and the people came to listen and dropped tips in his horn case. But better yet, there came a fellow with a trombone and another with a banjo and yet another with a clarinet, and together they filled the street and people called them the Traveling Hobos.
Cousin Jack listened on for a while, and when the band took a break, he saw that Lanky would be okay, and with that, he returned to his train and went off into the mist from where he came. Lanky looked around for the Boxcar Angel and saw him just as he floated up the steps to his car. "Thanks, Cousin Jack, and I'll pass on your kindness too."
Lanky and the Traveling Hobos stayed true to their roots, riding the trains from town to town, playing their music on street corners or in clubs when they could get inside gigs. They returned to NewOrleans for Mardi Gras and then they got a call from a man who had heard them play and said, "Well, boys, I know a place that wants you to play in their new resort hotel. It's a nice place and they are happy to welcome hobos, though it took something special to change their minds. So I'll see you in Drygulch Crossing, where the town runs a train in and out just for the travelers and it has a fine Jungle they keep for them as well."
"Well, fellas, what do you think? Do we head back to the Gulch?" Lanky asked and his Bo-friends cheered, "Yeah!" and started playing as they found their way to the nearest train heading toward Drygulch Crossing. And by the way, there is a new mayor and sheriff there now and the people are as friendly as all get out.
Lanky said, "I gotta write a lyric for Cousin Jack and put it to the sound of a train whistle blowing in the night."
Ode To Cousin Jack
There's a legend on the rails
Of a hobo who never fails
To help his fellow travelers in need
He's got a coat and a hat
And a bindle stick to match
And a smile that can make the hardest heart bleed
He's Cousin Jack, the Boxcar Angel
He's got a trick or two up his sleeve
He's Cousin Jack, the Boxcar Angel
He's the best friend a hobo can have
He rides an old steam engine
That can take him anywhere
He knows the secrets of the tracks and the towns
He can make the sheriff drop his gun
Or the mayor change his mind
He can turn a frown into a smile with a sound
He's Cousin Jack, the Boxcar Angel
He's got a trick or two up his sleeve
He's Cousin Jack, the Boxcar Angel
He's the best friend a hobo can have
So if youever hear the midnight whistle
On a quiet night in autumn
While the whippoorwill sings and the wind rushes through the leaves
You might catch a glimpse of him
As he floats down the steps
And you'll know that you've seen and blessed by Cousin Jack
He's Cousin Jack, the Boxcar Angel
He's got a trick or two up his sleeve
He's Cousin Jack, the Boxcar Angel
He's the best friend a hobo can have
Star Dust And Ashes
He had always loved the rails, the freedom of riding the boxcars across the country, the thrill of dodging the bulls and the railroad cops, the camaraderie of the hobo life. He had seen the best, the worst, and the meanest of the country, but he never lost his sense of wonder and adventure. He was a hobo to the core, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
But he was old and everything has an end, and his came sooner than he expected. He was riding the west bound, heading to California, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean before he died. He knew he was sick, he had been coughing up blood for months, but he didn't care. He wanted to see the world, not some hospital bed. He had no family, few friends and no one was likely to mourn him. He was alone, but he was free.
He felt a sharp pain in his chest, and he knew it was his time. He clutched his heart, gasping for air, and looked out of the boxcar. He saw the sun setting over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. He smiled, and whispered his last words: "I'm going home."
He closed his eyes, and felt a warm breeze on his face and when he opened them again, his eyes were met by a different scene. He was still on a boxcar, but it was not the same one. It was cleaner, brighter, more colorful. He looked around, and saw other hobos, smiling and laughing, singing and playing instruments. They were dressed in fine clothes, and had plenty of food and drink. The old hobo felt a rush of relief and joy, realizing where he was.
He was in Big Rock CandyMountain, the mythical hobo heaven, where the handouts grow on bushes, and the lakes are full of whiskey, and the jails are made of tin. He had heard the song many times, but he never believed it was real. He pinched himself, and felt no pain. He was not dreaming, he was dead.
He got off the boxcar, and was greeted by a man in a suit and a hat. He had a clipboard in his hand, and a friendly smile on his face.
"Welcome to Big Rock Candy Mountain, friend," he said. "You must be the new arrival. What's your name?"
"Name's Jake," he said. "But they call me Cousin Jack, on account of my accent."
"Ah, yes, Cousin Jack. I have you on my list. You're one of the lucky ones, you know. You've been chosen to be a hobo helper."
"A hobo helper? What's that?"
"It's a special role, reserved for the best of the best. You see, not all hobos make it to Big Rock Candy Mountain. Some of them are still stuck on earth, suffering and struggling, facing hardships and dangers. They need help, guidance and hope. And that's where you come in. As a hobo helper, you get to go back to earth, and help other hobos in trouble. You're like an angel, a guardian and protector. You're a Boxcar Angel."
"A Boxcar Angel? That sounds...interesting. But how do I do it? How do I help other hobos?"
"It's simple, really. You just hop on a boxcar, and it will take you where you need to go. You'll find the hobo who needs your help, and you'll do what you can to help him. You'll use your wisdom, your experience, your skills and your special charm. You'll help them solve their problems, and save their lives and maybe even helpthem make their dreams come true. And when you're done, you'll hop on another boxcar, and come back to Big Rock Candy Mountain. It's a wonderful job, and a noble one. You'll be doing a lot of good, and you'll have a lot of fun. What do you say, Cousin Jack? Are you ready to be a Boxcar Angel?"
Cousin Jack thought for a moment. He liked the idea of helping other hobos, of making a difference, of being an angel. It was much like just being himself. He also liked the idea of seeing more of the world, having more adventures, of being free. He looked at the man, and nodded.
"I'm ready," he said.
"Excellent," the man said. "Then let's get you started. Follow me, I'll show you your boxcar."
The Administrator led Cousin Jack to a shiny, new boxcar, painted in bright colors. It had a sign on the side, that read: "The Boxcar Angel Express. All aboard for a heavenly ride."
"This is your boxcar, Cousin Jack. It's yours to use, as long as you're a Boxcar Angel. It will take you where you need to go, and bring you back when you're done. It's fast, it's comfortable, it's magical and you'll love it, I'm sure."
He opened the door, and gestured for Cousin Jack to enter.
"Go ahead, Cousin Jack. Step inside, and see for yourself."
Cousin Jack climbed into the boxcar, and was amazed by what he saw. It was spacious, cozy, and luxurious. It had a bed, a couch, a table, a fridge, a stove, a sink, a closet, a bathroom, a radio, a TV, a bookshelf, a fireplace, and a window. It had everything he could ever want, and more.
"Wow," he said. "This is incredible. This is better than any home I ever had."
"I'm glad you like it, Cousin Jack.It's your home, now. And it's also your office. This is where you'll get your assignments, all your clues and tips and make your plans for your missions. This is where you'll do your work, as a Boxcar Angel."
He pointed to a small device on the table, that looked like a phone.
"This is your communicator. It's how you'll stay in touch with me, and with Big Rock Candy Mountain. It's also how you'll get your cases. Whenever a hobo needs your help, you'll get a call from me, telling you who, where, and what. You'll also get a picture of the hobo, and a map of the location. All you have to do is follow the instructions, and do your best. Any questions?"
Cousin Jack shook his head.
" I think I got it. It sounds pretty simple, but I really like to see things in my tea. I have always been kind of a tea reader."
"Definitely Jack. It will be your best tool. Any thing else?" Said the Administrator.
"Nope. You've made it pretty easy." Cousin Jack replied.
"It is easy, Cousin Jack. But it's also very important. Remember, you're a Boxcar Angel. You're here to help other hobos, to make their lives better, to give them hope. You're here to do good, to be good, to spread good. You're here to be a hero, Cousin Jack. A hobo hero."
He smiled, and patted Cousin Jack on the shoulder.
"I'm proud of you, Cousin Jack. I know you'll do a great job. And I know you'll enjoy it, too. You're a natural. You're a born Boxcar Angel."
He closed the door, and waved goodbye.
"Good luck, Cousin Jack. And have fun. I'll be in touch."
He walked away, and left Cousin Jack alone in his boxcar.
Cousin Jack looked around, and felt a mix of emotions. He wasexcited, nervous, curious, eager, happy, and grateful and more amazed than he ever had been before in his mortal life. He was for new adventures.
He sat on the couch, and turned on the TV. He saw a news report, about a hobo who had been murdered in a jungle, and the police had no leads. He felt a pang of sadness, and wondered if he could have helped him. He wished he had been there, to save him, to protect him, to be his angel.
He turned off the TV, and looked at the window. He saw a mist, and heard a train whistle. He knew it was his signal, his cue and call.
Jack grabbed his hat, his coat, bindle and stick and the communicator. He opened the door, and saw a boxcar, waiting for him. He climbed on board, and saw a sign, that read: "Next stop: Chicago."
He smiled, and whispered to himself: "I'm going home."
He closed the door, and felt the boxcar move. He looked out of the window, and saw the mist clear. He saw the sun rising over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and blue.
Mad George
Cousin Jack stepped off the boxcar, and as his feet touched the ground looked around. He was in a small town in Texas, near the border with Mexico. He had never been here before, but he knew why he was here.
He checked his communicator, and saw the picture of the hobo he was looking for. His name was George, but everyone called him Mad George, because he was crazy. He was an old man, with a long beard, a dirty hat, and a ragged coat. He had a haunted look in his eyes, and a scar on his cheek.
Cousin Jack also saw themap of the location, and the instructions. He had to find Mad George in a jungle near the railroad tracks, and help him get out of his misery. He had to convince him to go to a retirement home, a special one, made for hobos like him. He had to make him face his past, and heal his wounds, be his angel.
Cousin Jack put away his communicator, and started walking and following the map soon reached the jungle. It was a typical Hobo camp, a bunch of tents, shacks, and fires. He smelled the smoke, and heard the chatter, some laughter, and music and some bereaving moans. He felt the heat, the dust, and the flies.
He walked through the jungle, looking for Mad George asking some of the hobos, but they either ignored him, or warned him to stay away from him. They said he was dangerous, unpredictable, violent. "And he's has a gun and a knife, and I saw a grenade once," someone said, "Not too mentions he is stark raving mad."
Cousin Jack finally found him, in a corner of the jungle, away from the others. He was sitting on a pile of trash, holding a bottle of whiskey in one hand, and a radio in the other. He was listening to the news, but he was not paying attention. He was lost in his own world, a world of nightmares and memories.
Cousin Jack approached him slowly, and greeted him.
"Hello, friend," he said. "You must be George. I'm Jack, but they call me Cousin Jack, on account of my accent."
Mad George looked at him, and frowned. He didn't recognize him, and he didn't like him. He was a stranger, an intruder and a threat.
"What's that you said. Who are you? "What 'da you want?"
"I'm a hobo,like you," Cousin Jack said. "I'm just passing by, looking for a place to stay. I saw you here, and I thought I'd say hello. You don't mind, do you?"
Mad George eyed him suspiciously, and shook his head.
"No, I don't mind," he said. "But don't get too close, or I'll shoot you." He pointed to a revolver, tucked in his belt.
"I see," Cousin Jack said. "Well, I don't mean any harm, friend. I'm just curious about you. You seem like an interesting fellow. You have a lot of stories to tell, I bet."
Mad George snorted, and took a sip of his whiskey.
"Stories?" he said. "Yeah, I have stories. Stories that would make your hair stand on end and make you cry, or scream, or puke and make you wish you were never born. You want to hear my stories, stranger?"
Cousin Jack nodded, and smiled. "Sure, I'd love to hear your stories, friend," he said. "Why don't you tell me one?"
Mad George shrugged, and put down his bottle. He picked up his radio, and turned the volume up. He heard a report, about a war in the Middle East, and a bomb that had killed dozens of people. He heard the sound of explosions, gunfire, and screams. He said, "You ever heard the sound of hell?" as if to no one and everyone.
He looked at Cousin Jack, and his eyes glazed over. He was no longer in the jungle, in Texas, in America. He was in another place, another time, another world. He was in Vietnam, in 1968, in the Tet Offensive. He was in the war, and he was scared.
He began to tell his story, in a low, raspy voice.
"I was a soldier, once," he said. "A young, stupid, naive soldier. I joined the army, because I wanted to seethe world, to fight for freedom, to be a hero. I didn't even wait to get drafted. I didn't know what I was getting into or what war was really about and I sure as hell didn't know what hell was but I found out fast."
George paused and thought for a minute, then went on.
"I was sent to Vietnam, with a bunch of other kids, who didn't know any better either. Most of' em was drafted. We were part of the 101st Airborne Division, the Screaming Eagles. We were supposed to be the best, the elite, the brave. We were supposed to win, to crush the enemy, to end the war. We were wrong.
We landed in a city the south, near the border with North Vietnam. We were caught off guard, unprepared, outnumbered. We had to fight our way through the city, block by block, house by house, room by room. We had to face the enemy, face to face, eye to eye, gun to gun.
Maybe I was one of the lucky ones, I guess, but I still ain't sure. Maybe the ones that got killed were luckier. I survived, I made it out and came back home, but I didn't come back whole or sane. I came back broken, damaged and haunted. I came back with scars, on my body, on my mind, on my soul. I came back with memories, real bad memories that never left me, that have tormented me ever since and drove me mad."
George looked around, shuddered. He took a drink then pressed on, his hands shaking.
"I couldn't fit back in to my old life. I couldn't adjust or cope. I couldn't keep job, a home and my family didn't understand. No one did. For me friend there was no peace, love, and no happily ever after crap. I couldn't find anything, except pain, anger, nothing except the war.
That damn war is still in me. It's stuck in my head like a ragging nightmares. So I became a hobo, a wandering loner that even most other hobos don't get and the ones that do are as mad as me with the same problem and some of' em are worse off. I left everything behind, and hit the road. I rode the rails, across the country, from coast to coast. I saw the sights, the cities, the towns. I met the people, the good, the bad. I lived the life, the freedom, the adventure. I lived the life, and I hated it, chased by donkey. You can run buddy but the donkey always come with you.
So they started calling me Mad George because every time I hear a big noise I dive for the ditch and scream.
Do you like my stories, stranger? Do you want to hear more?"
Cousin Jack listened to Mad George's story. He looked at Mad George, and smiled.
"I like your stories, friend," he said. "They're very powerful, very moving and honest. You have a way with words, you know. You're a storyteller, a writer, a poet. You have a gift, friend. A gift that you should share with the world."
Mad George scoffed, and picked up his bottle.
"Share with the world?" he said. "What world? The world that sent me to war, that forgot about me, that doesn't care about me? The world that hates me, that fears me, that rejects me? The world that's full of hell? That's the world you want me to share with, stranger?"
Cousin Jack nodded, and moved closer.
"Yes, friend," he said. "That's the world I want you to share with. Because that's the worldthat needs you. That's the world that's waiting for you, George. Waiting for you to come back and tell them the truth. You're not Mad George."
Mad George glared at him, and pointed his gun.
"Who are you, stranger?" he said. "What are you, some kind of preacher, some kind of shrink, or are you crazy like me and think you're an angel? Forget it pal. You can't save me or cure me. This is my friend, my only friend that never lets me down." George sneered then took another drink.
Cousin Jack shook his head, and raised his hands.
"I'm not trying to do anything, friend," he said. "I'm just trying to help you, to be your friend and yes, to be your angel. I'm just trying to show you, that there's more to life, than war, than madness, than the hell you are trapped in. I'm just trying to show you, that there's a place for you, a home for you and a family. Guts just like you. Some call it Big Rock Candy Mountain."
Mad George lowered his gun, and frowned.
"Big Rock Candy Mountain?" he laughed. That's just a song. I think you're making fun of me with some kind of joke, some kind of fantasy, some kind of heaven that doesn't exist."
Cousin Jack nodded.
"Yes, friend," he said. "It does exist. I know. I've been there. It's all beautiful and more. It's a place where the handouts grow on bushes, and the lakes are full of whiskey, and the jails are made of tin. It's a place where the sun shines every day, and the birds sing every night, and the flowers bloom all year, where the hobos are happy, and the people are kind, and the angels are real. Just like the song says. It's a place where you can beyourself, friend. Yourself, and not Mad George."
Mad George shook his head, and laughed.
"You're crazy, stranger," he said. "You're crazier than me. There's no such place, no such thing, no such heaven. It's all a lie, a dream, a fairy tale. It's all in your head, stranger. In your head, and not in mine."
Cousin Jack sighed, and reached into his bag. He took out a brochure, and handed it to Mad George.
"It's not in my head, friend," he said. "It's in this brochure. It's a real place, a real thing, a real heaven. It's a retirement home, a special one, made for hobos like you. It's called Big Rock Candy Mountain, and it's in Colorado. It's run by a man named Bob, a former hobo, a former soldier, a former friend. He's a good man, a kind man, a wise man. He knows what you've been through, what you're going through, what you need. He can help you, friend. He can help you find peace, love, and happiness. He can help you find heaven, friend. Heaven, and not hell."
Mad George looked at the brochure, and saw the pictures. He saw a big, white house, surrounded by green fields, blue mountains, and colorful flowers. He saw a bunch of hobos, smiling and laughing, singing and playing instruments. He saw a man, with a beard, a hat, and a coat. He saw Bob, and he recognized him.
He fought with him. He saved his friend from a bullet. Then he lost him in the chaos, smoke and screams and never saw him again. Until now.
He looked at Cousin Jack, and his eyes widened.
"Bob?" he said. "Is that Bob? Is he alive? Is he real?"
Cousin Jack nodded. "Yes, friend,". "That's Bob. He's alive and real, but a different kind of real. He survived the warbut the darkness took him, like it is taking you. And now he's waiting to save his friend George. He's been looking for you, for a long time, for a good reason. He wants to thank you for saving his life, for being his hero, for being his angel when all the demons were casting down on him.
Mad George stared at the brochure, and felt a mix of emotions. He felt disbelief. "Since when does heaven have brochures." He said skeptically.
Cousin Jack shrugged his shoulders and said, "I guess even the afterlife evolves George. But that's not the point. What is in it is."
George looked at Cousin Jack, and nodded.
"Okay, stranger, friend, angel or whatever you are. "Anything's gotta be better than the hell I am living in. I'll go with you. I'll go to this Big Rock Candy Mountain especially if I am going to see Bob. If he's there its gotta be heaven. And maybe I can be me again, not Mad George."
Cousin Jack said with a smile, "I'm proud of you, friend. You're beating the odds."
He helped him pack his things, and led him to his boxcar. He opened the door, and saw a sign, that read: "Next stop: Colorado."
He gestured for Mad George to enter.
"Go ahead, friend," he said. "Step inside, and see for yourself and leave your madness behind."
George climbed into the boxcar, and was amazed by what he saw. It was spacious, cozy, and luxurious. It had everything he could ever want, and more.
He looked at Cousin Jack, and smiled.
Cousin Jack looked back at George, and smiled too.
"I like your stories, friend," he said. "They're very powerful, moving and honest and they're not stories that you should keep to yourself. They ate stories that you should share with the world and you cando that now.
George frowned, and shook his head.
There's a lot of guys out there telling the same story Cousin Jack. What makes mine any different or better?"
"Nothing George. It not about different or better. It's just about strengthening the stories bound together by a common woe." Jack answered
Cousin Jack sighed, and moved closer to him. He put his hand on his shoulder, and looked into his eyes. "And to show you, you're not alone," he said. "You're not mad, either. You're just hurt. You're a soldier, friend, a hero, a survivor. You fought for your country, for your comrades, for your freedom."
George looked at Jack. He smiled, and nodded.
"Okay, stranger," he said. "Okay, friend. You have me, I have you. We have each other. What now?"
Cousin Jack smiled, and hugged him.
"Now, friend, we go," he said. "We go to a better place, a safer place, a happier place. We go to a place where you can rest, where you can heal, where you can live. We go to a place where you can be yourself, where you can be free, where you can be happy. We go to a place where you can be a hobo, friend, a hobo with a home."
George blinked, and tilted his head.
"A hobo with a home?" he said. "Ain't that one of them oxymorons or something."
"Yah. Kind of George but it's a good one."
George stared at him, and raised his eyebrows. "You're crazy.
"No, friend, I'm not crazy," he said. "I'm a Boxcar Angel, and I'm here to help you. I'm here to show you the way, friend, the way to a new life, a new adventure, a new purpose. I'm here to show you the way, friend, the way to Big Rock Candy Mountain, the way to the Hobo Home, the way to heaven."
Thewhistle blew a midnight song and the wind seemed to call like a conductor. "Next stop: Big Rock Candy Mountain."
Cousin Jack walked into the mist. George smiled, a believer now and whispered to himself: "I'm going home."
He closed the door, and felt the boxcar move. He looked out of the window, and saw the mist clear. He saw the sun shining over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of yellow and green. He saw the world, and felt the joy.
"I'm a hobo with a home. What a hoot."
The Adventures of Cousin Jack, the Boxcar Angel
Last Stand in Drygulch Crossing
Lanky Slim had just finished a long and hard harvest of picking cotton. He was tired, sore, and unhappy with the field boss. But it was work, and work was scarce these days. Now it was time to move on. He collected his pay, packed his bindle, and headed for the nearest town, ten miles away. No one offered him a ride, so he walked with a sigh, mumbling, "I'm getting too old for this." But as he saw the bunkhouse and the fields disappear behind him, his mood lifted and he quickened his pace. In three hours, he could catch the next train south, maybe all the way to New Orleans. He hadn't been there in a while.
The miles passed and he grew tired, thirsty, and hungry. He looked forward to a meal in a restaurant, served by a smiling waitress. He finally reached Drygulch Crossing, just in time to see a train leaving and a dozen hobos jumping into boxcars and flatbeds. Lanky wondered why there were so many leaving at once. He went to the Jungle, where he expected to find other hobos camping, but he found it abandoned and destroyed. "Hey, what gives?" he asked one ofthe workers.
"Didn't you hear? The railroad shut this line down and there won't be any more trains coming or going. The cotton farmers are using trucks now. And listen up, old-timer. Since there are no more trains, we don't want any more hobos hanging around our town. We have a new mayor who doesn't like bums and beggars, you see."
"The hobos who worked the field never begged here and your restaurant used to make a lot of money from us," Lanky said, but the worker shrugged and walked away.
Lanky checked a couple of abandoned boxcars and the yard office. Old Ben, the yardmaster, and Bull were there, cleaning out the file cabinets and burning most of the stuff. "Hey, Ben, looks like we're getting the boot," Lanky said cheerfully.
Ben looked up from his work and gave Lanky a sad smile. He said softly, "And the Bos aren't welcome anymore."
Lanky nodded. "So I was told, but I hope they let me eat at the restaurant. It's a long walk to the next town."
"Sorry, Lanky. You won't be welcome there either. All you'll find is a sign that reads, 'No Bos Allowed.' That's because the new mayor bought the place and wants to make it swanky. He plans to turn Drygulch into a tourist town and a retirement community. He's already building senior homes."
"Looks like I'm in trouble then. Can you spare some water, Ben? I'll move on." Lanky said, but just then the sheriff came in.
"You were supposed to be out of here with the last train, bum. What are you still doing here?" the sheriff said.
"I got here as the train was leaving and I didn't know you had changed the rules. I'll be leaving now," Lanky said and tried to leave.
"Nope. You're going to jail and the judge willgive you a fine," the sheriff said and took out his handcuffs.
Just then, an old coal-burning engine pulled in, towing a single car. A man stepped off, seeming to float down the steps. He was wearing a trench coat and a wide-brimmed fedora and carrying a bindle stick that reached his shoulder. As he got to the office, he stepped between Lanky and the sheriff and said, "I don't think you want to do that, sheriff. Old Lanky didn't do anything wrong. Just let him go and all will be well."
The sheriff drew his service pistol and said, "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"Most folks call me Cousin Jack, but since I took the westbound a while back, I'm also called the Boxcar Angel."
"Never heard of you. Move out of the way or I'll arrest you for interfering with the law."
Cousin Jack smiled at the sheriff and lifted his bindle stick a few inches off the ground. The sheriff's hand started to shake and he tried to squeeze the trigger, but he couldn't do it. A second later, he dropped the gun on the ground and just stood there, looking dumbfounded. "How did you do that? Did you use black magic? Black magic is illegal in this town, and so is voodoo stuff."
"Sheriff, I didn't use any kind of magic. You dropped the gun all by yourself, because deep inside you knew what you were doing was wrong," Cousin Jack said.
"Balderspit. You used something. Maybe you hypnotized me or something. I saw you staring at me like that, and you used your stick to distract me," the sheriff snarled and then bent down and picked up the gun. He aimed it and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. "What's this?" the sheriff yelped.
"You took the bullets out, sheriff.Look in your pocket," Cousin Jack instructed. The sheriff looked and sure enough, there were his bullets.
"Now, sheriff, I think Lanky and I will carry on and leave you and your mayor and your town to conduct your lives the way you wish, and I will make sure no hobos ever come this way again and warn everyone else how nasty you are," Cousin Jack said. Then he nodded at old Ben and Bull and motioned Lanky to follow him.
As they left the building, Lanky asked, "How did you do that? I ain't never seen nothing like it."
Cousin Jack smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "It's a trick I picked up somewhere. There's nothing to it, if you know how to do it."
"Well, whatever you did, thanks a lot. He was going to rob me of my farm money. That's what that was all about," Lanky said.
"You're right, but now we're leaving this place and I'll take you wherever you wish to go," Cousin Jack offered.
"Well, I planned to go to New Orleans and buy back my trumpet, so I can play music again. I miss playing, but getting work is hard and things don't work like they used to on the streets, playing for tips, now that everyone is using cards to pay."
"I'll take you to New Orleans, to the pawn shop. The fellow still has your trumpet," Cousin Jack said.
"How do you know about that?" Lanky asked in amazement.
"I'm the Boxcar Angel, Lanky. I have my sources," Cousin Jack replied, then they boarded the train and the ancient steam engine chugged away into a mist. The inside of the passenger car was beautiful, all decked out for comfort, colorful, warm, and welcoming. Cousin Jack said, "We'll have a meal, then you can clean up in the lav and after,have a sleep. When you wake up, we'll be in New Orleans, and the way I hear it, there's work for fellows like you, even if you decide to keep traveling. Just make music, and the music will make you."
After they ate, Lanky said, "That tasted just like Mulligan stew, only better." Then he went and boiled up a little and at last, worn out and weary, laid down in a bed and fell sound asleep to the rhythm of the wheels clacking along the track and the train whistle blowing out a lonesome tune. "Have you ever heard the midnight whistle blow on a quiet night in autumn, while the whippoorwill sings and the wind rushes through the autumn leaves?" Lanky said as he slipped into slumber.
And when he woke, they had indeed found their way to New Orleans, and just an hour later, Lanky was playing his trumpet and the people came to listen and dropped tips in his horn case. But better yet, there came a fellow with a trombone and another with a banjo and yet another with a clarinet, and together they filled the street and people called them the Traveling Hobos.
Cousin Jack listened on for a while, and when the band took a break, he saw that Lanky would be okay, and with that, he returned to his train and went off into the mist from where he came. Lanky looked around for the Boxcar Angel and saw him just as he floated up the steps to his car. "Thanks, Cousin Jack, and I'll pass on your kindness too."
Lanky and the Traveling Hobos stayed true to their roots, riding the trains from town to town, playing their music on street corners or in clubs when they could get inside gigs. They returned to NewOrleans for Mardi Gras and then they got a call from a man who had heard them play and said, "Well, boys, I know a place that wants you to play in their new resort hotel. It's a nice place and they are happy to welcome hobos, though it took something special to change their minds. So I'll see you in Drygulch Crossing, where the town runs a train in and out just for the travelers and it has a fine Jungle they keep for them as well."
"Well, fellas, what do you think? Do we head back to the Gulch?" Lanky asked and his Bo-friends cheered, "Yeah!" and started playing as they found their way to the nearest train heading toward Drygulch Crossing. And by the way, there is a new mayor and sheriff there now and the people are as friendly as all get out.
Lanky said, "I gotta write a lyric for Cousin Jack and put it to the sound of a train whistle blowing in the night."
Ode To Cousin Jack
There's a legend on the rails
Of a hobo who never fails
To help his fellow travelers in need
He's got a coat and a hat
And a bindle stick to match
And a smile that can make the hardest heart bleed
He's Cousin Jack, the Boxcar Angel
He's got a trick or two up his sleeve
He's Cousin Jack, the Boxcar Angel
He's the best friend a hobo can have
He rides an old steam engine
That can take him anywhere
He knows the secrets of the tracks and the towns
He can make the sheriff drop his gun
Or the mayor change his mind
He can turn a frown into a smile with a sound
He's Cousin Jack, the Boxcar Angel
He's got a trick or two up his sleeve
He's Cousin Jack, the Boxcar Angel
He's the best friend a hobo can have
So if youever hear the midnight whistle
On a quiet night in autumn
While the whippoorwill sings and the wind rushes through the leaves
You might catch a glimpse of him
As he floats down the steps
And you'll know that you've seen and blessed by Cousin Jack
He's Cousin Jack, the Boxcar Angel
He's got a trick or two up his sleeve
He's Cousin Jack, the Boxcar Angel
He's the best friend a hobo can have
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