VI. The Road to Hooverville

Fallon and Murray had a 1932 Ford Model B that had, like just about everything on the road, seen better days. Hathorne rode in the back, next to a pair of guitar cases and about twenty pounds of crumpled paperwork. Fallon drove and Murray folded himself into the passenger seat; Hathorne guessed the man was about six foot three, but he couldn't be more than a hundred and forty pounds. He had a coat like Hathorne's, but made of dark brown leather and decidedly civilian in origin.

It was twenty minutes' ride to Hooverville, giving Hathorne time to better examine his new companions. Fallon was animated and talkative, talking and gesturing with his free hand most of the time he was driving. In the diner Hathorne would have put Fallon at about thirty-seven years old, but that didn't sit quite right in the light of day--Fallon certainly didn't look over forty, but something about him felt older to Hathorne.

Jim Murray was a strange creature, no doubt about that. Besides being generally shaped like a flagpole, he had a full beard clipped short and long hair, all of it silver, spilling out from under a brown hat that was too droopy to be a cowboy hat. He had nodded a greeting to Hathorne when they'd met up, but had otherwise stayed silent. Murray could have been a bad forty or a good sixty; Hathorne suspected he was closer to the latter.

"So, Rev, you served in the War, eh?" asked Fallon.

"Yep. Army medical corps."

"Hm. Figured you'd be a chaplain or something."

"No, though I did try to steer those under my care toward Christ whenever I could. I've got a degree in surgery, so when I asked to be in the medical corps. they didn't turn me down, even though I was little older than what they're used to."

"You're a doctor too, eh?"

"Mm-hm. Ordained in 1898, licensed in 1902."

"Pretty impressive, sir. You know, you never did tell me what exactly you're a minister of."

"Presbyterian." Hathorne chuckled briefly. "My story's not all that different from yours. I started out all the way in Baltimore, but I've been heading west ever since. Trying to get a good look at the country I've nearly died for a dozen times."

"Over in Europe, eh?" said Fallon. Hathorne nodded. "Yeah, I went over there, too. Nearly got my head shot off by the damn Krauts too many times to remember. This bastard--" Fallon pointed at Murray. "He was too old to fight in the Great War, and flat-footed besides!"

Murray nodded solemnly.

"How old are you boys?" asked Hathorne.

"Us? Older'n we look. Myself, I'm forty-one. Old Jim here, well--"

"Old." said Murray.

"How old?" said Hathorne. "When you give me an answer like that, it just makes me more curious, you know."

"Jim's a little self conscious about his age. You gotta understand, times like these, people see their babies starvin', they don't look so kindly on folks that make it too long. Just let it rest that Jim here's older'n either of us."

I doubt that very much. thought Hathorne.