Their were reasons that I was still hoboing when I first wrote this. Some of the reasons were different from the original. These reasons manifested back in March of 1980. One reason for hoboing is that it is very economical.

If I were to work in the conventional sense I would suffer. I would fear government surveillance. It is even possible this fear would soon override the benefits of my labors.

In my case, making a small amount of money would be out of the question. Big money would be the only kind of money that would be worth my interest. I might need money to pay my lawyer. Even then, if I was considered sane enough to work, could he keep me out of prison? As we have heretofore noted, even a smart lawyer is no defense in a courtroom where the judge is bribed.

As I will explain in more depth, I have become somewhat paranoid about giving out my social security number. These days there are so many ways for a person to be found. It boils down to the fact that I do not want to be watched by the government. That is one reason that I have chosen to live for most of the last few years in a tent.

People who live in houses are easily traced. A tent can be moved much easier that a house. Some people obviously are being traced. People can be found by having their names on billings from lights, water, gas, or telephone. For one not to leave such tracks one could pick a hobo life style.

At this writing my lifestyle avoided luxuries. Luxuries were not worth giving out my social security number. To hold a job you have to give out your social security number. Of course, there are other telltale signs that can lead the government directly to your doorstep.

To compleatly maintain a low profile, it may be necessary to limit your engagement with conventional monetary transactions.. Only stolen money or money leaked from the system is safe. Even then large money transactions draw attention. If you do not wish to be under view of government direct barter is probably the safest form of exchange. With barter the question of value and worth can be clouded. This kind of exchange requires no record of transaction. Who is to say what something is worth? If you aquire everything with money you are admiting the worth by what you are willing to spend.

The more a person can refrain from using money in transacting business, the more he might be able to avoid taxes. If you know what happens to the money the government takes from you, you know it is ill spent. Money is perhaps one of my worst addictions. A hobo lifestyle was very useful in countering this addiction. With it you can become much freer from the governmental system. You will be free of all forces that are seeking to enslave the masses. Government is doing its enslaving by driving up the national debt. We will delve deeper into that subject later.

When I say government I mean more than the congress and senate. I am talking about the complete established system. The media plays a major part in this. Let us consider how media advertisements make us compulsively insecure. If we respond to these advertisments we must spend money. If we don't obtain these advertised products we feel less than whole.

This is planned insecurity. It takes on a form of insanity. This fear could be known as the fear of obsolescence. How would it be to coin a word to cover this fear? How about the word 'obso-phobia'? This obso-phobia is being coupled with peer pressure and the fear that if you don't act now you will not get yours.

Have you ever noticed that most successful people do not work for money. They just do what they enjoy. Money, somehow, is always there. Money is always handy to have. The problem is not money. It is with the monetary system. This system has been hocked up to the gills. This is done through the wasteful actions of our corrupt government.

As you continue to read I hope you will want to learn more about hobo thinking. You will begin to see this as a survival technique. You may chose use this thought process to protect yourself from the rampant greed of the political world. Even if you decide not to hobo you may even become less dependant on money.

A little pocket money is OK. It can be picked up here and there. A good hobo usually does this by panhandling or selling aluminum cans. Some hobos are really good at pan- handling. That has never been my forte. Panhandling is a lot like begging. The even smarter hobo learns to sell items he finds in the dumpster. This is non-reported cash.

Most of my survival skills, in what I call my urban subsistence, are in the non-monetary field. These include the finer arts of dumpster diving for fun and non-recorded profit. These skills also encompass how to locate and establish a good campsite.

Now, I will compare my hoboing lifestyle to another time in my life. At this time I wasn't looking into dumpsters. This was a time before I met Sol. I was in Houston, Texas. I had heard of Billy Sol Estes in the media. I heard his name on the radio, TV, or in the newspaper. I felt then that Sol was taking a rap for the much bigger crooks. I didn't really know Sol then. I wouldn't have known Sol if he'd been staring right at me through his horn-rimmed glasses. The years I am now talking about are from 1968 to 1974.

Then, I was living with all the amenities Americans strive for. I had two dogs, two cars, good friends, a fine house, and a business that was prospering appropriately. I had four bank accounts and one savings account. I was flying an airplane. My house had a fenced in backyard. Probably to keep hobos out. In my back yard there was a beautiful rock garden. A fountain trickled down on the rocks making a waterfall effect. It spilled out of urns held by two lovely stone statues of Greek ladies. From my back door and to the left, was an organic garden. This was encircled by a fence covered with grape vines. It's access was adorned with an attractive arched arbor.

In 1974 my life took an interesting turn. Did I say my life? I must have meant to say, "my wife." At first I failed to see the flippancy of her flimflam. I chose to feel much pain over Sandys senselessness. Or, as I have later come to express it, " I chose to feel much pain from the lesson she taught me."

There was a monatery lesson ,I was soon to learn, about wives and joint checking accounts. I am speaking here of accounts that only require one signature. It is my opinion that such accounts should be used only by Siamese twins. Otherwise, someone may take all the money out of the account and run off. They could do this without a proper explanation of why. A soon to be ex-wife can be more determental than the government. After all, does it really matter who is collecting from us?

The really bad part of this lesson I was about to learn was that she ran off with a good friend of mine. I really miss him.

Later, I realized what a favor Sandy had done me. We lacked kids. Therefore the split up was with no children to worry about. I also had no child support payments. I was also released from the forty year mortgage. This is the mortage that goes hand in hand with most marriages. I was free for adventure, travel and new horizons. There were other girls that suddenly appeared on the scene when Sandy left.

Some of you guys will understand. Ladies, if you really want to know, ask one of us men about it. When one of you runs off it is a terrible blow to our egos. You have to be replaced. Usually, your replacement requires more than one woman. These women should be better looking and smarter than you were. Better looking was easy, but smart was harder. After all, Sandy was smart enough to get off with my money, wasn't she? Sandy had been valuable to me. She helped me make the money she ran off with. That value vanished when she got the hots for her Latin lover. Up to that time she had been really O. K. The divorce was the start of an on going re-evaluation.

These days I would might require a much different woman than Sandy. For then, she was really okay. At this writing I had been sober for more than six years. The preferences of a sober man differs from the needs of a drunk.

Then, it was not that I drank and drugged so much. That didn't happen until after I lived under the pressures of the paranoia of Sols' reality. It was only then that my drunken state became a problem. Sandy might, however, argue this point. At the time I used omly booze to take the edge off reality. With the edge off reality, Sandy had been a perfect wife for me.

It wasn't my booze that caused Sandy to run off. It was those records that I was using. I blame those records for Sandy leaving me. Have you ever heard of sleep learning records? I wanted to learn Spanish. I have often wondered why my wife chose her timing as such. Why was it that when I decided to learn to, " habla un poco Espanol", (Speak Spanish) my wife ran off with a Mexican. It was those sleep learning records that effected Sandy's sub consious. She obviously wanted more intensive sleep learning.

Nothing is being taken that isn't replaced with something better. I didn't see it that way at first. I panicked. I felt, at that time, for me to continue living, Sandy had to be replaced. This must happen as quickly as possible.

You might say that I had grown somewhat co-dependent upon Sandy. Now she was not there. Also, there was the self-esteem issue. I had to know that I was okay. I needed validation for my existence. If one woman leaves, I reasoned, I will simply replace her with four.

Who were these women that took Sandy's place? They were bewitching to say the least. There was Ana, Frances, Artie, and Virginia. Virginia came to me right after the initial shock of Sandy's departure. It would be hard to say who was the best lay. So, I won't say. These ladies might get copies of this book. I'm no fool! I am not going to get in trouble with the grils who gave me so much plesure when I was hurting. Girls, you were all the best in your own right. Thank you very much for helping me to get over Sandy.

I have often thought that I was not in love with one woman as much as I am with the spirt of feminenity. In other words a ghost. Various women channel that ghost from time to time. This spirt moves from body to body. Ana was one of those bodys that the spirt enhabited. Ana was the one that I stayed with the longest. I lived with her for six months. She was a superb cook and by far the most interesting.

Ana grew up in Colombia, South America. She spoke five languages fluently. At one time she had trained to be a nun. Then she discovered sex and her whole life changed. Her darghtter was named Rosey. A cute littel three year old. Her dad was in the penitentury. The littel girl soon developed a hate relationship with me. I took up too much of her mothers time.

The women, attracted to me while I still had the trappings of money, were different. They were different from the ones I have gone with as a hobo. The main difference is hobos attract fewer women. They are, however of much better quality. At this writing, I didn't have to worry about them running off with my money. There wasn't any money. It is too bad that more women do not take up hoboing. I would really like to see more women take up hoboing. I can't understand women's reluctance with equal rights being what it is today. There is however, a lack of the fairer sex involved with hoboing.

The women in my life, knowingly or not, played a valuable role in my hoboing preparation. In fact they might have influenced me as much as the government scruteny. Sometimes a man just has to get away from everyone and everything to gain perspective. Without the influence of today's morden woman, I might not have been so eager to enter the hoboing profession. A hobo camp can be a wonderful place to gain perspective on life. Nothing put me there but choice. You don't have to be running from government or women to be a hobo. It might help however.

I would like the women who have been involved in my life to feel good about themselves. You played a very important part in the dicisions I have made. Girls, you weren't just another lay. You were there to help me explore my value system. What I now consider valuable isn't fortune. I've noticed, in my past, my wealth was mostly spent on women. I am glad that I do not have the tendency to waste my money. What is money for anyway? It is to spend the way I see fit. Politicians spend my money the same way that I do. I just don't think that I should have to pay for their pleasure. The women I chose to spend on were women that felt good to be with. Money not spent on gorgeous women should be spent on taxes. In the future, however, it might be nice if women had their own money and the government was debt free. I would like to be with women who have already acquired wealth. In the future I would just like my government and my women to leave my wealth in tact.

Surely, rich girls need love too, don't they? Don't worry girls, I like sex. I won't discriminate you just because you happen to be rich. All I am looking for is someone who will respect me in the morning.

I had a friend, now deceased, who went through an Alcoholism treatment center with me. His name was Gene Hittel. Gene used to tell me something very wise. He would say, "Fred, if you are- looking for love, get yourself a dog." He also would tell me, "If you want sex, get yourself a woman." Sometimes it has been hard for me to tell one from the other. This may refelet on my choice of dogs.

I wonder if you guys have noticed that when we have money we are always surrounded with beautiful women. Why is that? Each of them telling us repeatedly that money isn't important. They always say, "I just want to be comfortable."

It, of course, is necessary for them to have new cars, a luxury house, furnished and airconditioned. They must, of course, eat at fancy restaurants, buy beautiful clothes, and wear much makeup. Women feel it necessary to take vacations in the Bahamas each year. They must fly in airplanes and sail on yachts. Money isn't important To me, it's always refreshing to meet these simple women. They are all so honest about their simple lives.

The only thing about the sex life of a hobo is that it is so lonely. Have you ever noticed that when having sex it is often better when you do it with someone? In all seriousness, a thought has occurred to me. Women who are worth being with are attracted to a man who has little or no money. A woman attracted to a hobo has a rare opportunity. Indeed, it is an opportunity for a woman to prove that she's not a whore. A whore does it for the money. With a hobo there would be no question that the woman is there for the right reason. It is a cinch she won't be doing it for the money. Whores all like money. But so do other people, who claim not to be whores. I believe that anyone doing something, only for money, is in essence a whore.

Many hobos only appear to be free. They have traded their enslavement to jobs and women for enslavement to drugs and alcohol. A couple of truths are certain. If you dedicate yourself to drugs and alcohol, no worthwhile job or woman will be a part of your life. I think that is why drugs and alcohol are so popular. They solve problems. They take your money. Without money you have no problems with women or taxes. Many male hobos lie in the gutter. In their fondest drunken fantasy they expect a lady saint to show up. This divine woman would (no doubt) see through their facade. She would see through the rough exterior of the hobo. She would look into his soul. This wonderful woman would know that the hobo is just down on his luck. She would know that he is strong but tender; brilliant, but misunderstood.

What is a hobo's fantacy female like? She is a woman who knows that tomorrow will be great. She knows if today she is patient and loving tomorrow the hobo will look for a job. This saintly woman would never nag. Heavens no! Never!! She will admire the hobo for the simple life that he wants to live. She will, no doubt, find herself being drawn to the idea of moving into his tent with him. Prehaps you know such a woman?

She is drawn to the hobo because of the spirituality of a materially unencumbered man. She is attracted to the serenity that the hobo exsudes. She loves a man who is without the complexities of modern life. On the other hand, she might just be horny.

This perfect woman would know that an unemployed man does not have to encumber his time. He would exist only for her benefit. It actually enables him more opportunity to lavish his attention on her. She senses that a regular job would inhibit his sensitivities. It might impede his chance at lovemaking. It might even dampen his creative pursuits. An example of such pursuits are drinking and druging to gain prespective.

This lovely lady would know that, for the hobo, drinking and drugging are not problems. In fact, if he wanted to, being the man of resolution that he is, could give it up. He could do this at any time. He just doesn't want to do that now. He only drinks for two reasons, one is that he wants to. The other is that he can.

Somehow I'm odd, even for a hobo. I have lost my ability to drink and drug successfully. I've heard it said that reality is only for those who can no longer handle booze and drugs. Can one not drink and drug and be a successful hobo? I think so, however that ability does help. It gives you something to do while you are waiting on the lady described here to show up.

At this writing I've been hoboing sober now for more than six years. Many people sober up and go into other professions. They become bankers, lawyers, or talk show hosts. Not me however, my paranoia of government has kept me more dedicated than most. When the average drunk sobers up he finds something else to do.

You may find that drinking and druging are necessary to be a well rounded hobo. You may wish to apply this technique in other walks of life also.

Hoboing isn't for everone. In one sense my hobo lifestyle has made me feel like an outsider. Being poor, or a hobo, is like not having full citizenship in our country. Being poor is a crime. It gives the government the right to commit crimes against you. Why does it give a government the right to do that? I don't know. It is beyond me to comprehend. The feeling that I have as a hobo is that of a disenfranchised person. It is like living in a foreign country. It is like living the life of a man caught up in some kind of cold war guerilla warfare. It is you against the establishment. As a hobo, my cold war style assaults deal with the inequities. There are many inequities in our society. My assaults are against these inequities. They include, at times, the filing of various petitions for my civil rights. They also include feeding hungry people with food found in dumpsters so they don't get exploited by a greedy boss.

Writing this book is an assault against these inequities. It is equal to a cold war in ethics. After having struck a mighty blow I can quickly retreat to the relative safety of my hobo camp. With each passing assault I feel my camp has become less safe. I may have to come out of the woods and conduct an open fight. My camp sites are being ransacked, looted, and burned by the enemy. The frequency of these happenings has increased. This started happening long before I started hoboing, however. The problem was from certain people within the establishment. It could be the work of disgruntled property owners. They might fear being ripped off. They don't understand a man of free spirits. I doubt it. I believe this to be the work of professionals. This has been happening too consistently and efficiently. I do not believe it to be the work of amateurs. I have always admired efficiency, even to my detriment.

If only my enemies understood the laws of the universe a little better. It is unlikely that they would continue these activities. I have been led to believe what goes around comes around. All the while I find myself moving with discontent back toward the main stream of society. I am changing what I can. There must be a way to make this a more livable world.

I doubt a sober man would have ever allowed himself to get into the state of being that I have. If one stays drunk or high it is easier to tolerate life. It is just harder to remain alive.

Fortunally for me this is the most wasteful country of the world. Everything that a hobo could ever hope for now resides somewhere in some dumpster. There is food, clothing, and many household items. They are yours for the taking. They are waiting now to be found. They exist now in some dumpster somewhere. All you have to do to survive is to look inside.

I've gotten good at this over the years. One fellow was so encouraged by some of my finds that he made a ninety minute TV document about my lifestyle a while back.

Occasionally the thought of work still crosses my mind. I even have the urge to make a little money. These, of course, are my really bad days. If I am still for awhile and prop my feet up higher than my head the urge passes. I was lying around my hobo camp one day when one of those sudden urges hit me. It was a work attack.

No doubt my strong work ethic raising has something to do with this sickness. I was raised in a family where the adults worked hard. It took a lot to overcome this. Now, however, I have become a staunch advocate of hoboing.

Sometimes the illogical urge to do meaningful work will overcome me. I say illogical. You will understand this more when you have read the information that I will show in another chapter concerning the national debt. For now trust me that to work under the present system is illogical. I will explain later. Okay, enough of this, and on with what I was going to tell you.

Hobo lifestyle is a good life. You have to learn the ropes. It took me a while to get the hang of it. Questions like how do you hobo and still stay clean? In earlier times I didn't stay clean. Even when Texas Monthly did their article on me I was not so clean. This happened in February of 89. The author of the article expounded. It appeared to her that I lacked hygene. At this writing I am a regular member of a local health studio here in Austin. It allows me to not only bathe regularly, but to take steam baths. If I were of a mind to, I guess I could even workout. I refer to this as state of the arts hoboing. It hasn't always been this good. With my crazy money that I now receive from the government I am able to afford such luxury.

In the summer bathing has never been a problem. Austin has plenty of fresh streams to solve the problem. The Art of dumpster diving has become a main stay to me. It is no problem to find a peace of land that doesn't have a no trespassing sign on it here in Austin. All you have to do is throw up a tent on it. Ever so often the cops come by and hassle me. Austin however, in the long run, has been, very friendly for hoboing. Let me relate a little hobo adventure to you. ---------------------------------------------------------------

Around my camp, there were several of my hobo buddies and me It was a kicked back day, and some of my tribe where cooking some food that we where getting out of one nearby grocery dumpsters at night. We were just kind of laying around in our tents when this idea hit me. I jumped to my feet and began to take action.

What I thought was a great idea at the time, seemed to come to me all at once and out of the blue. I would sell hobo services. Yes, I would sell the services of hobos. All my friends around my camp, could loosely be classified as hobos. If hobos are what you've got, then hobos are what you sell, I reasoned. I didn't realize how crazy this idea would sound, to my peer group.

I hadn't always been a hobo though, and sometimes some of my old work ethic thinking would seep into my mind. The hobos that were living in the camp with me watched me as I pulled myself out of the tent and commenced to take action. Bemused curiosity would be the best way to describe their reserved observation of my activities.

First, I went back to the grocery store where we'd gotten the food the night before, and got a bunch of grape boxes. The paint that I needed for the project I had in mind was already in the camp.

We'd gotten it out of some domestic dumpsters about a week before this time. A domestic dumpster is a term that I have coined for apartment dumpsters. They're very good to get things out of when people move to a new address. People generally move out at the first or the fifteenth of the month, and what they can't carry, they dump.

I was aware of my friends curious stares at my unexplained actives, as I went about spray painting the boxes to a uniform light color. They were dying to know what I was up to but hardly dared to ask. After the paint dried, I engaged myself in the activity of tieing them together. I did so in a manner that fashioned them into sign boards. They could be displayed in a sandwich style. The boards that could be worn and walked with. The idea was to use these sign boards to let people know that we would work for cash. They were also being designed to explain some of our talents, and capabilities.

Three boxes comprised the front, and an additional three hung in the back. After I lettered them, it was more evident what was going on. They said things like, " We move, we mow, we are good hobos to know! We clean, we cook, everything in the book, hire a hobo." One advertised the talent that I had acquired as a hair dresser, and from my wig shop days. It was a picture of a hand holding some shears. It was saying, " Hair by Hobo."

The one that I liked the best though was one that said, Hobos are easy to train. It had a picture of a hobo running toward a train. You get it? A hobo running toward a train, and, oh well, maybe it was a bit corny, but what do you expect? I was doing the best that I knew how. My fellow hobos thought I was a bit crazy, once they finely got up the nerve to ask me what this was all about. I explained, " We are going to wear these signs and walk down the street with them. We will end making much money from people who will pay us, in cash, for our services. "Come on and lets try it," I urged. We can drum up all kinds of business. Lots of pocket money, should be rolling our way if this thing works the way that I think it will. We'll be rich. We? How are, "we" involved, they ask?

Simple, I replied, we can wear these signs and walk down the street. We'll just see what happens. "Not on your life," they chimed! "We don't want anything to do with it," they said. Why not? "They would arrest us before we got a block down the street with those silly signs." Arrest us? For what, I asked? All we are trying to do is to go to work. Besides, what if they do, I added? It doesn't make much sense for the establishment to arrest hobos for trying to become productive citizens. What would they gain? If they put us in jail, they would have to feed us. I don't know why they would arrest us. One of my pals piped up, and said that they would think of something. I don't want any part of it, said another. Me neither, resounded another. "Fine," I blurted angrily, I'll do this myself. Give me the sign, I said to one of my pals that was holding one of my creations up, looking at it and shaking his head with a sad smile' '* no glory, I mouthed, as I stalked out of the camp wearing a sandwich board.

I marched down Manchaca Road towards Stassney, and then I turned right. As I stalked out of the woods on to the sidewalk going toward Stassney, someone instantly yelled at me from a passing car. " What does your sign say? " " Hey you," someone else shouted. " Turn this way so I can read your signs." Someone with their head stuck halfway out the window of their car was grinning at me from across the street. I turned his way so that he could get a better look.

At first it looked as though my efforts would be an instant success. Everyone wanted to read my hobo signs. After awhile, it began to seem as if no one was going to stop after they read the signs. As I strolled along the street, it soon became apparently I had succeeded in getting peoples' attention, but to what avail? Sexy girls honked and waved at me as they drove past. Some people were giving me the thumbs up sign, as they grinned and passed. This is obviously going to turn out well, I thought as I stole on down the street. It's just a little slow about catching hold. I wondered why they didn't just go ahead and stop and start making job offers. Someone is surely going to come up with something that I can derive a little pocket money with.

I marched down Stassney after turning off Manchaca toward First Street. At First Street, I went back north toward Ben White Boulevard and that, is where, I decided to linger for awhile. The traffic was passing a maddening rate. There couldn't be much better exposure for my advertisements in the entire city. There must be at least a thousand cars coming by every hour. The law of averages says that someone will respond eventually.

People seemed like they were getting a kick out of seeing me in my sign outfit. They would grin, laugh, howler at me and wave. Some would point. They had every kind of reaction you can think of, but to stop and talk business with me. They took it, obviously, as a total joke. Never have I been one who minded people laughing. This was one joke that I really wanted to make a little money out of though. After all I had gone to quite an effort in getting this together. Also there was the thought that I didn't want to go back to the hobo camp with any report less than success, after my peers had rejected this project so brutally.

I had to show them that I was right. I just couldn't admit that the plan had failed. My friends had hooted the idea down from the start. If I was making a fool out of myself, at least I should make some money doing it. Suddenly events turned in a way that no one could have predicted. My ego wanted to have taken credit for what happened, but there is no way that I could have planed what took place. The events that were soon to follow, were unusual, to say the least.

Two of Austin's best blabber mouths, who just happen to be members of the same bunch of anonymously recovering alcoholics that I run with, were driving down the street. They were just in time to witness what was about to happen.

Here is what they saw. I was on the corner, with my signs. A school bus was coming around the corner. The kids on the bus must have spotted me a ways back and they had time because of a red light, to plan what they were about to do. As the bus rounded the corner, they all threw money at me from the windows. Pennies, dimes, nickels, and even a few dollars, showered out of the windows of the bus. I was somewhat awed by their response. I quickly went about cleaning the corner up, so as not to be arrested for inciting children to litter. As I said before, all this was being witnessed by the two blabber mouths. Quickly the news spread to all the recovering alcoholics in our clubs around Austin, That crazy hobo Fred is at it again, and this time it's working.

Whatever he's doing with those silly signs, people are throwing money at him, and all he is doing is standing on the corner. People are actually throwing money at him. You know how a rumor builds. It was only that one instance, but it had happened just at the right instant, and everyone across town was talking about it. At least in the circles of recovering people that I run with, there was talk. After a few hours of standing on the corner with these signs hanging on me, I realized that the experiment had been a failure. No one hired me. People were laughing, and only a little money was being thrown at me. The whole fiasco began to tire me. In fact, I became depressed over the meager results, and I was exhausted when I returned to my tent. I arrived home, at this low ebb, ready to admit defeat. Have you ever noticed that when you have given something your best effort, and then gave up, things sort of fall into place in unexpected ways. I was thinking to myself, " the guys at the camp were right all along. I hadn't accomplished anything other than to make a clown out of myself. At least they weren't completely right. No one arrested me for trying.

There was plenty of dumpster food at the camp. There was no reason to come out of my tent for about 3 days for other reasons than are obvious. It would take this long, I felt, to recharge my batteries, and renew my energies from what I considered a humiliating defeat. It had proven to be somewhat physically draining on me. To stand on the corner with those signs on me and experience all those people cracking up at my best efforts, All this to no substantial monetary avail, was tiring indeed. It would have been different if I had made lots of money. This effort had, I thought, drawn a complete blank. It was more than I wanted to think about. I knew yet, that it was my choice to try this, and that I wouldn't have been happy until I saw whether it would have worked.

What I didn't realize was that it wasn't over yet. The results were about to come. Three days after this adventure I decided to again enter the outside world from my camp. I strolled down First Street toward my favorite club for recovering addicts and alcoholics. Again I longed to visit with my fellow non- practicing alcoholics and addicts. Something had happened due to the blabber mouths, that I totally wasn't expecting. John V. was sitting at the picnic table in front of the club. John was a taxi cab driver. He drove for American Cab here in Austin.

The first thing that John asked me when I walked up was, " Fred, where are the signs?" I came back with a puzzled look on my face. For a minute I spaced out. I had forgotten what I'd done. I think I was trying to forget the whole thing. I wasn't thinking about because what I had attempted, was being done very publicly. I was the only one who knew that the project had didn't get the expected results. I also underestimated the effect and efficiency of the grape vine gossip network that the recovering alcoholic blabber mouths had activated. At any rate, it took me a minute to realize even that he was talking about what I had deemed a miserable failure.

I'd chosen to forget it with my three days hermitage at my hobo camp. Oh, I responded, when I finally remembered about the signs, you are referring to the hobo signs. Who told you about them? John said, "Everybody has been talking about people throwing money at you here at the club." "Is it true?" I smiled, and mused for a moment. So, this is the story that the blabber mouths were spreading. How funny, I thought. The results may have been some what blown out of proportion I replied to John, but basically what you heard was true. The original purpose wasn't to have people to throw money at me, but to gain some type of employment.

I guess the deal was just short cut, and I could get direct to what I really wanted, which was some money, and the the need, was my answer to John. I guess this thing is being viewed as somewhat of a success, even though it didn't turn out the way I had planned it. It was brilliant, John complimented. What you need is an agent.

"Sure," I replied, "I need an agent." "Every successful hobo probably has an agent. What do you mean, I need an agent? I ask. You need to carry your idea one step future, John replied. You might get rich. Do you know an agent that would be interested in handling my act, I ask? Sure do John replied. " Me!" "You", I entreated? What do you want to do? I want to run and advertisement for you, he said, and furnish you with as phone number. Why not? I replied. I'll take a percent for my efforts after the ad is paid for. Why not I replied. We worked out the details and in a few days the ad came out. It went something like this. . . .

____________________________________________________________ Rent a bo. You can rent a real live hobo, for your next party or social occasion. He will take you on a dumpster dive, and you will tour authentic hobo camps. Call John at Phone number . . . . . . . . . . . _____________________________________________________________

In a few days we began to get as lot of weird calls on the answering machine. Among them was a man named John Kelso. He was a newspaper columnist, that worked for the Austin American Statesman. He is a very popular humorist. John thought that the ad was funny, and he wanted to do an interview with me. He planned to write an article. I had finally made the big time in the hobo experience. "Can you believe it, I can't even live in the woods without creating news?" I quip with my friends about the publicity. We met on the parking lot for our chat. John V. and I, got there first. Kelso arrived shortly, for our interview, which lasted for about 90 minutes. the results were as follows. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

You may wonder how that I can afford such notoriety, if my state of paranoia exists. I figured it was a chance that I had to take. Some how I want to regain lost ground. It is necessary for me to do some things that frighten me. If I am to make progress at coming out of my self imposed hermitage. Because I was able to surface to this degree, tells me that I am getting well, or at least better. I believe that the media could be a powerful tool for good. It would be good if it could be focused in such a way, to wake people up to what is going on in this country.

When I granted the interview, I figured that without a permanent address, I would still be hard to find, though people would know that I was somewhere in Austin. Sometimes I think that I may under estimate our cops. I had to move three days after the article came out. The Article only gave a vague idea about where the camp was. I was more at fault, than anyone for us having to move, than the cops were, or because the article ran in the paper. It is true that there were cops in my camp the very next day after the article ran, but they really where more curiosity cops, than hassling type cops. They acted like they hadn't read the Kelso article, though I am certain that they had, in my mind. They just didn't want to admit wanting to look into the art of hoboing for their reasons, other than cop type reasons.

I don't blame them, compared to police state type thinking, hoboing has to have much appeal, though it is probably very difficult for cop type people, to be not in denial about it. What seemed to be actually occurring, on this visit, from Austins' finest, was something like a very friendly unauthorized tour of my hobo camp. I say unauthorized, because none of these cops offered to pay the standard $10.00 fee, that I had decided to charge for the hobo tours.

I decided not to push the issue, and treat his visit just like a restaurant owner that furnishes free coffee to cops just to have them hang around for the protection. While the conversation with the cops was going on, one of them saw the signs that I had made up. They were still laying around the camp. He noticed the one that said, " Hair, by Hobo." We talked about my having been a hair dresser for 19 years, and asked if I could cut his hair sometimes. As the officers were leaving the camp, in seeming good spirits, I invited them to come back and spend more time, when they weren't on duty. I said, bring the wives, girl friends, and the kids. They might get off to hoboing.

They laughed their way out of my camp, as they were leaving. Wow, what a difference a little publicity makes. The next time I saw cops in my camp, was different. They came back two days later with the owner, of the property. I had been on this property for about a year, and the owner finely found out. As I said before, I was more to blame than anyone for the cops coming back with the owner. They were there, to order me off the property.

I doubt they would have showed up, if I hadn't of tried to clean up the place the way that I did. When the other cops entered my camp directly after the article ran, I was being somewhat embarrassed about our housekeeping. The place was a junked up mess. John V. said that someone had contacted him after the article ran, that expressed interest in making a TV documentary of my life style. If tv cameras where to show suddenly up at our hobo camp, and taping for a program should start, I didn't want the whole world to think that hobos are messy people. We had an image to think of. That is why the tribe and I decided to clean up the place a little.

They all thought that it was really funny that Kelso had written the article, and were being convinced that we were all on our way to becoming the first hobo celebrities. We couldn't look bad to the world.

The camp buzzed with activity. Jim was busy picking up junk, around the camp, and Mike was piling trash in a natural crevice on the bluff that overlooked the creek. We had acquired many articles of artistic value, from our dumpster diving adventures. These had to be arranged in a harmonized presentation that would not be unlike an outdoor museum. As the tidying up procedure reached its peak, Mike suggested that we strike a match to the debris that we had deposited in the crevice. There had been many camp fires in our camp.

I figured that our clean-up fire probably would go as unnoticed as had the camp fires of the past. There was something different though about the fire that we lit that day. The main difference was that the debris that we had shoved into the crevice was full of spray cans. I had used them to paint the backgrounds on the signs that had stirred up all the attention. As the fire grew hotter, the cans started to explode. This caused an eruption of smoke to billow up from the crevice. It boiled its way down the river, following the path of the river to the bridge.

The river carried the smoke all the way to the busy city street that passed the front of our camp. There were lots of cans, and an explosion from each of them. The fire burned bigger with each succeeding explosion. I sensed that we had made a mistake. This truth was brought home when a siren penetrated the air, as a fire truck moved closer to our camp. Someone had noticed the smoke boiling up underneath the bridge, and had called the fire department to investigate.

We left the camp so that when the firemen arrived they found our neatly arranged, and freshly cleaned camp, but no hobos. The cops were back the next day. The camp was now history. When the cops got there, we had an interesting discussion as we were receiving an invitation from the owner,to leave the property.

It began by me making the observation that this was indeed an interesting game that we the hobos and they the cops were playing. I remember when I was a kid and we used to play cops and robbers. Now I was big, and we were playing cops and hobos. One officers didn't think much of this observation that I had just pointed out to him, and come back with the comment that, " I would think that this was a game, when I got arrested for criminal trespassing. " To which my reply was, " I am sure that you have been going down to the 4th floor of the court house, to the legal library, and have been researching the fine points of legal trespassing in Texas as I had.

I was sure that he realized that in order for such a charge to be legally pressed that it was necessary for the owner, or a representative of the owner, to convey verbally, or with a, " no trespassing" sign, the order to leave the property, when there was a period of 24 hours that the occupant of the property had to vacate or be in jeopardy or violation.

Are you at this time giving me that option? I ask. The cop sort of stared in superseded disgust that I was that versed in Texas law. I apologized to him for not having actual copies of the Texas statutes, on hand to hand out to the cops, as I was sure that they were as intent as I was upon following the letter of the law, and then added, as I was saying, it seems like an interesting game, don't you think. How is that the cop replied? Well, I continued, we are going to pack up this camp now that we have been in for about a year, and move to the next patch of woods. You are going to look for us until you find us.

That might, or might not, be for a while. At that point you will contact the owner of the property. In truth the owner probably really cares less. They don't even know that we are there. You will then get him or her to order us moved again. All this time we are still not paying rent. Our time is still ours to do with as we wish. While the rest of the world worries, we just sit back eating our dumpster food, and laugh while you search. Then it starts all over again. It is really a good deal for both of us. You can spend your time hunting hobos, and don't have to endanger yourself trying to find dangerous criminals, and each time you bust a camp we spread out and make a couple of more camps, and invite more hobos to join us. This insures the proliferation of hoboing and provides job security for the cops. Without us, your work might be dangerous. I could see that he had never thought about it that way.