The Hobo King by Kyle Cashulin

Photo of Iwegan by Jesse Grauer

“In April I started out in Minnesota, and I journeyed down to Des Moines Iowa, then to Parsons Kansas, all the way to Little Rock Arkansas, then to Memphis, Alberta, and Alabama.  Turned around, came back up through Memphis, and up to Kentucky, and to Champaign Illinois and to Chicago again, Detroit, the Canadian border, Ohio, over to New York, back to West Virginia, North Carolina, back to Iowa. To Britt Iowa.  And I took my time.

“I always told people I’m not a citizen. I’m a self-proclaimed bum. They started calling me Iwegan, which supposedly is a tramp from Iowa.”

Iwegan (aye-wee-jin) sits in front of me by the fire, where two construction palettes are neatly burning in the rectangular metallic pit.  Iwegan is only 49 years old, but looks much older.  The first thing I notice about him are his large, sad eyes. ‘Weg is missing most of his upper palette, and he speaks in a soft, mumbling tone, which makes it difficult to catch what he’s saying.   He pulls his thick black hair back to show us the steam engine tattooed on his forehead.  Other tattoos show on his neck.  Iwegan is the current King of the Hobos.  On his black leather vest  “Hobo King 2006” is carefully stitched with what looks like dental floss.

There is considerable talk about what defines a hobo.  Nobody agrees completely, and those that have definite ideas later contradict themselves.  You can categorize the entire subculture using the word “Bum.”  Bums can be divided into Transients (those who travel), and Homeguards (homeless who stay in the same city, often the same street).  Transients are further divided between Tramps and Hobos.  Tramps travel from city to city, living off of the charity of society.  Hobos, although not unknown to take charity, prefer to work for their living.

‘Weg grew up in a house full of cops; his father, uncles were all on the force.  “I’m the defective detective.”  Iwegan  claims to have two years of college, but refuses to divulge where. “My brothers always know where to find me—in the library.  I need my USA Today.” After he got out of prison at 20 (for what he never said), he found himself stranded Eugene Oregon.  ‘Weg met a lot of train riders in Eugene, decided to hop a rail, and has been riding ever since.

Iwegan is the last of a dying breed.  Years ago, there were hundreds of hobos spread across the country.  American hoboing started after the civil war, when tens of thousands of men were forced to travel, looking for work.  It was called the “Great Army of Tramps” by the famous photojournalist and social reformer Jacob Riis.  The number of hobos has decreased, slowly, over the decades, so that today there are fewer than one hundred.

“Up in Washington, 27 years ago, there’d be grain cars, 40 of ‘em, goin’ by. That means 40 rides.  There’d be 80 hobos all waitin’ on a ride. All pickin’ apples.  On the West Coast, if your daddy rode, you rode. If your cousins rode, you rode.  You had to wait for rides.”

Local and national recessions in the 1980’s produced a few hobos, but this fell off by 1990.  The 9/11 attacks was the ultimate deathblow to the true hobo.  But for the foreseeable future, there will be one last Railrider.

“I’m incorrigible. They ain’t gonna stop me.  But those Sieg Heil Nazi police cock-sucking pigs, they’re just joyous after 9/11.  Because now it’s ‘homeland security.’ They can walk in with a federal warrant instead of state, you know, but they ain’t stopping me. You know?  But a lot of my brothers don’t want to put up with that, you know?”

“For years those fuckers didn’t have a clue. They didn’t know we existed.  I swear to god we always had it goin’ on. Always.  And they didn’t have a fucking clue.  We were illegal, but we never stole from people.  We just did work. People just loved us.  We just have fun.  We didn’t have social security cards.  But I’d get food stamps from 5 different states. I’d be ridin around with $8k of food stamps to share with my brothers. We’d sell them.  I’m tellin’ you. They had no fucking clue. And we lived like fat fucking rats. We lived like fat fucking rats.”

Weg’s definition of them oscillates between the police, the government, and the entire non-hobo population.

“The choice was obvious, you know?  I ain’t got no steady pussy, or work.  I’m seein’ the country for free, living like a fat fuckin’ rat anywhere I go, and they ain’t got a fuckin’ clue.  We had a hundred brothers that loved each other and cared for each other.   Those rich people in apartments, they ain’t got a 10^th of that.  No bills to pay, no taxes to pay.  I always thought we had 20 more years.”

“Yeah, it’s been fun.”

Most cities have public day labor, which makes up most of the Hobo’s work.  Missions will also provide access to work.  Many hobos were actually skilled craftsmen.  Iwegan has been a carpenter for over 20 years.  Some places are known to prefer road-people laborers.  Some would hire hobos exclusively.  Stretch is especially fond of Fillery Farms, located in Okanogan, Washington.

A tried and true method of making money is simply begging.  On a good day, a hobo can make more in two hours than many gainfully employed make in a week.  Stretch and ‘Weg remember standing beside a highway with a cardboard sign, and making $450 during rush-hour.  Holidays are always the best times, and a good story will always make for a successful day.  Iwegan’s favorite story is a real tear-jerker:  his wife tragically died six months earlier, and he is traveling the country in her honor.  ‘Weg dramatically pantomimes wiping his eyes.

“But we all shared.  If someone needed a pair of boots or a bedroll, he had it.  He needed new gear, he had it. We’d spend a $100 on food a night, not to mention 8000 of food stamps, and nobody had a clue!  And I kept sayin’ “don’t tell anybody, or else you’re gonna get slapped.” Haha. But we didn’t save a dime of it, you know?  We spent 3 weeks in El Paso one time, we spent $28,000 in 21 days.  At that time we were taking stock trains. But that was what was cool about it: we always stuck to what we knew.  And nobody had a clue.”

Many homeguards, or bums that stay in the same place, can get territorial about prime begging spots. ‘Weg remembers one man reluctant to give up his corner spot.  He had been begging on that corner for 8 years.  This didn’t impress Iwegan. “You’ve been here for 8 years? Well guess what? It’s time to move!  If you don’t, I’ll burn down your fucking camp!” Hobos generally have no respect for homeguards, who represent the antithesis of the transient ethos.

If you have spent as much time on the rails as Iwegan has, you are no stranger to violence.  Territorial homeguards, stray dogs, violent fugitives, and bully officials all make life difficult for the hobo.  Once Iwegan camped out with a man who confessed to be a serial murderer.  “He went nuts, and killed 20 people. He told us right there.”

Another time, Iwegan was terribly abused by police officers.  They had a warrant and were looking for a bum, and ran into Iwegan.  When he didn’t cooperate, the police beat him up with nightsticks, and sprayed an entire can of mace into his face.  They waited for him to recover, expecting a flow of information.  They didn’t know ‘Weg.

“Look here man, if I spit in your face, is that a jail-able offense?”

“Fuck yeah, we’ll stick you in jail”

“Well cool, because that’s what I’m fixin’ to do.  Now look here, I ride freight trains, and I don’t want to sleep next to no murderer. Show me the goddamn paper.”

“I’ve got three questions for you officers.  This murder was on the 24^th of  December? “

“Yeah.”

“And it took place in Big Springs, Nevada, right? On Christmas eve, 1996?”

“Yeah.”

“Well my brother’s been in a Washington State Penitentiary since 1992.  What did you do, let him out on parole so that he could kill someone?”

Iwegan lets out a series of “Haw haw haws” and dismisses the case of extreme police brutality as one of many good stories. Iwegan gets serious, and looks me in the eye.  He says that some very bad things have happened to him on the rails.

One night in 1980, Iwegan was sleeping off a long day of drinking whisky.  Sleeping next to him was a fellow tramp.  While both asleep, a woman murdered the tramp by slitting his throat from ear to ear.   She was a mentally disturbed homeless woman that was an ex-girlfriend of the victim.  After the murder, she cut open Iwegan’s hand, and put the murder weapon in his jacket.  “She cut my hand so bad that the muscles were hanging out.”  ‘Weg shows us the scar.

The next morning the police surrounded the campsite, and Iwegan was arrested for murder in the first degree.  He was held for weeks while he waited for his trial.  Before he appeared before the judge, however, the murderess was caught.  She confessed to the slaying, and to framing Iwegan, who was exonerated.   With the next drag on his Lucky Strike, I see that ‘Weg’s hand is shaking.