Howard and I finally got a train,

At about 9:50 this morning.

This was about an hour after I had to appear in court, but it was the best I could do, under the circumstances.

The circumstances are that Howard has taken to following my every move. He may think that I know so much about being homeless, that he should study my behaviour and model himself after me by following in my footsteps, literally.

While looking for a train with an open boxcar all Sunday afternoon, we walked a pretty good distance. One conductor told me that a train was to leave for New Orleans at 4 p.m.

In order to be in the best possible position for selecting a car, we walked about 3 miles from this library, into the railyard, and then sat and waited. Howard dragged his feet the whole way, and had his blankets clutched in his arms.

The 4 o' clock train was either late, or snuck by us somehow, on another set of tracks.

We spent the whole night in another spot, where I had hopped before, hoping that a train would stop right in front of us with a boxcar's door yawning open for us.

I am starting to think that Howard expects to follow me all the way to California, if that should be my destination.

He has a habit of watching me. At almost any given minute, I can look up from what I'm doing and catch him just standing there, watching what I am doing, even if it is tying my shoe.

Every time I move, I draw his attention.

I was brushing my hair the other morning, and Howard was watching me brush my hair. It makes me feel self conscious. He was watching me eat olives and feta cheese, after I came out of the Winn Dixie.

I had forgotten to get a plastic fork, so I was kind of drinking the olives and feta cheese and olive oil out of the container, while Howard was transfixed by the whole spectacle. At one point, an olive escaped my mouth and fell on the sidewalk. "Woops," said Howard.

I don't really need a play by play announcer, Howard. I felt like saying.

He is following me around, expecting me to lead him to the promised land for the homeless, or something; I don't know.

The fact that he has been almost deaf his whole life, probably means that he grew up outside the company of the mainstream kids; the one's who didn't shout at each other.

Still, it is trying my patience to have to answer questions like "Did you get yourself some lunch?" which is what he asked me, after I had stepped out of Winn Dixie, with a bag of food, which I started to take out in preparation for eating it.

I know it's a rhetorical question, but, the snide side of me wanted to say "No, this isn't me!!"