A man called Joe joined the passengers of the Hypersonic Express. They all were sure he was a homeless druggie and ignored him. He was dressed in rugged cargo pants two sizes too big and a stained white t-shirt. His untrimmed beard clung to his chest, and a receding hairline emphasized his long pockmarked face. He carried a camper’s backpack with a sleeping bag tied to the top, a canteen hanging from his belt, and odds and ends precariously hanging from the rest of his attire.

Joe ignored the people though he let his thoughts imagine what they thought of him in comparison to what he was. He was dirty, but didn’t do drugs. He was tired and had pockets under his eyes, but he wasn’t a drunk — though he did enjoy a good glass of wine. He had been on the road for several months now, but he wasn’t houseless — in fact his brother owned their late father’s ranch in Texas and had offered him a stay anytime. But Joe wasn’t the staying type, not that anyone cared. He wanted to see the world, one train at a time.

He continued to run through the list of stereotypes he’d heard: Dangerous. Illiterate. Irresponsible. He owned a switchblade but rarely used it for anything except to open cans of food. He didn’t own a phone, but he carried three large books in his bag: the Count of Monte Cristo, Don Quixote, and Plato’s Republic. And as for responsible, well, his father had also inherited the ranch and then drank himself to death, but not before having three kids from three different women. Joe considered himself lucky to have even made it through school, but he didn’t know what responsibility was. He wasn’t running from it though.

He was exploring. He thought of himself as an Indiana Jones, though with much less running from Nazis, and jumping from horses, and blowing up things. Now that he considered it, he didn’t even have a fedora. But he liked Harrison Ford, so the comparison worked.

The train stopped, and Joe stepped off. A young man exited with him. They walked along the station platform, and the youth moved to pass him. As he did so, the young man looked into Joe’s rugged face and said, “Good luck.” The older man was taken aback, both at the simple address and at the sincerity of the tone of voice, as if the youth actually hoped Joe found what he was searching for.

“Thanks,” replied Joe as they veered in opposite directions. And then he smiled and added a bit of a skip to his wandering walk.