We Find Ourselves Our Own Way
By Mallory Ruff
“You want to hop back south to S.F. instead of hitch?” Felix asked me, expecting a no.
I had flaked out before in L.A. and made him angry. Late one night a few weeks ago, after walking miles on pavement to get to the yard, we ended up next to a train that was going one mile per hour. He was convinced it was going north. At the time I had a gut feeling that I shouldn’t put my hands on that rail car so I froze. I thought about a fight that had taken place that afternoon between Felix and me over the dog. I knew none of this would end well for me. It rained that night, hard. It was cold and damp for a day after.
“Sure. Why not? I bet the scenery is amazing.” I replied. This time I was less worried because Felix and I weren’t alone.
And that was it. We gathered some water and food and made our way across the muddy river to the train tracks. It was an overcast evening and starting to get cold. We hunkered down near a retaining wall just out of sight and just outside the No Trespassing signs. It was a warm spot that blocked the breeze. We waited. If you’ve never hopped a train before that’s probably the one part that most people don’t ever consider, the waiting. You can wait for hours or sometimes days for a string of rail cars to slow or stop in the right spot. Sometimes you find out that you weren’t even in the right spot to begin with. The uncertain waiting is the part I hate the most. But this time it wasn’t so bad. I had tucked myself under a blanket and was enjoying conversation with new acquaintances. Tonight we’d be hopping out five dirty kids and three dogs deep. There was no way that this trip wasn’t going to be interesting. I made the point of telling the group that I had hopped before, but only once, back east in Virginia. I’d trust these people with my life and limb on occasion so I made sure they knew I was a newbie to this whole hobo thing. I was a hitch hiker for a reason. I’d rather put my faith in strangers than in my own abilities.
We’d spent about six days in Portland at this point after hitching Highway 101 up the coast. It was beginning to get very boring. The only people we’d met so far were meth heads and an old roommate of mine from Ohio I’d never really wished to see again. It was cold and dreary but not cold and dreary enough to make us completely miserable. We were on the verge of it minute by minute. Everyone in this town seemed to be at least slightly insane but not a fun kind of insane. It was more the type of crazy that develops from day in and day out of grey weather and the sky spitting on you’re only set of clothes. It was a cranky kind of insanity. I imagine that style of insanity was the cause of the entire grunge movement the Northwest is infamous for. This was all disappointing because the city itself seemed interesting, but I had no desire to explore it. I was tired. Felix and I had been bickering for days. I needed something to change. Hopping on this train with some crusty punks seemed like the best idea Felix had had in weeks.
We had met this group of kids we were now with just earlier that day at the park on the other side of the river. Frogger was a short guy with dark hair and a tan complexion. He was dressed head to toe in black. He looked like he might have some Filipino blood but I never asked. Aren’t we all just American mutts anyhow? He had a sweet brown pit-bull with a nervous tick. He said he got his nickname because he liked to dart across traffic instead of using cross walks. His girlfriend, Munch, never explained her nickname. She was petite and pale with long brown hair. She wore a ring in the center of her bottom lip and carried a violin. If you washed her up and put her in a dress she would have looked like the average girl next door. She had a small dog that looked like a mix between a dachshund and a cattle dog. It stood all of one foot tall, which was fitting for her because she was barely five feet tall herself. They had a friend, John, with them when we met. He was tall and lanky and maintained the stereotypical punk rock attire; a leather jacket whether it’s practical or not, tight plaid pants and a bullet belt. He was an amateur tattoo artist who practiced on himself with a tattoo kit that took up most of the useful space in his pack. Completing the group was me with my yellow puppy and Felix.
As I already explained, the waiting. I expected to be in that spot by the cement wall all night. I’d anticipated that we probably wouldn’t end up on a train at all. That has been the case a few times before - spending all day waiting in a flea infested hobo camp only to give up when hunger and extreme boredom finally set in. That wasn’t the case this time. Just as was thinking it might be nice to take a short nap, after all it was fairly late and I’d need to muster up some energy at some point, a junk train screeched along the tracks at a snail’s pace. A junk train is a string of empty cars which are being transported back to wherever they came from. They tend to get sidelined in yards to allow higher priority trains to pass. This was perfect because it contained several opened boxcars that could easily hold this motley crew of pretend hobos. We all paused for a moment. It fell silent. We waited for the engine to get just out of sight. General rule is that if you can’t see them, they can’t see you. Once it cleared the bend in the tracks we all jumped to our feet and started running toward the tracks.
I was carrying my eight week old puppy and lugging a twenty pound backpack. Running what seemed like the sort distance from the wall to the tracks felt like it took forever. As we got closer the train sped up a little. I could hear the engine revving a little louder off in the distance. I was right next to the tracks now and suddenly realized just how huge this piece of rolling metal really was. The bottom of the boxcar door was at least a six inches above my head. I panicked for a second. There was no way I’d be able to pull myself into the boxcar door without help. We had discussed this issue during our wait. The three guys already knew they’d have to lift us girls into the train but suddenly it was time to practice this theory. This wasn’t the time to back out or lose your cool. I had managed to make it to the tracks ahead of everyone which meant I was the one standing in the way of getting on that car. All of this was taking place at a full run as the car was slowly gaining momentum. The loose rocks under my feet threatened to take my life at any moment. I looked over my shoulder at Felix; he attempted to hand me his pack so I could toss it up into the car. I yelled “No” to him over the rumble and squeal of the train. I managed to take control of my thoughts and stifle the panic. I had my own plan now.
I lifted my precious baby dog into the air and tossed him as gently as I could into the doorway. There was no turning back at this point. My only child was now sitting in that boxcar and I wasn’t about to leave him behind because I was scared. I was most definitely scared. I took off my pack and slid it in front of him, pushing him away from the door. He was still half asleep and I didn’t want him to stumble in the wrong direction and fall out. Felix was right behind me, I shouted to him “Lift me up!” and I grabbed the bottom of the massive doorway. He lifted me up and before I knew it my belly was scraping across the boxcar floor. I slid the dog further back into the vacant space of the boxcar and stood up. I looked down on the group from above now. They were scurrying like dodos toward the edge of a cliff. Munch and Frogger had picked up their dogs at this point and were running as best they could with their unbalanced weight. I finally grabbed Felix’s pack from him and tossed it into the car. I yelled at him to give me Munch. I leaned down and grabbed Munch’s free hand and hoisted her up beside me. I felt charged and powerful in this moment. Together Munch and I pulled the boys into the car. One by one, dog by dog, and pack by pack we all managed to scramble into the car before it picked up too much speed.
Once everyone was inside the rusty, clanking boxcar I finally had a moment to really look at what was going on around me. I tried to get my head straight and calm my breath. The boxcar floor was covered in bits of shredded paper that whirled in the breeze. Tiny paper cyclones formed in the far corners to the boxcar. I wondered what might have been carried in this car over the years; it certainly looked like it was well worn. The floor was gouged and the door rattled on its hinge. I glanced around the walls of the car. After having experienced so many strange coincidences over this trip I was convinced for a moment I might get lucky and spot a familiar tag scrawled across the metal. The walls were blank. Just as I had done on my first hop, I slipped my black sharpie from my pocket and put my signature on the blank surface. It was dark out now and the moon was bright. I’m not sure if the moon was full or not but to me it was the brightest night I’d seen in a long time.
As the others milled about behind me, I sat in the open doorway and I took a moment to assess what has just taken place. I was inside a boxcar for the second time but it was as new and exciting as if it was my first ride. I hadn’t lost a leg under a moving train, my dog was safe and sleeping beside me and my heart was racing. The cool wind blew my hair into my face and I closed my eyes. I felt the slow sway of the train as it steadily picked up speed. Felix sat down beside me and gave me a hug. He told me he was impressed with how I handled the entire situation. He just actually said something like “Good job, kid!” but I wasn’t really listening. What I remember hearing, for the first time in months of travel, was that he was happy with what I had just done. More importantly I was happy with myself. I stood up, plopped a rail spike into the door latch and unraveled my sleeping bag. It was time to enjoy the ride.
