Rolling Nowhere: Riding the Rails with America's Hoboes
by Ted Conover

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Book Reviews of Rolling Nowhere: Riding the Rails with America's Hoboes

Book Review: Sporadically interesting, eventually tiresome
Summary: 3 Stars

Conover is a talented writer who deftly captures the "romance" of the rails in ROLLING NOWHERE.

About the scenery from a boxcar: "A twisting chasm of waterfalls, spillways, gray rock, and isolated scrub trees hanging on to the canyon walls for dear life, the Feather River Canyon was inaccessible by car, but ... spectacular by freight train."

About the grunge: "Forrest ... scratched his scalp vigorously and pulled out a small something. He flicked it away with distaste toward the other side of the tree where I slept."

About the food: "I ... shared ravenously in the fare: a bottle of cold white port, a small, dirty Baggie of lettuce, and two brown bananas." But hey, the chow isn't all bad. Evidence gathered by Ted suggests that dumpster diving in back of KFCs after closing hour yields a feast of mashed potatoes and fried chicken. And I love fried chicken. ("Say, Hon, what are we doing for our wedding anniversary dinner?" Am I a romantic devil, or what?)

The author's youthful idealism is evident at the book's conclusion when he preaches for fairer treatment of hoboes by the society through which they wander. They are, after all, victims of the system. This is several pages after he describes his welcome of a fellow traveler trying to climb aboard his moving boxcar uninvited: "He was about to leap in when I set my boot down on his fingers, hard. With a yelp, he disappeared." A nice touch, don't you think?

While reading ROLLING NOWHERE, I was struck by the author's almost complete lack of humor in describing a journey that should have afforded more opportunities for such. This is a serious piece written in a deadpan style. I wish Ted had lightened up some. There were also so many instances of d?j? vu that I soon realized that I'd read this book before - probably back in the early 80's when first published. I need to write myself a note that twice is more than enough such that I don't pick it up again two decades from now. Instead, maybe I can find a book about vacationing in the garbage dumps of Calcutta.

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