On the side of the road

Almost every afternoon, I drive down the congested four-lane mess that is our local version of Main Street USA, and I see Hobo Joe standing on the side of the road.

I don't really know his name, of course. Stan and I dubbed him "Hobo Joe" because he he has the requisite backpack and baseball cap, and that's about it. The whole picture suggests he doesn't have much of a home to go back to, so he keeps his stuff with him. Hobo Joe holds up a weathered cardboard sign, "will work 4 food." His face is weathered, too, like the sign. There's just no way to tell how old he really is. He's fit, like he's worked with his hands a lot, but then his face is really lined.

And then there's the bicycle. Hobo Joe has this blue bike that he leans on a culvert by his favorite pan-handling space, and that's how we know he's there. We look for the bike and when it's there, we find Joe.

It's comforting, in a way, to see him standing there, day after day. He missed a day once, but then he was back the next afternoon, and Stan and I decided he just took the day off; maybe he had enough food to tide him over. I like to think that he has his own little territory, and the other hobos know to leave that area alone. I also like to think that he stays there because the local people are kind, and they give him enough food or money that there's no need to move on.

So this morning, I drive by his regular spot, and there's no Joe. It's not his usual time, so I wasn't that worried.

Except, further down the road, where it merges into the on-ramp for the interstate, I saw his blue bike. That's not where it's supposed to be. It was just lying there on its side, alone and sad. The tires weren't flat, and I don't think anything was broken. It was just out of place, with no sign of Joe.

I hope he's okay.