Antkind

by Charlie Kaufman

No one can know the trouble he’s seen, certainly not I, with my milk-white skin and my degree from Harvard, which I went to. Sure I have tramped, ridden the rails, lived in a hobo jungle, but that was part of a summer program at The New School, sanctioned by Union Pacific, our hobo jungles simulated, the hobos improvisational actors from Upright Citizens Brigade. Granted it gave us the flavor of the rootless life, but there was at least a hint of a safety net. When Derek Wilkinson had an allergic reaction one day during hobo luncheon (the beans had been prepared in a factory that processed nut products), there was a nurse (dressed as a yard bull) with an EpiPen at the ready. One can assume that an actual hobo with a nut allergy would be on his own in such dire circumstances. Or her own. The assumption of male gender in hobos has hindered the dreams of more female hobos than I as a white man can imagine. Perhaps it is best to refer to all hobos as thon.