Billie’s palms were perspiring as she started across the meadow into the neighborhood. She looked at the homes. Every house was different, some big, some small, some built in the last century, others new, and all had yards. Her first stop was a Victorian structure with a front porch and a swing in the yard. She walked up the steps, took a deep breath, and knocked.
A skinny, middle-aged woman with dyed black hair answered the door. “What is it?”
“I was wondering if you could use help, ma’am.”
“No, go on with you. I’m sick of you bums!” she barked and slammed the door.
Billie walked down the steps. That didn’t go well. She tried four more houses on the block, and the answer was the same.
Obviously, the area had been saturated, so she decided to try houses blocks away from the railroad tracks. All day long, she went from house to house. No one wanted help. By late afternoon, Billie was getting scared. Would she have to sleep outside tonight? All she had were the two blankets in which she had wrapped her belongings. She knew, once the sun set, the air would turn frosty.
She noticed a boy in the neighborhood looking for work too. He was dressed in a shabby overcoat, and his shoes were bound with twine. When he saw Billie, he bolted across the street, thrust his face into hers, and barked, “You workin’ my area?” He pushed her.
Billie was stunned. “No! What do you mean?”
“I mean get the hell out! That’s what I mean! This is my district.” He swept his arm in a wide circle.
As he glared at her from under his shabby hat, Billie realized it was a girl. She had a mean, masculine face and heavy eyebrows. Short and stocky, she moved like a boy but had the heavy bosom of a female.
“You can work the houses three blocks from here, but you’ll need to pay me first,” she said.
“I don’t have any money.”
“Oh, ya?” the girl replied and grabbed one of Billie’s bundles.
“Hey!”
She opened it, dumped it on the ground, and began picking through the clothes. When she was done, she took Billie’s other bundle, ripped it open, and found the sandwiches. Like an animal, she began to stuff them into her mouth, barely chewing. When Billie tried to grab the food from her, she punched her in the shoulder.
Billie jumped back.
“Here,” the girl said. “I’ll allow you one.” She tossed her the last sandwich.
Billie took it, gathered up her belongings, and started away, rubbing her shoulder.
The girl belched loudly and yelled, “Where are you sleepin’ tonight?”
Billie ignored her.
“Looks like rain.”
Billie looked up. The sky was clouding over.
“If you come back with money, I’ve got a dry spot for you to sleep. Meet me here at sunset.”
Billie never found work or made any money the rest of the day, and even if she had, she would not have met the girl. That night, she slept in the heavy underbrush by the tracks, shivering endlessly. Before sunrise, it started to drizzle. At first, the trees sheltered her, but eventually, the wet began to saturate her blanket.
Thoroughly miserable and homesick, Billie wandered through the neighborhood the next morning, still looking for work. She tried six houses. Everyone turned her away. At the seventh house, a man leaned out a window and asked, “May I help you?”
Billie could see the high back of his wheelchair.
“I was looking for work, sir.”
“I don’t have anything, but my mother’s yard needs raking. She’s three doors down.”
“Thank you!” Billie exclaimed and started down the steps.
“Wait a moment,” he said and handed her some change.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much!”
The rest of the day, Billie did yard work for the man’s elderly mother. She raked, trimmed, cut back plants, and put things away for winter.
“Here,” the gray-haired woman said to Billie at midday. She was standing at the back door, holding a bowl. “Have some of this.”
Billie thought she would faint when she smelled the stew. She sat on the steps and gobbled it up, along with a thick slice of bread. With food in her belly and the sun drying her off, she began to feel better.
At the end of the day, when the woman paid her, she said, “It is going snow tonight, dear. There’s a mission downtown. I suggest you go there.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Billie replied.
The woman was right. By the time Billie got to the tracks, it had clouded up and was snowing.
“You sleepin’ outside tonight?” she heard someone say. It was the girl again.
Billie kept walking, staring straight ahead.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” she yelled, running up. “You’ll freeze to death if you sleep outside.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Billie replied and continued.
“I’ll show ya how to jump a freight. We’ll go down south. For a price.”
“No.”
Suddenly, the girl grabbed Billie by the hair, yanked her around, and smashed her in the face with a closed fist.
Billie stumbled backward, stunned.
“Save me the trouble of beating the shit out of you. Give me your money, and I tell ya how to survive.”
Billie’s head was spinning, and her lip was bleeding. She was scared.
“I know you worked today, so hand it over.”
Billie reached in her pocket and handed her the money.
The girl counted it while Billie picked up her bundle. Her face was throbbing, and she felt sick to her stomach.
When Billie started to walk away, the girl grabbed her arm. “Not so fast, you stupid shit. Here’s how it’s gonna be. You still look green, so people will feel bad and give you work. You make the money, and I’ll show you how to stay alive.”
Billie stared at her.
“You’re scared of me, ain’t ya?” The girl laughed. She was missing teeth. “I had to knock some sense into you. I won’t hit you again.”
Billie knew that was a lie. She put her hand to her bloody lip, considering her options. She could go to the mission downtown, but they might send her back to the boarding school. She could sleep outside, but she could freeze to death. She could travel alone, but she may come across a man like Withers. Frowning, she said, “All right.”
The girl thrust out a dirty hand, and Billie took it.
“The name’s Dottie. The boys call me ‘Dago Dot’.”
“I’m Billie,” she mumbled.
“Once you’re on the road, you’ll get a nickname too.” She looked at Billie’s dark hair. “You a wop like me?”
“A what?”
“A wop, a dago.”
Billie didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Italian!” the girl barked. “Are you Italian?”
If anyone knew she was Indian, they would send her back to St. Matthews, so she said, “No, I’m French.”
“Oh, ya. Frogs is dark too. You got black hair like me.” Dot pulled off her hat. Her head was shaved but covered with dark stubble. “You should shave your head too, or you’ll pick up cooties. Come on,” she said and started down the tracks.
They returned to the rail yard, where Billie had started. Dot swaggered over and started talking to a man in a dark blue uniform, one of the railroad workers. He nodded his head and pointed.
She came back and said, “A southbound is headed out on those tracks in an hour. Most railroad workers are your friends. They’ll tell you what time and where the freights is goin’.”
“They don’t care?”
“Most of ‘em don’t. It’s the dicks you have to watch out for.”
“Who?”
“Some call ‘em bulls. They’re the railroad police. If they catch ya, they’ll beat the shit out of ya then throw ya in jail.” Dot looked around the yard. “We got an hour. Just long enough for me to get something to drink. Stay here. I’ll be back.”
Billie watched her
approach two different workers. When they heard what she said, they turned their backs to her. The third man was a burly teamster in a work shirt and overalls. He ran his eyes over the rail yard and ducked down an alley with her.
Billie watched them disappear out of sight. She wondered where they had gone.
Sitting down on the curb, she pulled out her cracked mirror and looked at her face. Thanks to Dot, her lip was purple and swollen, and her cheek was bruised. She stuffed the mirror back into her pack and yanked out a sandwich the elderly woman had made for her. Billie wanted to eat it before Dot grabbed it.
Just as she took the last bite, Dot and the teamster emerged from the alley. Billie saw him hand her something from the floor of his truck.
When Dot walked up, she opened her coat and showed Billie a pint of whiskey. “Gettin’ your knees dirty is a good way to get bootleg.”
Billie was about to ask what she meant by “gettin’ your knees dirty” then stopped as the image took shape in her mind. She remembered the girls whispering and giggling about it at school.
After Dot bought bread, cheese, and ham at the farmer’s market with Billie’s money, they followed the tracks out of town. Even though Dot was husky and strong, she was a head shorter than Billie. At last, they sat down in the brush.
“We wait here,” Dot said and took a pull of the whiskey. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and said, “Now here’s how it works, greenhorn. The yard is only safe late at night when no cinder dicks is around. During daylight, we catch our trains on the fly.”
“On the fly?”
“While it’s moving.”
Billie’s eyes grew wide.
Dot laughed, took another drink, and said, “Scares the shit outta ya, doesn’t it? Well, don’t worry. The train will be runnin’ slow along here. We have to wait for a boxcar that has a door open. If it was warmer, we could just grab a ladder on the side and ride up top, but it’s too cold. Today, we ride inside. Now listen close. You gotta plan your run at the car. The path has to be good, even ground. Many a hobo has been killed stumbling on something and falling under the wheels. I know one guy who was climbing a ladder and was caught by a mail hook—he was ripped to shreds.”
“How do you get up into the boxcar?” Billie asked, frowning. “They’re high up.”
“I’ll go first, and you run behind me. After I’m up, throw your bindle to me, and then I’ll help pull ya up.”
The roadbed of the track started to vibrate heavily, and there was a sudden blast from a train horn. Dot took one last gulp of whiskey, put the bottle into her coat, and said, “Now we watch. Be ready.”
The engine chugged towards them. The girls crouched in the brush and waited.
“Stay down until I tell ya,” Dot said.
The train lumbered past with flat cars, cattle cars, and boxcars, all with closed doors. The clatter was deafening. Then an old red, wood-framed boxcar came into view. It had an open door.
“There!” Dot shouted, standing up. In a flash, she was out of the brush and chasing it, her coattails flapping perilously close to the wheels.
Billie’s heart jumped into her throat, and she ran behind her, the roar of the train filling her ears.
Dot reached the boxcar, put her palms down on the floor and hoisted herself up. Dropping her torso down, she whirled around on her stomach, brought her legs into the car, and extended her hand to Billie. “Come on!” she hollered.
Billie was straining to keep up. The train was gaining speed. She threw her pack, and Dot caught it, tossing it inside. Extending her hand again, Dot roared, “Hurry up, damn it!”
Billie reached up, and Dot clamped onto her forearm. She felt her feet leave the ground as Dot yanked her into the air. She threw one leg up on the floor of the car and then the other. She was onboard! Billie rolled away from the door, gasping for air.
“You’re slower ‘en hell, but you did it!” Dot exclaimed. Panting, she slid back against the wall and took another slug of whiskey.
Billie started laughing. She had never felt such a thrill. She had done it, and she was proud of herself. Once she caught her breath, she asked, “By the way, where are we going?”
Dot belched and said, “Nawlins.”
“Where?”
“New Orleans, you stupid shit.”
Chapter 7
Dot said it would take many days to get to Louisiana on the freight, and for Billie, it was worth it. She had shelter from the snow and rain, food to eat, and with each mile, the temperature grew warmer. Nevertheless, riding in the boxcar was not like the bus. Billie was sore from bouncing on the hard floor, and it was drafty. Dot put a wedge in the door, so they would not get locked inside, and the wind whistled relentlessly through the crack. When the train stopped at night, they could get out to relieve themselves, but during the day, they had to use an enamelware pot.
“How did you come to ride the rails?” Billie asked Dot the first day.
“You don’t never ask a ‘bo that question,” she replied and spit in the corner.
Billie adjusted the blanket around her shoulders. “Why not?”
“Every one of us got pasts. Things we’d rather forget. And a lot of ‘bos is on the run from the law. All kinds of folks ride the rails for all kinds of reasons. I’m surprised we’re alone in this side-door Pullman. This time a year, everyone’s heading south.”
On the second night, Billie was awakened by the door sliding open. Startled, she sat up. The train had stopped. In the dim light, she could see the figure of a man climb into the boxcar.
“Howdy,” she heard Dot say.
“Evening,” he replied.
The train jerked into motion, and he closed the door.
Throwing his pack in one corner, the man sat down and lit a cigarette. The match illuminated his face. Billie saw he was a good-looking man, clean shaven with curly brown hair. He was wearing a flat cap, had on trousers and a plaid mackinaw jacket. Billie thought he looked too well-dressed to be hoboing.
“Where ya headed?” Dot asked, the motion of the train swaying them back and forth.
“Greenville—see my mother.”
She nodded.
He offered nothing more, so they rode in silence until the stop an hour later. The man picked up his pack, opened the door, and jumped out. “Night,” he said and walked off.
“That’s it? That’s all the farther he rides?” Billie asked.
“Yup,” Dot replied, sliding the door shut. “Not everyone who rides the rails is hoboing. This guy’s just takin’ a short run. Probably doesn’t want to pay the fair for a passenger train. Sometimes you’ll get rich bastards riding just for fun. Sometimes you get whole families on the move, sometimes preachers lookin’ for converts. You can ask where ya goin’ or where’s the work but never ask nothin’ about their pasts.”
At sunset the next day, they arrived in New Orleans.
“First thing we do is find a jungle,” Dot said as they walked the tracks. She reached into her pack and pulled out a crushed loaf of bread. “We have to offer sumptin if we want to go into their camp. I stashed this away.”
Stiff and sore, Billie looked around. The rail yard was massive, surrounded by blocks of warehouses bordering the Mississippi. Billie was astonished that this was the same river that ran through the small town of Little Falls back home. The weather here was warm and humid, a far cry from the cold and snow in the north.
“No jungles around here,” Dot said. “Too busy. We gotta get out a ways.”
They followed the tracks into the neighborhoods. Everything was so different here. Shacks and shotgun dwellings sat next to old townhouses that had been, at one time, elegant quadroon residences. Now, they were faded and moldy, the lacy wrought-iron balconies sagging with age.
And everywhere there was the sound of jazz, rolling out of jukeboxes, seedy saloons, or radios. Billie spotted musicians on the street playing saxophones or trumpets. And the accents and languages she heard astounded her.
“Is everyone
here colored?” she asked.
“There’s lots in this town,” Dot replied. “But we’re near the tracks. The whites are other places.” At last, Dot pointed to a bonfire. “That’s a hobo jungle. We’ll start there.”
Billie followed her down the berm to a camp where five shabbily dressed men were seated on logs around a fire. Clothes hung on lines, and pork rinds sizzled in a frying pan. They were passing a bottle and smoking cigarettes.
Dot thrust out her chest and swaggered up to them. “Evenin’ boys. Willing to share your fire? My girl here is a real hard worker, and she can do dishes, laundry, or cook for you.”
There was no response.
Dot held up the loaf of bread. “Don’t ya think some toast would go swell with those rinds?”
The man closest to Dot reached into his pocket, pulled out a wooden kitchen match, and handed it to her.
“Much obliged,” she said and walked off. A few steps away, she mumbled, “Assholes. They gave us the match.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means go build your own fire. Sometimes, ‘bos don’t want females at their fires. They’re afraid of trouble. Men get crazy around girls. Come on. We’ll find something better.”
The next jungle was much larger. It was like a small hamlet with shacks, tents, and scrap wood shelters. Billie counted six fires.
Dot started over with her familiar swagger. Billie wondered if this cocky attitude helped or hindered their chances. She hated the way Dot offered her up for work as if she was her own personal attendant.
“Howdy,” Dot said to one of the men. “Can you tell me where to find the mayor?”
The man puffed on the butt of a cigar and said, “Third fire down.”
Billie had never been around so many men, and she started pushing her hair up into her hat.
“Don’t even bother,” Dot said. “Pretending you’re not a girl won’t keep you safe. There’s plenty a men that like boys just as much girls.”
They wound their way through the jungle. The men seldom looked up. They talked quietly amongst themselves, passing the bottle, playing dice, or staring at the fire. Billie felt her stomach rumble when she smelled potatoes frying.
The Image Seeker Page 6
