Life and Times of Scruffy Lomax

Scruffy and Harvard sat in the back of the flatbed, rattling along a country road. Distancing himself from Brainerd brought Scruffy a great sense of relief. The incident at the hobo camp had left an indelible mark, an understanding of the whims of life. How one minute you could be happy-go-lucky and the next fleeing the scene of the murder of a man—a bad man for sure, but BoJack did not to deserve to die that way without a fair trial. It was the first, Scruffy thought of many life lessons the road would provide. They passed an apple orchard, the twenty foot high trees, lined in straight rows, bursting with fat apples. “Grand Alexanders,” Scruffy said with a wave of his hand toward the orchard. “Picked a few of those,” he said as he splayed his hands in front of himself. “Scruffy—” They hit a bump in the road, lifting both up and then down. “Sorry ‘bout that fellas,” the driver said leaning his head out the window. “Not a problem good sir,” Harvard said over his shoulder. He returned his attention to Scruffy. “As I was saying, you have an impressive pair of hands or as the Dutch would say grote haden.” “They come in handing for picking—that is for sure.” The orchard faded as they descended a hill, and Scruffy said, “I am guessing when you get back home you are going to use your lawyer skills to help those less fortunate.” Harvard turned his gaze on Scruffy, his eyes with a gleam of appreciation. “I see your hands are not your only asset.” Scruffy and Harvard were let out in the middle of town in front of stately-looking red brick building with two-story columns and a cupola on the roof. The old man and boy got out of the cab and approached the sidewalk. “That would be the St. Cloud courthouse,” the old man said with a lift of his chin toward the building. He looked up the street lined with two and three-story buildings, as coming into view was an electric street car—with a trolley pole connected to an overhead wire—clanging along on wrought iron tracks down the middle of the street. The ding-ding of a bell announced its arrival as it came to a stop in front of the courthouse. “Wow,” Scruffy said as he eyed the handsomely finished hardwood sides and the metal plate in the front with Sauk Rapids/ St. Cloud painted on. It was beautiful with seven windows to a side. A conductor got off the car and helped a woman exit. He was wearing a conductor hat with a hard black brim and a flat black crown, starched white shirt, bow tie, and vest adorned with a pocket watch chain tucked into a pocket. Everything appeared so civil and civilized and orderly. “That car is headed to the train yard,” the old man said. “Shall we do it?” Scruffy said. “Break the hobo code,” Harvard said through a toothy grin. “I will buy,” Scruffy said. With that, Harvard lifted a hand to the old man. “Much appreciate your kindness, sir.” “ Hope your fellas find what you are looking fer,” the old man said as he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Grandpa…” the boy said in a wistful tone, “someday I would like to take an adventure.” Scruffy sat next to the window, Harvard next to him. Scruffy had ridden in the trolley a few times back in Yakima, but riding in this car was at a whole new level of interest—the sights of rolling by the magnificent buildings with tall pillars and detailed scrolled work, the automobiles rumbling to and fro, and the people on the sidewalk walking with a determined purpose. Scruffy pointed to a vertical sign attached to the corner of a four story building, building with Emporium written out in capital letters from the top to the bottom. “Is that not something, Harvard.” “Welcome to the world, young man. Welcome.” Scruffy flashed his Scruffy grin at Harvard and then returned his attention back to the window. The trolley came to a stop at a corner, the building before them had a huge billboard on the roof with a man in white chef’s hat holding a loaf of bread. Above his head was scrolled in dark letters, Double Wrapped. People departed the car and others got on and took a seat, and the trolley proceeded around the corner. Up ahead was a sight that held Scruffy like nothing in his life. They approached a bridge passing over a river, and the trolley was going to cross it. “That the Mississippi?” “In all her glory,” Harvard said, as he leaned into Scruffy to get a better view. “That is a four-span high deck pin-connected truss bridge.” “Huh,” Scruffy said. “How do you know that?” “My grandfather was an engineer on the erection of the Brooklyn Bridge back in the old century—I know my bridges.” They were now entering onto the bridge, down below the mighty Mississippi, and Harvard was right—in all her glory. The water was a rich dark blue, its current rippling downstream—beautiful it was with trees lining the banks. At the end of a small dock two boys were fishing, one boy casting his fishing line. Scruffy thought of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, as he imaged those two boys living similar lives as that irascible pair, Tom and Huck—maybe swimming in the Mississippi, rafting down river to a deserted island, or just fishing off the dock. One of the boys was netting in a large silvery fish. Scruffy had not a clue what type. He had fished in the Yakima River, from time to time catching mostly catfish and steelheads, but nothing this long and big, and with a row of dorsal fins like little humps. As the trolley rattled across the bridge, Scruffy imagined himself unattached to the land and water, but an agent of the sky, floating overhead—the rattling clang of the wheels and whirr of the motor whisked from his conscious mind—as he crossed this great body of water, free as the wind in this great land of the free. What Scruffy had learned in school about his country could not compare to actually seeing and living the American experience. Exiting the bridge, Scruffy said to Harvard, “I will never forget this for as long as I live.”