The Obstacle Course

by JF Freedman

  “Roy, you are getting bigger by the minute,” Joe’s mom joshed me, running her hand through my stupid short haircut. She’s a nice lady, Mrs. Matthews, she’s always laughing and smiling about something, always looking on the bright side of things, as she says. She’s also a great cook, so I spend a lot of time over there, anytime I’m there at dinnertime she just sets an extra plate for me, no questions asked.

  “That is pure baloney!” I heard a voice exclaim. I turned to look at Joe’s dad, who was doing his usual friendly pontificating. “You think Jim Lemon’s a bad outfielder?” he snorted. “You never saw Carlos Paula play, then. He made Lemon look like Mickey Mantle out there.” Joe’s father and uncles were gathered around the front porch, their jackets off, arguing baseball—the Senators, of course. The Senators are the worst team in baseball, they always have been ever since I was a kid. “Ball’s hit to right, routine line-drive single,” Joe’s dad went on, working up a good head of steam, the Senators’ll do that to you, you start discussing them in a quiet kind of voice and pretty soon you’re ranting and raving, “runner’s on first, going to third, Paula scoops it up on the run, fires the ball to third, misses the cutoff man, misses Yost”—Eddie Yost has been the Senators’ third baseman all the years I’ve been following them—“misses the pitcher backing up, I think it was Connie Marrero but it could’ve been the other Cuban, the fat one …”

  “Ramos,” one of Joe’s uncles cut in. “Anyway, Marrero was the fat one.”

  “No, not him, the other one, maybe it was Bob Porterfield, it doesn’t matter, Paula throws the ball into the second deck behind third, not the first deck, the second. He almost threw it into Virginia. It was Al Rosen got the hit, now I remember, ’53, when him and Mickey Vernon were fighting out the batting title.”

  “Cuban ballplayers,” one of the uncles pronounced. “They’ll do it every time. Clark Griffith, that cheap SOB.”

  Not only were the Senators the worst team in baseball, they were the cheapest by a long shot. They had more Cuban ballplayers than any other team in baseball, because they could pay them less than Americans.

  Joe’s mom called over to one of the other women, “Do me a favor and fix up lunch for mine, I’m behind on sewing my Easter outfit and I haven’t even started in on Julia’s.” Julia is Joe’s little sister, the one in seventh grade. He’s got three other sisters and two brothers; typical Ravensburg Catholic family.

  “Don’t fix me up none,” Joe called out real fast, “I’m eating at Roy’s house.”

  That was news to me, but I didn’t give him away. He wanted to get shed of his family for a while, that’s all, sometimes they get to be a handful, all those aunts and uncles and cousins, especially the girls with their gossiping and giggling.

  “Wait up,” he said, “I’ll be right out.” He ran inside to change.

  I waited on the sidewalk. Even though I’m almost like another son to them, at times like these I feel a little out of it, being as how they were all dressed up, coming from church, and all together, one big family, and I was by myself in my usual jeans and T-shirt. I was glad when Joe came back out, dressed like me, and we could take off down the street.

  We dropped by Burt’s and picked up his ass, then headed out, the three of us. One for all and all for one. Burt was glad we pulled him away, otherwise he’d be working. Burt’s folks are okay, but they’re not as nice as Joe’s. His old man’s straight as a country preacher, always on him for chores, Burt’s got a million and one items he’s expected to do around the house before he can go out and just fuck around, it’s like his family’s getting a handyman for free the way they treat him. Not that they’re mean or anything, but Burt’s father’s a hard-working man and he expects his son to be the same way. At least he’s got expectations for his son, which is more than I can say about mine.

  We drifted through town, doing nothing. It’s easy to do that with someone you’re as close to as brothers, twins almost, I think of us as brothers sometimes, we’re the same age, the same grade, we think the same about almost everything. Me and Joe and Burt, the Three Musketeers. There are times when I wish we were brothers, all living together, in a happy family, a family like Joe’s, the father cracking jokes and carving up everybody’s portion at dinner, the mother like Mrs. Matthews, cooking for everyone and doing their laundry, three sets of boys’ clothes, all the same size. We’re not exactly the same size, I’m the biggest and Burt’s the smallest, but we’re close enough. Sometimes I think these guys are more my family than my real one. I know it’s a lot easier to be with them than with my family, even when I’m really liking Ruthie or my mom, loving my mom, there’s always something else, some pressure, something to be scared of coming through the door.

  At least I’ve got them. Ruthie has her girlfriends, too, and boys, she could have more of them if she wanted, girls built like her are the most popular. It’s my mom that needs more in her life; that’s why, I’ve been realizing lately, she gets all dolled up to see Mr. Boyle, that moron. At least he pays her attention; maybe a lot more. Maybe I’m doing her a favor by being such a fuckup, it gives her an excuse to get out, to be around people.

  Without knowing how we’d gotten there we wound up down by the junkyard. Something must’ve pulled us, something dangerous. I sure as shit didn’t have any eyes for being around there, not after the incident with the dog that night, but all of a sudden I looked up and there we were, walking across the railroad trestle a hundred feet above the river, coming up the backside of the junkyard.

  Burt and Joe are almost as good at walking the trestle as I am, those boys have no fear in their bodies, it’s one of the things that makes us close—guts to spare. We tightrope-walked the outside track single-file, feeling the wind in our faces, even looking down once in a while to the riverbed, which you’re not supposed to do, it’s supposed to scare you, since you’re seeing how high up you are, but it doesn’t scare us. We’re not reckless about it, you fall over the side and you’re dead meat, we all know that, but we feel comfortable in being able to do it. Anyway, live fast, die young, that’s one of my mottos. Like James Dean, that guy was as cool as they come, I could picture him up here with us walking the tracks, squinting against the sun and having fun.

  We fired up cigs when we got to the other side, hunkering back on our heels and staring down at all the junk clustered around the river on both sides. At night it’s kind of pretty here, mostly because you can’t see much of anything, but in the daylight all the junk and shit is right in your face, not only seeing the shit but smelling it, all that old crappy junk from years and years.

  “What a dump,” Burt drawled.

  “The genius speaks,” I countered, flicking a rock against the side of the embankment and watching it bounce down and splash into the river. My eyes were watching the rock, but my main focus was keeping my ears open for that scum-sucking dog, even though he normally would be chained up, being’s how it was daytime. I didn’t want any more encounters with that motherfucker—he’d know my scent in a heartbeat and come for my throat, I was sure of it.

  I hadn’t told anyone about that night and I didn’t feature doing it now, even though I could score points for having been in there alone; being there alone at night would be double points. But there were things about that night, things that happened, that I wanted for myself; sharing it would’ve made it less important, less special, so I’d kept my mouth shut about it and didn’t see any reason to change now, just because we were here, close to it. They’re my best friends, Burt and Joe, but I’m not going to tell them everything about me. I never once mentioned the admiral or any of that, that’s a secret I’ll take with me to the grave. What they don’t know can’t hurt them.

  Can’t hurt me.

  We wandered away from the tracks and snuck into the junkyard proper, the back part. I hadn’t heard the dog, so I was comfortable with that; he had to be chained up, people come in and out of the yard all the time on business, one dog bite and they’d get their ass sued fo
r a million bucks, they don’t need that. We kept a wary eye out for the watchman, but he’s usually up towards the front, hanging around the guard shack near the entrance where the highway passes by, listening to the radio and drinking bad pint-bottle whiskey, more’n likely Four Buds, like my old man drinks. That would be a good joke on my old man, finding out him and some nigger junkyard watchman drink the same rotgut.

  It’s a big yard, acres and acres of shit, we’ve found over the years if you stay in back you’re okay. The important thing is to keep out of sight—if they see you they’ve got to chase you, whether they want to or not.

  We ambled around the place, finding small objects of interest, like old spinners off steering wheels with half-naked ladies in the inset, fake gold-plated cigarette cases, stuffing things into our pockets even though it was all worthless junk which we didn’t want anyway. Stuff you wouldn’t look at twice in a store becomes valuable when you find it in a junkyard.

  After picking the back area clean we walked over to the south end of the yard. It’s mostly automobile parts in this section. In the middle there’s a small mountain of tires, piled high on top of each other. I climbed up and looked around. All the way at the other end I could see smoke coming from the guard shack, but no sign of any guards, so I sprawled out in the center of the pile and with a shove of my foot sent one of the tires down the side of the pile, where it bounced along the dry bedside and then into the river where it floated slowly away from us and out of sight under the railroad trestle. Far off in the distance I heard a slow freight approaching from the north, a couple miles away at least.

  Burt and Joe climbed up the pile of tires and joined me at the top. Burt grabbed one, took careful aim, and rolled it down the side, narrowly missing a telephone pole at the edge of the riverbed.

  “You missed, ace,” Joe dug at him.

  “Let’s see you do better,” Burt challenged.

  Joe took careful aim and sent a tire rolling down the side, the tire bouncing crazily when it hit the bottom, missing the phone pole and drifting off down the river in search of its brothers. I lay back on the pile, lazily smoking. It was hot on these tires; I was tempted to just lie back and fall asleep.

  “You pussies can’t do anything worth a shit unless I take you by the hand and show you,” I commented in my usual helpful style, eyes half-open, watching them.

  “Shit, you couldn’t hit that if your life depended on it,” Burt threw in my face. He’ll get in your face in a heartbeat, that boy, no stone gets left unturned around Burt.

  No way was I going to let that pass. “How much?”

  “A quarter.”

  I stood a tire on edge and took careful aim, sighting over the top at the phone pole, and rolled it down the slope. It was heading straight for the pole, so straight I started to turn to him and put out my palm, when it hit a rut and bounced away, barely missing the pole and floating down the river.

  “Pay up, sucker.”

  “Double or nothing,” I countered.

  “Shit, yes.” He smiled, thinking he was going to pick my pocket. No way I was going to let that happen, my youthful pride was at stake.

  I carefully sighted another tire and sent it down, this time allowing for the rut. If it missed by an inch I’d be surprised—but it missed, that it did.

  “Pay up.”

  “One more. Double down.” I had to hit one, I’m a near-genius at this.

  “Shit,” Burt complained, “you’re bound to hit one sooner or later.”

  But I’d already lined up another tire. All three of us watched intently as it rolled down.

  It hit, dead square in the center.

  Joe yelled out at the same time: “Jesus Christ, look out!”

  We’d been so intent on our tire rolling that we’d neglected the first rule of junkyard cruising—don’t ever forget to keep an eye on the guard shack. Bearing down on us like a runaway freight train was a colored man at least 6’6” tall, with blood in his eye and a big mother .44 in his hand, less than a hundred feet away and closing fast.

  We scattered down the other side of that pile like our asses were on fire.

  “We’re even!” I yelled at Burt, as we tumbled down like three Humpty Dumptys.

  We started running for the railroad tracks, which are the junkyard boundary. Once we got past them, he couldn’t follow us.

  “Stop, you sonsofbitches!” he hollered at us. “I’ll shoot, I mean it!”

  We kept going like bats out of hell. He fired a shot into the air. I took a peek at Burt and Joe. Their eyes rolled clear to the backs of their heads when that shot went off.

  “Keep running,” I yelled at them, “no nigger’s ever gonna shoot a white boy.”

  He fired again, lower this time, the bullet ricocheting off the ground five feet away.

  “Talk louder, genius,” Burt yelled back at me, “he can’t hear you tell him what he ain’t gonna do.”

  “Shut up and keep running,” I yelled back, “we’re almost there.” I could feel my lungs burning, my heart pounding. I’d been scared that time the dog came after me, but that was nothing compared to this.

  We could hear his heavy footsteps pounding behind us, gaining with every step. Then Joe, like a fool, turned and looked back to see how far from him we were, and his foot caught a battery cable. He fell heavily into the dirt, landing right on his chest.

  I could tell in a flash the wind had been knocked out of him. Burt hesitated a moment, not sure what to do, but I grabbed him and pulled him along.

  “He’s fucked,” I said, knowing it was true but feeling like shit anyway, “we’ve got to get out of this yard and then figure out how to break him loose.”

  The tracks were close now, less than a hundred yards away, but as we approached them, almost running faster than a speeding bullet we were so pumped up from fright, we realized that the freight, even going as slow as it was on its approach to the trestle, was going to beat us to the crossing. We were trapped like rats between the train and the junkyard watchman.

  “Son of a fucking bitch!” I exhaled.

  We stood at the edge of the track as the train slowly rolled by. It was a long one, hundreds of cars, I couldn’t even see the end around the bend. The big Negro had Joe by the arm and was dragging him towards the tracks, right at us, figuring he had us pinned, getting close enough for us to see the big shit-eating grin on his face. He looked like the goddamn dog, except he wasn’t drooling as much.

  I looked around, desperate.

  “Let’s jump it,” I said to Burt, not even knowing I was going to until the words popped out of my mouth.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Shit, it ain’t going more’n five miles an hour, we can jump off soon’s it clears that field over there,” I said, pointing to a field on the other side of the ravine, about half a mile away. “Come on!”

  I started running parallel to the freight. Burt hesitated a moment, then took off running with me. I grabbed the side of an open freight car and swung aboard. It wasn’t that hard—the movement of the train slingshotted me right in, then I reached down and grabbed Burt by the arm and pulled him up alongside me.

  From the safety of the moving train we watched the watchman run up too late, pure anger on his dark, sweaty face as he watched us. He had a good solid grip on Joe, who looked as miserable as any human being I’ve ever seen. Two hours earlier he’d been on his knees praying in church and now he was in the clutches of a junkyard nigger who would be doubly pissed, first because of us sneaking in and rolling the tires down the river, then because of me and Burt getting away. Joe was going to pay the price for all three of us. All for one and one for all, this time it would be only one poor sorry bastard for all.

  At least he hadn’t gotten Burt and me. As the train pulled away from the junkyard I gave the watchman the finger.

  “Shit, I reckon,” I said. I was smiling, I couldn’t help it, I knew Joe’s ass was in a sling but I’d hopped a freight, the first time in my life, something
I’d always wanted to do.

  “Poor Joe,” Burt sighed.

  “Poor bastard is right,” I said.

  “Better him than me!” Burt cracked, laughing. I did, too. I couldn’t help it, we weren’t laughing at Joe, we were laughing because we were scared, we were laughing because we’d made it.

  We stood in the doorway as the freight train lumbered across the trestle, waiting for it to hit the field on the other side, so we could jump off.

  “Fun fun fun!” I yelled. I was feeling lightheaded, from the excitement and the experience of hopping the freight. “Get ready now, we’re almost there.”

  Right as I said that, the train started picking up speed, almost like the engineer a hundred cars to the front had heard me and was going to prove to me who was running this show.

  “What the fuck?”

  I leaned out the open boxcar door. The last of the cars had cleared the trestle—we were going straight again, on solid ground, and as it straightened out the train started moving faster and faster. Too fast for us to jump off.

  “Now what, genius?” Burt turned to me, scared and angry.

  I looked down at the ground moving under us. No way could we jump this train.

  “We’ll have to ride it into Washington and hitchhike home. It’s better’n getting caught by some coon with a .44 in his hand, ain’t it?”

  “I guess so,” Burt said, nervously.

  We sat on the edge of the boxcar and watched the scenery roll by. The tracks run alongside the Washington-Baltimore Parkway. As we moved along we waved to people in cars driving alongside us, especially a load of high school girls, who waved back. From this distance they would’ve thought we were men, or at least boys their age. They would’ve wanted to meet us, since we were brave enough to pull a dangerous stunt like this.