Stephen Dixon - Letters to Kevin

and said “Bray’s choice for today is the great Governor Flay.” And with the band blaring and people hurraying, the wagon roared off for New York. I was too near Palo Alto to turn around now. I stuck a few discarded chicken necks in my pockets and put my thumb out for a ride. The first thing on wheels to come along was a state trooper on a motorcycle. He said “Hitchhiking’s illegal in this state,” and wrote out a ticket. I said “I wasn’t hitchhiking. Just walking along the road to California and sticking my thumb out to see if the wind was blowing hard enough to carry me part of the way.” “Now walking and feeling which way the wind’s blowing is legal in this state. But any questionable-looking person passing through has got to prove he’s not a vagrant. And in this state, a vagrant’s a vagabond with no money in his pockets.” “I don’t carry my money in my pockets. I keep it in my shoes, as I’ve fewer holes there than in my pockets.” I took off my shoes to show him the change I’d picked up from the campaign contributions that had fallen under the floorboards in Bray’s wagon and which I found when Bray left and the wagon collapsed and the floorboards fell off. But he was already writing out a second ticket for my not having any money in my pockets. “Get three tickets in any one day in this state and we bring you up before the judge.” “Don’t worry, officer. Getting as close to my destination as I am, I’m not about to do anything unlawful from now on and get thrown in jail.” “Then you can pay for these tickets?” I gave him all the money that was in my shoes. “Seems enough. But I’ll have to write out another ticket for your now not having any money on you, which makes you a vagrant.”

He wrote it out, counted the tickets, said “Why it seems to add up to exactly enough to take you to the judge,” and put me on the back of his motorcycle and rode to the trooper station. All the cells there were full. The trooper captain said “Let’s just throw the bum out of the state and be done with him.” Three troopers picked me up, shoved me into a car and drove to the state line and threw me into Arizona. Right over the state line was an Arizona trooper who said “Jumping the border’s illegal in this state. I’ll have to bring you in.” “I didn’t jump. I was thrown.” “That’s okay then. But anyone entering Arizona has to have some visible means of support.” “I have it,” as I spotted a quarter on the ground. I grabbed it and put it in my pocket, in case Arizona also had a law which said that vagabonds must have money in their pockets. But the quarter dropped through the hole in my pocket and rolled away, just as I was about to ask the trooper for a needle and thread to sew up that hole. “There it is,” I said, pointing to where I heard the quarter rolling. “I can hear it but I can’t see it,” the trooper said. “So I’ll have to arrest you for having no visible means of support.” “How can Ibe arrested for having something I don’t have?” but he drove me to the courthouse. The judge I was brought before said “Let’s save the taxpayers the cost of a jail term for this tramp and throw him out of the state. Four troopers picked me up, carried me to the state line and threw me back into Nevada. Some Nevada troopers were waiting for me there and threw me back into Arizona. “If Nevada won’t have him,” the Arizona troopers said, “we’ll throw the stiff into the next state from ours on the other side.

They drove me in a paddy wagon to the state line touching New Mexico and threw me over the border. “You’re much better off here,” a New Mexico trooper said, helping me up. “Drifters are allowed to roam throughout the state free and clear. But I’ll have to book you for entering New Mexico without first registering as a convicted criminal with a record in two states, Arizona and Nevada.” The local magistrate in town said “I’ve conned enough shifty deals for one day. I mean, I’ve dealt with enough shiftless cons for today. Throw the hobo out of the state on his ear.” The troopers were much rougher with me this time because of my growing criminal record, and tossed me over the state line into Texas on my ear. A Texas state trooper was about to arrest me for having no visible means of support, no money in my pockets or shoes, and for trying to enter Texas without first registering as an ex-convict with convictions in three states, when I heard Governor Flay’s bandwagon rumbling through the desert. This time when the governor reached over the side and said “Climb aboard, neighbor, there’s room for one more,” I got on. Because what was the sense in being tossed from state to state on my ears? Till I was tossed all the way across America this way and ended up with two frazzled ears, no earlobes, a mangled typewriter, several filthy chicken necks in my pockets and a criminal record so long that I might not be thrown over the New York State border when I got there, but into a prison cell for thirty years. So I stayed with Flay. Worked his mimeograph machines. Handed out his leaflets and shopping bags. Chanted his slogans and listened to his paid political advertisements and waved his flags. By the time the bandwagon reached New York City, Flay had collected enough delegate votes to be chosen his party’s candidate for president, and most polls were calling him a shoo-in for the job. He asked me to run his mimeograph machines all the way to the White House. But I got off in Brooklyn, walked across the bridge to Manhattan, and found a clean quiet doorway in my old neighborhood to sleep the night. Before I fell asleep I began writing this letter. I’ll drop it in a mailbox when I’m done. If you do get the letter, you’ll know how close I got to Palo Alto this time. And that I now have enough mimeograph-machine experience to join up with another candidate’s bandwagon going to California in four years, if I can’t get out there before then on my own.

Best,

Rudy

Dear Kevin: I had the most unbelievable dream last night as Islept in that doorway. In the dream I woke up in my old apartment, washed and dressed, had breakfast and packed a small suitcase and locked the front door. I took a subway to Times Square and the subway shuttle to 42nd Street and the East Side. I walked the few blocks to the airline bus terminal, took the bus to Kennedy Airport and bought a ticket on the next plane flying to San Francisco. I had lunch on the plane, napped, and woke as we were landing. I took the airport limousine to Palo Alto. In Palo Alto I cabbed to your house. I rang your bell. You opened the door. “Surprise,” I said. “Rudy,” you said. We kissed and hugged. I gave you a present. You took me to the kitchen where your mother was having tea. “Who was at the door?” she said. “Surprise,” both you and I said. We all kissed and hugged, I gave her a present. “You shouldn’t have,” she said. “But you’re glad he did,” you said. Your mother and you led me to the backyard where your dog Saybean was. Saybean put out his paw. “Shake,” you said to Saybean and me. I shook his paw. We all laughed, grabbed hands and danced in a circle around Saybean, who barked happily and danced inside our circle by holding his tail between his teeth. The dream ended. A really unbelievable dream, I thought. Maybe sleeping in doorways is good for that.

In real life I woke up when someone poked my cheek with a wine bottle. It was an old man. Clothes as ragged as mine, face as much in need of a shave. He offered me a drink.

“No thanks,” I said, brushing off my clothes. “Got to keep a clear head and steady pace if I’m to get to California in the next four years.”