An Abrupt Tale of Hitchhiking

I once knew a family of Leather Tramps. Well, they weren't all active participants, but they were sympathizers for the most part. A son, two daughters, a mom and a pop; the parents had traded in their hand gestures years ago to take on the roll of enablers, drivers, people that make the system work. And in doing so they instilled the values of the Tramp onto their children: the mark of leather, if you will. In their youth they had put themselves into the hands of strangers, noblemen and women behind the ribbed ring of the road, people merely looking to help their fellow occupants travel more quickly to their places of destination. Lovely couple those two had been, and while the better part of my understanding of them comes from mere tales of the streets, I consider them to be my friends nonetheless.

Had they been? Yes. 

Individuals? Of course. 

Inseparable? When they could get away from everyone else.  

They had learned to trust the road, the people that inhabited it, and the fruits that it was willing to share. I learned most of what I know through the children, people closer to my age, the sensibilities of the Leather Tramp being amplified through them. And all I can say is that I'm grateful for that.

The only son of the family, the first born, had taken to his young parent's lifestyle quite quickly. Who am I kidding? He didn't have a choice. In the beginning, or his beginning I should say, a couple of Tramps, man and woman, or boy and girl I should say, gave birth to a well sized child in the hospital of a small town quickly lost amongst the paved concrete arms stretching out from it in every direction. His name was pending, she said. One can't simply name a person without rational thought, for a name is permanent, more than anything else. The argument has always been that a tattoo should have deep meaning, hours and months of relentless thought put into it, for once it is done, it's "forever." Well let me tell you, the name you are given is the tattoo of a lifetime and beyond, it will outlive the damned ink covering your arms and legs, your face. It will last until you are dead and gone, buried and burned, uplifted and tampered. 

The car was running, he said. They had to go. Despite the objections of doctors and staff the boy and girl and boy got up and out of the town. There was no car, there was no running, they walked out of that hospital and to the nearest stretch of highway, stuck out one thumb and flagged down the soonest vehicle. The boy would never see his place of origin again. Whatever had been going through their heads at the time is beyond me, perhaps beyond any sort of normal comprehension, only they would know. And their son, still pending, was now a part of whatever world his parents had immersed themselves in. Sorry kid, this one's up to them.

Years passed, rides were had, locations changed, the boy and girl began to grow up, while the littlest boy became still younger, they said. They said, they said; they said that a baby is not a person, it does not resemble an adult in anyway. A baby is still a creature of the body, an extension of two. Once an infant becomes a child can any sort of comparison be made. But this is only what they said.

The man and woman settled down, permanency was not their strong suit yet they willed what was best for their family. Growing up in the suburbs, surrounded by streets, this is where they decided to call home. They made sure to pick up fellow Tramps whenever they could. They didn't listen to the chattering voices that filled the pages of the newspaper or the cover of stories, hitchhiking was as safe as it had ever been. Their son, still pending, had grown up sitting beside the random strangers, the ones using their family car as a portal. Covered in their musk, he was never more than a few feet away. This is how it was, and how it seemed it would always be, this was comfort. 

Time has a way of speeding up, slowing down, like the rate of an engine caught in traffic. Girls were born, they were twins, and even more strange, they had been named. Ebony and Ivory. The keys to harmonious difference. They grew up to be beautiful, more than their names had ever thought possible. They had aura, they knew, and no one else but their parents could have guessed that the aura attributed would allow them to discard their names forever, if they wanted. Permanency of name apparently had no meaning to them. But that is another story.

The children grew up, together, at once, believe it or not. But then, one day, it all began to fall apart. The son had begun accepting rides from whoever would give him one. He no longer felt as comfortable sitting in the cramped enclosed space with his parents, he felt as if he were being smothered. The lifestyle his parents had grown up apart of, bestowing on their children and continually contributing too had begun tearing their tight knit Leather Tramp family apart. Ebony and Ivory, the lovely twins, were a little more skeptical about the whole idea all together. Their upbringing had not mirrored their brothers, they were not born amidst the ever flowing concrete stream, they had been created amongst solidarity. And for this reason they did not completely understand what there brother was going through, and why it had become such an elephant amongst the entire family. They began to avoid everyone as much as possible, basking in their own aura. They were different. 

The lovely couple were not completely in tune with the nature of their problems, they could not comprehend that it was their teaching that started this negative trend of imploding family dynamics. So they continued; the turmoil that was their lives was merely a white noise surrounding them. The life of the Leather Tramp had taken adverse effect. And then one day, their son, still pending, was gone. They did not know and could not know where he had gone; how could they ever search for him, without a name he was lost forever until he allowed himself to be found. Sure, the parents had theories of where he had gone, that perhaps maybe he had gone looking for something. This was all they told me, or so I'm told. 

The beautiful, lovely twin sisters had now been estranged for several years. They had stuck with each other through it all, indifferent to anything their family did. The sobs of their parents were hardly enough to send them from their room. But they did, they came. Seemingly more enthralling than anyone in memory, they stood within the door frame, capturing everything beauty is, showing their condolences.

Unfortunately, this is where the story ends, for now at least. The lovely couple, the lovely twins, are long gone, along with their aging son. The daughters packed up their bag and left as soon as the shock of their brother's disappearance had settled. They had agreed when asked to look for him, but chances are they were merely acting polite. Their home, wherever that is, is gone. They blaze across the land, hand in hand, their identical beauty burning a permanent memory amongst the folk in every town, inspiring those willing to create what cannot be replicated.

Their folks, mom and pop, are dead. Years now, I guess it has been. Still quite early on in their lives, they had picked up Leather Tramps all over the country, they had seen everyone and everything that could be picked up. Until one day. Pulling over at the side of the highway on an unbearably hot day, they picked up who they would soon learn to be notorious vagabond and murderer Dell Klaten. He had seemed nice enough. His mannerisms were everything you can hope to expect when picking up a stranger: he was friendly enough to smile, polite enough to talk, and hygienic enough not to smell like several week old trash. Even as they had dropped him off at 6845 Corline Drive, the address that would soon be home to several cold, bloodied corpses, he had given a wink and closed the door himself.

Oh well, who were they to know.

Shortly after both passed away as they were caught in a storm upon a friends sail boat. Tragic.

Or at least this is what I've been told.