The Obstacle Course

by JF Freedman

  “Y’all better be getting back to the station, you don’t want to be missing your train,” she counseled us.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I agreed quickly; now that they’d fed us they were getting on my nerves, being so grandparently and all, you can only take so much of that shit, “and thank you ever so much.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, and you too, sir,” Burt chimed in.

  The old man nodded his head in thanks. It was about the first gesture he’d made that showed he actually was aware that we were there.

  “Good luck, boys, and God bless you,” the old lady said.

  They started to walk away, arm in arm, as if they might fall down otherwise.

  “Wait a second,” I called out.

  They turned back to us. I ran over to them.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, do you have a pencil and a piece of paper?”

  “I believe so,” she said, fishing both out of her purse.

  “If you would please write down your name and address, ma’am,” I told her, “so we can pay you back when we get home.”

  “There’s no need for that,” she said, clearly taken aback. I guess she wasn’t used to politeness from teenagers.

  “Please, ma’am,” I told her, “we don’t take no handouts in our family.”

  “I understand,” she said, scrawling her name and address down on the paper and handing it to me. I glanced at it—chicken scratches even the FBI wouldn’t be able to make out. I put it in my pocket.

  “Thanks again, ma’am, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance.”

  She was beaming like a kid on Christmas morning. She came over to me and gave me a big hug and a kiss, just like a grandmother does. She gave Burt one, too.

  “Now you boys hurry along,” she told us.

  She took the old man’s arm. They walked down the sidewalk away from us. They were feeling good, you could see it radiating off them, they’d done their Christian duty and a little bit of the world was better off for it.

  Burt and I watched them go.

  “So long, suckers,” I said, after they were out of earshot. Being as old as they were, that wasn’t far.

  “Hey, they were real nice,” Burt protested.

  He was right, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t want anybody taking care of me, not like that, getting all grandmotherly over me just because they bought me a meal. It makes me too beholden, and I don’t want to be obligated to anyone—I already have enough shit to deal with without adding any more to it.

  I crumpled up the paper with their name and address on it and threw it away.

  “Big fucking deal,” I told Burt. “I guess you’re going to call your mommy now and tell her how much you miss her and what a bad boy you’ve been.” I was in a foul mood, that’s all there was to it.

  “Damn, Roy, what’s got into you?”

  I turned and walked down the street at a fast pace. Burt immediately caught up with me.

  “Come on, Roy, what’s eating you?”

  I spun on him.

  “You fucking crybaby, you’re gone from home two goddamn days and you’re crying for your mother. You know how many guys would love to be in your shoes? About the whole damn school, that’s all. Shit, Burt, you’ve lived your whole life at home. How often do you get to ride around the country on a freight and have to make it on your own?” I spat onto the sidewalk. “You go ahead and call if you want, but I ain’t about to hang around this pathetic excuse for a town.”

  I turned and walked away, heading in the direction of the train station. Burt hesitated for a moment—I could almost hear his brain working, even though my back was to him—then he caught up with me, like I knew he would.

  “Hell, this is the life, ain’t it?” he sang out.

  The train rambled through the Tennessee countryside. We’d gone back to the yards and found the same train we’d been on, the same boxcar even. This boxcar was something we knew, I can’t explain the feeling, but we felt safe there. The train was getting ready to leave—some men were in the process of checking it over, so we hid in the tall grass from them until they passed by. One of them definitely did look like a railroad detective, a mean-looking SOB, packing a gun on his hip. Dodging the railroad workers gave our journey a greater sense of adventure, like we truly were runaway boys, heading out into the great unknown. I stood in the door of the boxcar, looking out upon the rolling hills, which were green with spring and clustered with wildflowers of every color you could imagine, so inviting you wanted to dive into it like a swimming pool. The weather was hot and humid already, barely eight in the morning from what I could tell looking at the position of the sun in the sky. By noon the boxcar would be a furnace. I still didn’t know what it was exactly that I was looking for, but hopefully I’d find it sooner than later and we’d be off the train for good.

  Way off in the distance I saw a rider on a beautiful horse, dark brown with a white star between his eyes and white stockings on all four legs, a racehorse like the kind they have in the Kentucky Derby. The rider was a boy, teenaged and buck-naked, urging on the horse as it galloped along parallel to the tracks, as if they were racing the train. As I watched, I could see that I was the rider, galloping along with the wind. Behind me on the horse, holding on tight to my waist, her head pressed against my back, was Melanie, also naked, holding onto me tight, her titties pressed hard against my back, her long girlish hair strung out behind her like fire burning in the wind.

  The sight of this dream, so real in front of my eyes, caught my breath and held it trapped in my throat; staring out at the passing fields as I was, it felt as if I was seeing my life passing before me, not as a dream, but for real. I blinked and looked again, and as I did the image started fading, becoming less and less concrete, the colors turning to smoke, so transparent I could see through all three of them, rider and passenger and horse, all of it fading and fading like a rising mist, until the two riders galloped off into the hills; and as they rode out of sight they completely faded away.

  I watched the mirage disappear, for a while staring out at the countryside going by; then I turned and looked back at Burt. He was sleeping the sleep of the dead, he hadn’t seen any of it, neither the dream or the reality of the dream. I had seen myself out there, it may have all been in my head but that didn’t make it one heartbeat less real.

  I slumped down against the side of the door and closed my eyes, listening to the music of the train as it kept moving on down the tracks.

  THIRTEEN

  WHEN THE TRAIN STOPPED again we were in Chattanooga, Tennessee, a big old city, the smokestacks blasting away a mile a minute. The freight yard was huge, the biggest one I’d ever seen, even bigger than the one in Washington. They would have railroad bulls here for sure, so we jumped the train before it came to a complete stop and hopped the tracks that crisscrossed the acres and acres of cars that were sitting on sidings, waiting to be loaded up and sent back out.

  Dusk in the south: the sun a huge orange ball hanging over the city, slowly sinking down like it was falling into tar. We drank out of a water bucket from a common ladle that was used by railyard workers, maybe even colored as well as white, there weren’t any White Only signs on it like we’d seen in other places, bathrooms and drinking fountains and things like that, and anyway beggars can’t be you-know-whats—the two of us gulping down the cool flinty spring water and dumping ladlefuls over our heads to cut the heat, picking the grunge out of our teeth with matches, then strolling into town, looking for a mark. We had the hang of it now, we were starting to believe we were seasoned veterans, not just me but Burt, too, he had the traveling strut, the don’t-fuck-with-me swagger you get when you know you can outwit the local yokels with one hand tied behind your back.

  Getting into town was no problem; finding the kind of people we could hit on comfortably took some time. Finally, we found a restaurant that suited our needs—family-style, good but not fancy, lots of traffic going in and coming out.

  “… and our grandmother’s dyin
g in Texas and we’ve got to get down there as soon as we can,” I told our “prospects.” They were another old couple like the ones we’d conned back in Randolph, clean and neat but not rich-looking, the kind of people that’ll go to a restaurant and order the same chicken-fried steak in country gravy, mashed potatoes, and wax beans that they could make for themselves at home.

  The old man looked Burt and me up and down. We’d been extra-polite, calling them “sir” and “ma’am,” shucking and jiving them like a couple of field hands asking the massa for an extra hunk of salt pork.

  “That’s a crying shame, boys,” the old fellow told us. He reached into his pocket and nonchalantly pulled out a roll that could choke a steer—he must’ve had a couple hundred bucks on him, easy. He might’ve looked like a farmer and dressed like one, him and the missus both, but he wasn’t any hayseed, not with a wad of cash on him like that.

  He wet his thumb and forefinger and started peeling off a couple fives; then hesitated.

  “Whereabouts in Texas did you say your ol’ granny lives?” he asked, staring at Burt, like he wanted Burt to answer instead of me, since as usual I’d been doing all the talking.

  “She lives down by …” I started to say, but he cut me off with an upraised palm.

  “Where was that?” he asked Burt, shooting me a look that said “keep it shut.”

  “Um …” Burt was sweating; he was okay hanging with me, but since we’d been on the road, talking to strangers made him uncomfortable. At home he had a mouth on him big as a manhole cover, but we were a long ways from home.

  The old man stood there waiting, the two fives sticking up out of his fingers the way you’d hold a smoke.

  “New Orleans. That’s it, she lives in New Orleans,” Burt sang out, “just outside,” he added, in an attempt to be casual.

  One thing I know is geography, from reading all the encyclopedias, and I don’t remember New Orleans ever being in Texas.

  The old man nodded and smiled.

  “I think I can help you boys. Wait right here a minute.”

  He walked away from us, heading in the direction of a policeman who was walking his beat down the block.

  “Hey, where’re you going?” I called.

  The old man stopped the policeman and said something to him.

  That’s all I needed. “Move it!” I yelled at Burt, pushing past him so fast I almost knocked him ass over teakettle as I hightailed it down the street in the opposite direction, bumping into passersby as I barrel-assed away from the cop.

  Burt was right on my tail, breathing like a racehorse. Behind us I heard the policeman blowing his whistle, but by then we were around the corner, and we didn’t stop running until we’d skedaddled half-a-dozen blocks and were way out of that section of town.

  “New Orleans,” I gasped, holding my side as I braced myself against the side of a building. “New fucking Orleans is in Louisiana, you dumb shit,” I railed at him, “don’t you know anything? We had U.S. geography last year, for Chrissakes.”

  “So I’m not a genius at geography,” Burt wheezed back. He was breathing harder than I was, bent over double, like he was coming on to a heart attack, which he might have been, with all the running and the fear.

  “Now what, genius?” he panted.

  “I’ll figure something out.” I was getting sick of this “genius” bullshit he was laying on me, especially since compared to him I really was a genius. “Let’s went, there’s too many cops around here.”

  We padded off down the street like a couple of beat dogs with their tails dragging between their legs. That was us, two beaten dogs looking for a hole to hide in.

  We had no money, and we were hungry, really hungry. And to make matters even worse, we had somehow managed to stumble into the colored section of town.

  At least it was warm. That was the only saving grace. The weather had brought many of the locals out—big old fat women wearing print dresses and carpet slippers, reclining in the windows of their houses looking out at the passing scene, raggedy-assed kids playing stickball and hopscotch in the streets, groups of tired-looking men sitting on stoops and slouched in doorways, drinking and talking.

  We ambled on down the street, trying to look casual, like walking in a colored district was no big thing to us. Burt was hugging my ass like he was my shadow; I could feel he thought that if we got two feet apart he’d get snatched up and spirited away for one of those voodoo rites his brother was always jawing about.

  “I don’t like it around here,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “let’s go someplace else.”

  I glanced over at him. He was sweating bullets.

  “In a while,” I told him.

  “Jesus, Roy, there’s a million of ’em here.”

  “Don’t get your bowels in an uproar. They don’t give a shit about you.”

  “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, tagging after me.

  I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking I was a goddamned bastard is what was in his teenage mind—thinking that jumping that freight train was the biggest mistake of his young life and that once he got home he’d never pull another stunt like that again, that facing the junkyard watchman, especially since he was a white boy and the watchman was a nigger, wouldn’t have been anything compared to the ordeal he was going through now.

  He was right—for him. I wasn’t doing a very good job of taking care of him, which I should have been, because I was the one with the experience and I was the one who’d gotten us into this mess in the first place. The problem was, I had more important things on my mind than wiping his sorry ass. There was something about being in the midst of all these colored folk that was intriguing to me, beyond my understanding. I wanted to be here, plain and simple. I didn’t know why, but at this moment in my life it felt like the right place to be. So I pretended like I didn’t hear his mutterings, and kept on walking.

  “Let’s get out of here, Roy!” Burt hissed in my ear. If nothing else, he certainly was persistent. “These coons make me nervous.”

  “You’re scared of your own shadow, nothing’s going to happen.”

  “I’ve heard stories.”

  “Like what?”

  I was actually having a good time, considering. I was peering into stores, even “howdying” people on the street. Some people looked at me kind of strange, some people said “hello” back. I felt the same way I’d felt in the bar back in D.C., when I’d met Ruby; on guard, but no real fear.

  Burt obviously didn’t share my good feelings.

  “All kinds of stuff,” he whimpered, “you know what I’m talking about.” He was sticking to me like glue, not even Superman could’ve pulled us apart.

  “That’s all bullshit,” I scoffed.

  “Yeah, well I’ve heard some pretty weird shit.”

  “Uh-huh, and you still believe in Santa Claus too, don’t you?” I was taunting him, I didn’t mean to, I knew he was scared shitless, but I couldn’t help it, the way he was bugging me and carrying on like a crybaby, like Sarkind would do. Burt was my friend, he was supposed to have balls, and here he was pussying out on me.

  “Well, I’m getting out of here.”

  “Go ahead,” I challenged him, walking right along, “I ain’t stopping you.” This was getting old already; if he was going to do it, he should fucking do it. “Be a man,” I wanted to tell him, I wanted to shake it into him, “be in charge of your life, even if you’re a kid you can be in charge of your life.”

  He didn’t leave my side. Being separated from me was scarier for him than staying here, even though he really does believe all that voodoo shit his brother’s laid on him.

  Down the block, isolated between two vacant lots overgrown with weeds, stood a big old wooden church, built on concrete blocks like they build them in the south, the paint peeling and cracking, the front steps sagging. It definitely had seen better days, but it was solid and impressive despite the wear and tear; the kind of building you knew would tell a lot of interesting
stories if only it could talk.

  People were coming to the church from all directions; men, women, and children, from babes-in-arms to great-grandfolks tottering along on their canes, all dressed in their Sunday-go-to-meeting dress-ups. They came walking down the sidewalks, meeting and greeting each other outside on the cracked pavement before going into the church. All of them colored folks, of course. Most of the women were carrying dishes of food, covered platters and bowls—meats, casseroles, salads, everything.

  My mouth got to watering, smelling all that good country cooking. These may have been city colored people, but you could tell they’d come from the country, not only in how they dressed, but in the smell of their cooking. I’ve smelled cooking like that all my life, it’s the best kind, especially when you’re almost dying of starvation.

  “Goddamn, that smells so good,” Burt moaned.

  “Tell me about it.” My stomach was twisted up in knots, so powerful were the aromas wafting off that food. Then a brainstorm hit me. “What’s today?”

  “I don’t know,” came his surly reply. “Why?”

  “I’ll bet you it’s Good Friday!” I yelped, suddenly excited. If it was, it meant we’d been gone from home for six whole days, a week almost. By now there were probably sheriffs looking for us all up and down the Eastern Seaboard. For the first time since we’d jumped that train, what we had done hit me like a ton of bricks.

  It scared me, to tell you the truth. There was going to be hell to pay on the day of reckoning, of that I had no doubt. Thinking back on it, the bright move would’ve been to have gotten off the train back in Staunton, when we had the chance; but none of it had seemed real then, not real real like now. And anyway, I was on my mission—what I should have done and what I had to do were two very separate and different things.

  Burt broke my daydream: “So what?”

  “Come on,” I urged, grabbing him and pulling him along.

  I ran towards the church, clutching Burt by the collar. A few of the parishioners glanced at us, but nobody paid any special attention. We’d seen a few other white people on the streets—it wasn’t like nobody with white skin ever came down here. All the turmoil was inside our own heads, it was our fears about being around colored people, the fear more than the reality, that was the real problem.