wanted: wives for hoboes

My younger son, J, has a new obsession.

Hoboes.

He's always talking about these mythical "hoboes," riding the rails singing railroad songs, like the hobo in Pee Wee's Big Adventure. Every homeless guy he sees on the street is a hobo.

"But he's not on a train," I remind him.

"Well, that's ok. He's walking. And look, he's spitting too."

"Is that what hoboes do?"

"Yeah, they walk and spit a lot."

"Why do you think they walk a lot?"

"I dunno."

"Do you think perhaps they don't have anywhere to go?"

"Well, they don't live in houses."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. They don't have a wife, so they don't have a house."

"But couldn't they live by themselves, in a nicely furnished bachelor pad?"

"Too many questions, Mom."

I explain to him that perhaps, instead of jolly, singing hoboes, these dirty guys he sees pushing shopping carts around are really just homeless. They have problems, so they don't have jobs, they don't have money, and they don't have a home.

"Right. Because they don't have a wife to take care of them. Look, there's another one!" he yells happily. He wants me to roll the window down so he can say hi.