“Every man gets his callin’. Some answer with a necktie. Others answer with a possum and a stick.”
This morning started like any other—woke up in a busted kiddie pool behind a shuttered Dollar General, mouth tasting like raccoon dreams and menthol gum. The pigeons were arguing over religion again. Normal stuff.
But then came Him. A man in a torn pinstripe suit, loafers scuffed to hell, hair slicked back like he lost a fight with a hedge fund and a leaf blower. Said his name was Carter, though he didn’t look like he believed it anymore.
Turns out Carter used to be a big shot broker—“derivatives,” “shorting,” “margin calls”—all words that sound like spells cast by an evil librarian. He lost everything last fall in what he called The Great Jalapeño ETF Collapse. I nodded solemnly, as if I knew what that meant.
He told me, “Harry, you ever think about getting off the rails? Doing something… stable? Like asset management?”
I told him I once managed a colony of sewer possums. Closest I ever came to stability was duct-taping a hammock between two moving boxcars. He laughed, but not the happy kind. The kind that sounds like his soul was trying to sneak out the back door.
But later that day, I started thinkin’.
What if I did leave the bindle life behind? Trade the trashfire for a desk? Instead of consultin’ beans and raccoons, maybe I could analyze spreadsheets. Wear a tie. Have a favorite brand of coffee. Yell at interns. Die in a conference room.
I imagined myself in an office tower, typing confidently into a keyboard, giving presentations to terrified clients. Maybe even gettin’ a nameplate. “Hobo Harry, Senior Risk Whisperer.” A raccoon in a tiny suit would be my assistant. We’d invest in dreams and junk bonds.
But then Blaze wandered up carrying a traffic cone full of oatmeal and said, “You smell like existential crisis and Febreze. What’s goin’ on?”
I told him about Carter. About the temptation.
He looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Harry, if you worked in finance, who’d interpret omens in the pigeon droppings? Who’d speak truth to the soup cans? Who’d teach the raccoons jazz?”
And I knew. My place ain’t behind a desk. It’s under a bridge, beside a whispering fire, sippin’ rainwater from a ladle shaped like Abraham Lincoln’s ghost.
Final Thought of the Day:
Temptation comes in all forms. Money. Power. Briefcases full of old bagels. But you gotta ask yourself: would a cubicle ever let you howl at the moon in your underpants without an HR meeting?
Stay free,
—Hobo Harry, CPA (Certified Pigeon Astrologer)
Hobo Harry
Location: Variable (usually west of the freight yard, under the good bridge)
Contact: Yell real loud or leave a note under the third trash can on Elm
LinkedIn: Deactivated due to “philosophical disagreements”
Objective:
To secure a fulfilling position in the financial sector where my extensive experience in barter economics, trash fire negotiations, and mystical bean forecasting can contribute to bold market strategies and vaguely ominous results.
Skills:
- Asset Foraging: Can locate high-value goods in low-opportunity zones (alleys, dumpsters, dreams).
- Trend Prediction: Reads economic fluctuations via raccoon behavior and bean can patterns.
- Team Leadership: Led a cross-species startup commune under a railroad bridge (2017–2023).
- Crisis Management: Successfully de-escalated a flaming soup pot riot during the Winter of Bad Cheese.
- Public Speaking: Regularly delivers philosophical monologues to crows, often applauded.
Experience:
Itinerant Mystic & Freelance Prophet
Independent, 2005–Present
- Forecasted six correct full moons and one raccoon uprising with uncanny accuracy.
- Provided emotional support and business advice to struggling hedge fund managers in alleyways.
- Operated a traveling one-crate investment seminar titled “BOIL or BUY: A Hobo’s Guide to Asset Heat.”
Barter Facilitator / Bridge-Based Merchant
Boxcar Market Cooperative, 2011–2019
- Traded hand-knitted rats for soup futures.
- Invented the first squirrel-backed currency, briefly accepted in three states.
- Negotiated peace between rival hobos using only harmonica solos.
Education:
University of Life (Major: Getting By, Minor: Moon Lore)
Graduated with honors after surviving three winters and a brief cult detour.
Certifications:
- Certified in Trash Fire Meditation
- Licensed (by himself) to Practice Pigeon Astrology
- Completed 14 of 30 classes in “Finance for People Who Smell Like Campfire” (online course, expired)
References:
- Jasper the Raccoon, personal assistant and occasional translator
- Blaze, associate hobo and co-founder of “Dumpster Dow Futures”
- That One Mailman, who said I was “unusually polite for a lunatic”
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