Why do people ride the rails?
Some say it’s the sights. If you’re on a freight train, you see things you never noticed before—faces, factories, chimneys. Beyond them, the world stretches off in the distance, waiting to be discovered.
Some say it’s the smells. One man claimed to love cinder and smoke. He wore them on his clothes like a badge. I didn’t believe it though. The smells I remembered were stale urine, spoiled food, and people who needed a bath.
Some say it’s the taste or touch. When you’re hungry and alone, half a sandwich can seem like a feast. A pat on the shoulder lasts for days.
For me, it was the sounds—the click of the rails, the clang of a crossing, the shriek of the whistle going around the bend. It was music, train music. I heard it for the first time as I stood in the boxcar door that morning, watching the trees go by.
We traveled north and west into Virginia, across Clinch Mountain, through Hamilton Gap, over Big Moccasin Creek. Just the names got me excited. Bill recited them as they went by. He told me he was headed for a little town called Mendota, to find his wife.
“I left a year ago looking for work,” he said. “That’s why I was in Bristol. I went to the lumber mill, but they turned me away. It was the same most places. No jobs. I’d been planning to send money home to my wife, but recently when I’ve written to her, the letters have been returned and not opened.”
“Where do you think she went?” I asked.
“That’s what I aim to find out.”
I thought of Mama, Daddy, and Arnie. “Do you have any children?”
“None, thank God.” He caught himself. “No offense. How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” I lied.
“It’s hardest on the kids,” he said. “I see them hopping freight trains—sixteen, fifteen, some no more than twelve. They’ve got no place to go, at home or on the road.” He looked me over. “You’re new to this. Riding the rails.”
I nodded.
“Two pieces of advice,” he said. “If there’s something you can’t afford to lose, put it in your shoes. Don’t take it out. That’s for emergencies. And if you walk on top of a train, always face the front, so you’ll see what’s coming. Otherwise the curves will catch you by surprise and throw you off. Oh, and one other thing. Don’t let ’em call you a bum. You’re a hobo.”
I glanced around at the boxcar and the scenery flying by. “A hobo. Yeah, I guess that fits.”
He grunted. “Welcome to the club.”
I was riding the rails, part of a club I’d never thought about.
“Where you headed?” asked Bill.
“Anyplace.”
“So it’s like that.”
“I could get off at Mendota,” I said.
He shook his head. “The police there don’t like strangers. But if you go a few more stops, you hit Gate City. I stopped there once. You could stay at the jungle.”
I must have had a funny expression on my face, because he chuckled.
“That’s what they call it,” he told me. “It’s a camp for hoboes. Head for the railroad yard, and turn right at the creek. You’ll see it.”
Suddenly I saw danger in Bill’s eyes. He took my arm and hustled me to the back of the car, away from the door and into the shadows. The others were already there, huddled in a corner. We heard the clomp of work boots on the roof. A moment later someone climbed down the ladder, glanced inside, and then left.
We were quiet for a while longer, then Bill said in a soft voice, “That was a brakeman. They check, but not often and not very well. If you stay out of sight, you’ll be fine.”
We moved back by the door and into the sunlight. Bill told me how he had met his wife and gotten married. I wondered if I would ever marry. It seemed like normal things didn’t happen to me. There were just crazy things, like people who barked and fights with my father.
Before long, I felt the train slow down. Bill looked out the door.
“This is where I get off,” he said. He picked up his pack and gripped my shoulder. “Be careful,” he said.
I smiled. “Hope you find her.”
He hopped off while the train was still moving, to avoid the railroad yard and the bulls. Looking back, he shot me a grin and a little salute. Then he was gone.
***
I must have fallen asleep, because when I looked up, the train was moving again. The sun was high and the car was empty.
I thought of Bill and the others and wondered if they’d been real. Maybe I had dreamed them. Maybe they were a band of angels, like Daddy preached about from the Bible, sent down to hoist me onto the train and give me travel tips. Remembering Bill’s tip, I took the money from my wallet, flattened it, and put it inside my shoe.
The train chugged into the mountains. Suddenly I was tired of crouching in a boxcar and seeing the world framed by a door. Leaning out, I saw a metal ladder going up the side of the car. It reminded me of what Bill had said about walking on top of the train. Part of me was frightened by the idea, but another part was excited. I imagined myself standing on top of the train, arms spread out like I was flying.
I put on my backpack, then took a deep breath and stepped onto the bottom rung of the ladder. The wind whipped by. I steadied myself, gripping the ladder. Rung by rung, I made my way up, making sure that first my hands were in place, then my feet. Finally I pulled myself on top of the car. Standing up, I turned slowly and carefully, taking in the view. It stretched from horizon to horizon, with earth on the bottom and heaven on top. The world was huge and I was hurtling into it.
I started walking, careful to go toward the front, the way Bill had told me to. At first it was hard to keep my balance, but soon I got used to the rocking motion. I imagined it must be something like walking on a boat.
Each time the train reached a curve, I stopped and braced myself, feet wide, leaning forward, then started walking again. When I came to the end of a car, I would sit down, reach forward to the next car, and pull myself across. I got pretty good at it after a while. The train moved, and I moved with it. It was like a living thing, a long metal snake, something Arnie might appreciate.
As I walked, I saw a mountain ahead. The train was moving straight toward it. I stopped and waited, expecting the train to turn aside, but it kept going. The train pounded the rails. The mountain loomed, filling the sky.
Then I saw it. There was a hole in the side of the mountain. It swallowed the train, car by car. The mountain rushed forward. The hole grew. It was a tunnel, deep and dark and bigger by the second.
As I stared, the top of the tunnel rushed toward me, chest high. Gasping, I threw myself onto the roof of the car. Rock hurtled by, inches from my backpack. Smoke billowed and thickened.
The world went black.