This will probably seem reminiscent to the last story I wrote on here, but I'm trying to make something that's a bit more publishable. Also, I'll write up a story on my last trip to the east coast sometime soon, too.
Colton
"Right here, this is where all the homebums hang out," says Nick, his finger pointing to the jungle of trees and thick bushes. "They're mostly okay guys. Just a bunch of old drunks. You'll see some of 'em around here from time to time." I follow Nick down the narrow path that leads into the jungle.
We come across an old tent, worn down by time and sunlight, barely standing next to a pile of trash. "This is Hillbilly's camp," Nick explains, "he's that old motherfucker we passed on our way here, flyin' a sign on the off-ramp. He's a cool guy, got lot's of neat stories." The camp is a sad sight but we walk past it like soldiers walking past a bomb-gutted house. Neither of us look back.
My pack seems too heavy. I want to take it off but the trail just keeps going. Interstate 10, one of Southern California's arteries, is pumping hard. It's almost six o'clock and all the working people are going back to their homes.
"This is where Taliban stays sometimes, that crazy bastard. If we were staying tonight, you'd see him, I GUARANTEE IT!" Nick had a big wide grin on his face. He loved this shit; I don't know why, but he did. He'd been homeless for two years, riding freight trains and hitchhiking all up and down the country. He'd seen more in those two years than all of my other friends combined, hell, probably more than most people combined. "I've gone 50,000 miles on trains," he told me.
The trail begins to leave the heart of the jungle. The smell of piss and decay gets replaced with the smell of heavy traffic. I see three different sets of train tracks branching out in all their different directions. Then the ground starts to shake and I look back, but Nick just keeps walking.
There are four locomotives back to back on the front. The engineer waves at us as they go by. "It's coming from the east coast," says Nick. He turns around and looks down the row of shipping containers soaring past. "This one's coming from Texas."
"How can you tell?" I ask, trying to look where he was looking as if COMING FROM TEXAS would be spelled out across the top of it.
"The track it's on. You learn these things after a while." The train passes and we keep walking. The trail then disappears altogether and Nick and I are wading through waist-high brush. I can see the faces in the cars rocketing past on the highway. Tired faces, faces that have no idea I exist.
Nick looks both ways and crosses the tracks quickly. I try to stay close. "I don't want to be seen. We're on property now," he explains as we hide behind a tree.
"Do you think anyone saw us?" I ask, peering at the freeway from over a mountain of ballast rock.
"Probably not. I don't really care about them, though. It's the bull I'm worried about." The rail cop, yeah, he'd told me about him earlier. An old, pissed-off son of a bitch that didn't hesitate to whoop your ass. I swallow hard at the thought of meeting him. The sun is waning and Nick presses on. We're in a depression between two sets of tracks that starts to widen out as the tracks began to separate. The ones to our left go up an embankment and curve north; the ones to our right stay down low and go straight, toward LA. We follow those tracks until finally, we're at the base of a small hill. At the top are the north bound tracks. Nick begins to climb the slope. "This is best spot to wait, right up here." I watch him crawl up to a wide bush and shove his way into it.
The bush is hollowed out and lined with empty beer cans. On the branches are sloppy tags, done with knives or markers.
"How many times have you caught trains out of here?" I ask Nick, who's taking a leak at the far end of the bush.
"Probably five or six times." His confidence gives me confidence.
It's midnight now and we're outside of the bush, standing in the cool night air. We're just out of reach from a very bright light on a pole. That's when it hits me. I'm doing this, I'm actually doing this. Matt and Daniel and Chris are all back in their respective homes, probably asleep or on the internet, and I'm here, with an almost stranger, hiding in the outskirts of a busy train yard.
"See those lights down there?" asks Nick. I look to where he's pointing. A pyramid of lights has emerged from underneath a distant bridge.
"Yeah, I see them."
"That's our train." Then, it REALLY fucking hits me. My heart starts picking up speed, just like the pyramid of lights rolling towards us. Nick thrusts his pack onto his back. "When it comes by, just stay down. They won't see you." My pack doesn't seem as heavy as it used to be. I slide it over my shoulders and crouch down.
The first locomotive passes with a roar. I can't even hear myself think. We're so close, I could probably reach out and touch it if I really wanted to. Inside I can see the silhouettes of the crew, working away. To them, it's just another night, moving freight from Colton up to Bakersfield. Nick and I emerge from our hiding spot as the front of the train pushes forward, across the bridge stretching over Interstate 10. Suddenly, we're standing right next to the train. It's going slow, probably eight or nine miles per hour. But the sheer size of it is what make it terrifying. A gondola rolls by.
"That's the kind of thing we want to grab," Nick yells over the sounds of scraping metal. "They're empty on the inside. It's like a big bucket." I nod like I know what I'm doing. Then I think of all my friends, in their beds by themselves or with their girlfriends or wives. I think of my mom and dad, in their separate beds, miles away from each other in their own pools of loneliness.
"Get ready. I see one coming." I tighten all the straps on my backpack. My pack is weightless, now. I think of my sister, watching her infant son sleep. I think of my infant nephew, dreaming of things that don't make sense to him yet. Then I think of myself, standing in a bad neighborhood next to a moving train. I think of when everything was simpler and my family went down to the train tracks and watched trains smash pennies.
"Wow!" I said back then as the ground shook.
"Wow," I say now, as the ground shakes and Nick starts pointing.
"This one! Right here! Get on it!" I start to run. I think of my dad pointing at the locomotives.
"This one, right here," Dad says, "this one is going far. Across the country. Imagine that! In three or four days, this train will be somewhere completely new."
I grab on to the ladder of a rusted gondola. My hands clench around the rung and I can feel the entire weight of the train as it pulls me along. I think of the community college classes that bored me and the jobs that never paid me well. I think of my ex-girlfriends, with some new guy, in some new life. I start to run faster. Up ahead I see a split on the tracks and the bridge. Now or never, I say to myself. I heave my body toward the train, my foot landing in the stirrup at the bottom. When I look down all I see is a spinning wheel next to my foot. Jesus Christ, this is how people wind up dead.
Behind me, I see Nick jump on fast. He's already up the ladder and down by the time I realize what's going on. I quickly start climbing until I'm at the top. There are long, white tubes taking up most of the space in the gondola. I take one final look at the old world before I drop myself in between the wall and the tubes.
We cross the bridge and roll through quiet neighborhoods. I look up at the moon peering out from behind the glow of the city lights. Then something else hits me. Nothing will ever be the same after this. Nothing. I peek my head up from the end of the gondola and see Nick in the one behind me. He's sitting on top of a pile of scrap metal, smiling that maniac smile of his. That's when I start smiling, too. We pick up speed and the light pollution begins to fade away.
"There it goes," I remember my dad saying as the last train car disappeared into the mountains. He walks out to the tracks and picks up some smashed pennies. He drops one of them into my hand and that's when I stop thinking about the past.
Colton
"Right here, this is where all the homebums hang out," says Nick, his finger pointing to the jungle of trees and thick bushes. "They're mostly okay guys. Just a bunch of old drunks. You'll see some of 'em around here from time to time." I follow Nick down the narrow path that leads into the jungle.
We come across an old tent, worn down by time and sunlight, barely standing next to a pile of trash. "This is Hillbilly's camp," Nick explains, "he's that old motherfucker we passed on our way here, flyin' a sign on the off-ramp. He's a cool guy, got lot's of neat stories." The camp is a sad sight but we walk past it like soldiers walking past a bomb-gutted house. Neither of us look back.
My pack seems too heavy. I want to take it off but the trail just keeps going. Interstate 10, one of Southern California's arteries, is pumping hard. It's almost six o'clock and all the working people are going back to their homes.
"This is where Taliban stays sometimes, that crazy bastard. If we were staying tonight, you'd see him, I GUARANTEE IT!" Nick had a big wide grin on his face. He loved this shit; I don't know why, but he did. He'd been homeless for two years, riding freight trains and hitchhiking all up and down the country. He'd seen more in those two years than all of my other friends combined, hell, probably more than most people combined. "I've gone 50,000 miles on trains," he told me.
The trail begins to leave the heart of the jungle. The smell of piss and decay gets replaced with the smell of heavy traffic. I see three different sets of train tracks branching out in all their different directions. Then the ground starts to shake and I look back, but Nick just keeps walking.
There are four locomotives back to back on the front. The engineer waves at us as they go by. "It's coming from the east coast," says Nick. He turns around and looks down the row of shipping containers soaring past. "This one's coming from Texas."
"How can you tell?" I ask, trying to look where he was looking as if COMING FROM TEXAS would be spelled out across the top of it.
"The track it's on. You learn these things after a while." The train passes and we keep walking. The trail then disappears altogether and Nick and I are wading through waist-high brush. I can see the faces in the cars rocketing past on the highway. Tired faces, faces that have no idea I exist.
Nick looks both ways and crosses the tracks quickly. I try to stay close. "I don't want to be seen. We're on property now," he explains as we hide behind a tree.
"Do you think anyone saw us?" I ask, peering at the freeway from over a mountain of ballast rock.
"Probably not. I don't really care about them, though. It's the bull I'm worried about." The rail cop, yeah, he'd told me about him earlier. An old, pissed-off son of a bitch that didn't hesitate to whoop your ass. I swallow hard at the thought of meeting him. The sun is waning and Nick presses on. We're in a depression between two sets of tracks that starts to widen out as the tracks began to separate. The ones to our left go up an embankment and curve north; the ones to our right stay down low and go straight, toward LA. We follow those tracks until finally, we're at the base of a small hill. At the top are the north bound tracks. Nick begins to climb the slope. "This is best spot to wait, right up here." I watch him crawl up to a wide bush and shove his way into it.
The bush is hollowed out and lined with empty beer cans. On the branches are sloppy tags, done with knives or markers.
"How many times have you caught trains out of here?" I ask Nick, who's taking a leak at the far end of the bush.
"Probably five or six times." His confidence gives me confidence.
It's midnight now and we're outside of the bush, standing in the cool night air. We're just out of reach from a very bright light on a pole. That's when it hits me. I'm doing this, I'm actually doing this. Matt and Daniel and Chris are all back in their respective homes, probably asleep or on the internet, and I'm here, with an almost stranger, hiding in the outskirts of a busy train yard.
"See those lights down there?" asks Nick. I look to where he's pointing. A pyramid of lights has emerged from underneath a distant bridge.
"Yeah, I see them."
"That's our train." Then, it REALLY fucking hits me. My heart starts picking up speed, just like the pyramid of lights rolling towards us. Nick thrusts his pack onto his back. "When it comes by, just stay down. They won't see you." My pack doesn't seem as heavy as it used to be. I slide it over my shoulders and crouch down.
The first locomotive passes with a roar. I can't even hear myself think. We're so close, I could probably reach out and touch it if I really wanted to. Inside I can see the silhouettes of the crew, working away. To them, it's just another night, moving freight from Colton up to Bakersfield. Nick and I emerge from our hiding spot as the front of the train pushes forward, across the bridge stretching over Interstate 10. Suddenly, we're standing right next to the train. It's going slow, probably eight or nine miles per hour. But the sheer size of it is what make it terrifying. A gondola rolls by.
"That's the kind of thing we want to grab," Nick yells over the sounds of scraping metal. "They're empty on the inside. It's like a big bucket." I nod like I know what I'm doing. Then I think of all my friends, in their beds by themselves or with their girlfriends or wives. I think of my mom and dad, in their separate beds, miles away from each other in their own pools of loneliness.
"Get ready. I see one coming." I tighten all the straps on my backpack. My pack is weightless, now. I think of my sister, watching her infant son sleep. I think of my infant nephew, dreaming of things that don't make sense to him yet. Then I think of myself, standing in a bad neighborhood next to a moving train. I think of when everything was simpler and my family went down to the train tracks and watched trains smash pennies.
"Wow!" I said back then as the ground shook.
"Wow," I say now, as the ground shakes and Nick starts pointing.
"This one! Right here! Get on it!" I start to run. I think of my dad pointing at the locomotives.
"This one, right here," Dad says, "this one is going far. Across the country. Imagine that! In three or four days, this train will be somewhere completely new."
I grab on to the ladder of a rusted gondola. My hands clench around the rung and I can feel the entire weight of the train as it pulls me along. I think of the community college classes that bored me and the jobs that never paid me well. I think of my ex-girlfriends, with some new guy, in some new life. I start to run faster. Up ahead I see a split on the tracks and the bridge. Now or never, I say to myself. I heave my body toward the train, my foot landing in the stirrup at the bottom. When I look down all I see is a spinning wheel next to my foot. Jesus Christ, this is how people wind up dead.
Behind me, I see Nick jump on fast. He's already up the ladder and down by the time I realize what's going on. I quickly start climbing until I'm at the top. There are long, white tubes taking up most of the space in the gondola. I take one final look at the old world before I drop myself in between the wall and the tubes.
We cross the bridge and roll through quiet neighborhoods. I look up at the moon peering out from behind the glow of the city lights. Then something else hits me. Nothing will ever be the same after this. Nothing. I peek my head up from the end of the gondola and see Nick in the one behind me. He's sitting on top of a pile of scrap metal, smiling that maniac smile of his. That's when I start smiling, too. We pick up speed and the light pollution begins to fade away.
"There it goes," I remember my dad saying as the last train car disappeared into the mountains. He walks out to the tracks and picks up some smashed pennies. He drops one of them into my hand and that's when I stop thinking about the past.
