by Ed Rehkopf
violence. He had seen a great many things, but he had never seen a tramp cry.
Not that there hadn't been plenty of times when he wanted to, when the loneliness of the rails tore at him like some vicious railyard bull. When he felt that bad, there was nothing to do but drink himself to sleep. Tomorrow would come with another set of problems to occupy your mind. But it always seemed worse at night when you were dead tired from another day of survival. Then, sitting around the fire, looking into the flames, all that loneliness came back again.
He wondered whether the others felt that way or was it just him. But it wasn't a question you asked of a tramp. They didn't offer much that was personal and that was about as personal a question as you could ask. So he just watched them at night around the fires. You could read their faces and their eyes and you could see their misery.
Once in a while someone would get too much in 'em and start talking about his life before the rails. It was startling to hear the stories of left wives and children. It was amazing to hear the many ways a life can be ruined. Sometimes the stories were so outrageous you didn't know if they were bullshit or what. But always the next morning the loose talker would be tighter than an old prude's pucker. He'd keep to himself and wouldn't look anyone in the eye. You could just feel his shame. Showing any feeling that came close to caring about anybody or anything was the greatest mistake you could make. It showed you were weak. And while anybody with a toot of sense must know there wasn't a weaker bunch of men on the face of the earth, it just didn't do to go showing it to everyone.
Charlie was still going on and on, but he was becoming incoherent and Junior was only showing an interest for the sake of the wine. He even winked at Truck to show he wasn't being taken in by Charlie's bull.
Truck was irritated by the wink. Sure Charlie was drunk, but he was a loyal buddy, always ready to share with a stranger. Hell, if it weren't for Charlie's generosity, he would have told Junior to keep hiking last week when he came into their camp late at night. Now here he was guzzling Charlie's wine and making fun of him at the same time. He watched Junior tilt the bottle back for another marathon pull.
"Give me the damned bottle," he growled at the younger man. "Son, you better learn to respect your elders, even when they're drunk." Truck poured a healthy measure into his metal cup. He tossed it back and poured another. If Charlie was too drunk to finish it, he'd be damned if he'd leave it for the kid.
Junior was surprised by Truck's outburst. He couldn't understand what made these two so touchy. He got up to relieve himself.
"Go scrounge some firewood while you’re up," Truck called after him. By his tone of voice Junior knew this wasn't a request.
Truck turned to Charlie. The old man stared sad-eyed into the fire. He started softly, "Charlie, I got to be goin' soon." He let that sink in and continued, "I hope you understand I ain't goin' cause of you. It's just somethin' I got to do. This life ain't for me no more." He watched Charlie staring at the fire.
The old man finally spoke, "What the hell's so important about the train tonight? Why don't you wait another day or two?"
"That's just it, Charlie, I been waitin' another day or two for the better part of my life. Waitin' don't solve nothin'." He paused a moment, reflecting, and then continued. "No, my mind's made up, now's the time for ol' Truck. I wish you'd understand."
Charlie just shook his head silently. Truck took another drink from his cup. Far to the north he heard the first distant wail of the approaching southbound.
"That'd be your train." Charlie lapsed into silence. After a long moment he went on, "Just what is it you plan on doin' down south? You think you'll be any happier there?"
"I don't know," Truck answered truthfully. He finished his cup of Honeydew. The train whistle sounded closer. "Well, Charlie, this is it ol' buddy." Truck stood up and found he wasn't too steady on his feet. "Thanks for everything," he said.
Charlie sat without moving, staring into the fire. "Come on, Charlie, don't be like this. We've been too far together to part like this."
"Here," Charlie said, holding the bottle up to Truck, "we'll have one more together like ol' times." Truck smiled at the old man and let Charlie pour the sticky-sweet wine into his cup.
"To your health," Truck offered, swaying back and forth.
"To your happiness," Charlie answered softly, looking back at the fire. They both drank off the rest of the wine. The train whistle sounded nearer. "She's jus' comin' into town now," Charlie said.
"Yeah, I got to hurry." Truck began gathering his things, stuffing them in his coat pockets. Junior came back with a load of scrap lumber.
"You leavin'?" he asked Truck.
"Yeah, boy, I gotta go. That’s the last train tonight." He turned to Charlie once more and said, "So long, Charlie. Take care, now."
Charlie lifted his hand in a sullen wave, but his eyes never left the fire.
Truck started out toward the tracks that ran south out of town. From behind he heard Charlie yell, "Don't leave, you dumb bastard!" His voice sounded like a choked sob.
As Truck stumbled away from the campfire, he realized that as close as he and Charlie had been, he had never seen him lose control. "That must be the Honeydew talkin'," he thought.
To the north Truck could hear the insistent wail of the whistle as the train came through town. He better hurry if he was going to make it. He ran through the field, the tall grass tearing at his flapping coat. His ankles turned on the old furrows, making it difficult to run.
Moving as fast as he could, his mouth hung open and he smelled his wine breath in his face. In his chest he could feel his heart pounding like a persistent bill collector.
At the edge of the field, he stumbled and fell down into the wooded ravine. He felt a stab of pain on his arm, muttered aloud, got up and started off through the brambles and vines. In the ravine it was so dark he could barely see. But he rushed ahead holding his arms up to keep the branches out of his face. The shrill cry of the train grew louder and he heard the low rumble of the diesels.
He stumbled forward and fell into the filthy stream that oozed through the ravine. “Shit!” he thought, “I'm soaked through. I'll freeze near to death in those old boxcars." He smelled the pungent odor of organic rot and chemical waste. He tried to stand but lost balance and fell back again into the stagnant mess. He looked up and saw the engine's light coming around the wide turn toward the straightaway above the ravine.
He stood again and with a frantic resolve started to run through the swampy muck. With each step his feet sank deeper into the rot. He lost a shoe, but kept on going. He was determined to catch the train. He'd be damned if he'd wait another day to head out. Finally he saw the embankment ahead of him, now partially illuminated by the lead engine's beam. As he scrambled up the steep incline of cinder and rock, the engines rumbled by picking up speed. He fell again, tearing his pants and cutting his knee. Hand over hand he clambered up the slope. He reached the top and could barely stand from exhaustion and the weight of his soggy clothes. Car after car rumbled by punctuated by the piercing metallic shriek of wheels on rail.
He took a deep breath, gathered his energy and started to run toward the accelerating train. The jagged cinders tore into his bare foot. "Christ," he thought, "am I gonna make it?" Looking over his shoulder, he saw the lights of the caboose looming close behind. It was now or never. He picked out the hulking shape of a boxcar and went toward it, jumping the parallel track. He moved as fast as his tired, drunk body would carry him. But the train was moving faster. “I gotta get a hand on the ladder of this car," he thought.
As he came alongside the car, he could feel the breeze of its movement and felt the ground rumbling under him. With both hands extended, he lunged at the ladder, aiming for the metal tread. Catching it with one hand, the speed of the train yanked him off his feet. He swung around banging his head on the car as he grabbed with his other hand. He felt both h
ands firmly on the ladder and knew he'd made it. Flushed with a sense of success, he smiled to himself and thought, "Yessir, ol' Truck's caught his train."
But as he tried to pull up, he found he had no strength. His arms wouldn't respond. The big boxcar swayed from side to side rumbling down the track. Truck hung on for all he was worth. Beneath him he could see the blur of dark ties racing past his feet. He rested a moment and tried to pull up again. For the first time he began to feel fear. He just didn't have any strength. "It must be the damned Honeydew," he thought. He was determined to stay aboard the train, but he could feel his strength draining away. He knew he couldn't hang on long. He felt his left hand slip and felt nothing in his right hand. But for some reason he no longer cared. He smiled to himself, "Ain't this a pickle? Shame Charlie couldn't see this. He'd be sure to get a laugh out of this pre-Dic-ament."
Truck's other hand let go and he fell, bouncing wildly along the tracks, arms and legs flailing uncontrollably. As his motion slowed there was a flash and he felt a terrific pull on his right arm. He came to a rest in a stunned heap along the tracks. "Gawdamightee," he thought. "Whatta way to catch a train!"
A shiver ran through his body as he sat up to watch the fast receding lights of the caboose. He was wet all over
