Life, 1916-04-27 · page 32 of 44
Life — April 27, 1916 — page 32: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a satirical story about class and social mobility. Two hobos—traveling illegally on a freight train—debate their fate. The larger man laments his poverty, blaming his circumstances on being born into a tenement rather than rural wealth. He envies a nearby farmer's automobile, marble bathrooms, and freedom from police harassment. The twist: the second hobo reveals he *was* born on that farm but chose the vagrant life anyway. The satire targets the "accident of birth" excuse—the idea that one's circumstances are entirely determined by where you're born. By showing a man who rejected privilege, McGarry suggests personal choices, not just birth, shape one's destiny. The accompanying illustration shows the hobo nearly struck by a train, darkly comedic commentary on his self-destructive lifestyle.
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HE larger of the two men who sat with dangling legs in the doorway of a box-car east bound over the flat, wind-swept Nebraska prairies was tell- ing the inevitable story of his life, and neither noticed the brakeman who squirmed through the small end door and crept up behind them. Instinct made the little man jump as his com- panion was propelled outward by the brakeman’s foot. Sprawled along the right of way, each busied himself hurl- ing a fluent string of profanity at the brakeman, the freight train and the railroad until the caboose had rattled by. A vast farm fringed the right of way for miles, and just opposite the point where the two landed was the house of its owner. It was a rambling, com- fortable-looking structure of stone and brick, fronted by a wide lawn dotted with well-kept flower beds. In the broad avenue circling past the front porch stood a big gray automobile. Beyond, as far as the eye could reach, stretched the fields of grain. “Gawd, this is lonesomie,” said the smaller man. “Thirty miles from a tank and nothing in sight but distance. When a man’s got money enough to own an outfit like this what's he want to live way out here for? Why don't he live in a town, 'stead of being a hayseed all his life?” The big man spat disgustedly. “Damn the town,” he said. “If this farmer ever got near a subway some- body'd lift all he’s got. He's wise to stay just where he is. I'll bet that house has marble shower baths and electric lights.” He passed his stubby fingers tender- ly over a long red scar on his head. “Why, say, bo,” he continued, “ for two cents I'd ask this here farmer for The Accident of Birth By William A. McGarry a job and go straight. Look at me. T never had a chance. I was born in a tenement up a side street, and I’ve been a bum all my life. Booze killed me in the ring. Take a slant at my head. That’s where a fellow took a shot at me when a coupla aces fell out of my sleeve. If I stop anywhere a bull taps me on the shoulder and I move on. Sometimes they take me in for luck and I get anything up to six months. Just on my face. Why? Be- éause I never got a breath of fresh air when I was a kid. My first job was picking pockets when it might ’a been fishin’ or doing chores round a farm. It’s what you call the accident o’ birth, “Now lookit this farmer. He's on the square. Nobody can give him or- ders. If he wants to go to a show he’s got his own machine to run into town. He can travel like a million- aire while you and me's riding side door Pullmans and gettin’ kicked off by a square-head shack. Lookit the dif- ference, an’ then tell me what that farmer ever did to deserve what he’s got ‘cept to do what he was taught-- same~as I did. If I'd been born on that farm I'd have a wad and a home of my own now. So would you,” The other man stood up and stretched himself. “The farmer's just crank up his machine,” he said. “ Say, bo, is that straight goods you pulled about asking him for a job?” “Sure thing,” said the big man, also rising. “Well, walk up there quick where the road crosses the track and ask him. Maybe you can land if he don’t see me. I'll duck. Fact is, I know the gink. He's my old man. I was born in that house.” AR < : Would Be Suicide (on wrong track) : HA! NOT AS PAINFUL AS I FEARED! comicbooks.com