derailed
Well-known member
This is part of a short story I'm writing for my friend's zine about some of my experiences over the years. I'm not a writer, so it's not exactly new york times quality or anything.
After saying our goodbyes to "the bros", we found ourselves in a sonic parking lot, where we promptly sat down and stared at the pavement for two hours. After sharing the back of a Datsun pickup with two surfboards, tank, and a shit ton of gear, our bodies felt like slowly unraveling pretzels. First thing was first, we needed to make some money, so we headed off toward that holiest of holies, the Wal-Mart. After powering down a couple of forties and feeding Tank, we felt more ready for the day and the task at hand, and set up shop at the exit with a sign and our most poignant orphan faces. It wasn't long before several neolithic security guards approached us and ordered us off the property. We'd made our bones so it wasn't a major problem, we simply moseyed around the parking lot asking for free food from every single restaraunt in sight. Usually, it works quite well when you walk into an establishment, approach the front counter, and with a look of desperation loudly announce that you haven't eaten in a week and will die on their newly shined floor unless you are fed for free. If the place itself won't help you, nine times out of ten some sympathetic customer will pay for you meal. In this instance, however, our tactic failed miserably and we were forced to admit defeat and rummage around the dumpsters for something to eat, paying for food being something we were not big on at the time. As we left to go find a campsite, Israel flew into a rage at one of the eateries that had denied us, and turned on their water main in the back parking lot, causing a flood of near-biblical proportions. Childish behavior was a staple of our time in Tucson. We continued on to the liquor store.
When seven forties of malt liquor are consumed between two people and a dog in less than one hour, chaos and bad judgement are bound to follow. In our state of confusion, we mistakenly assumed it was a Friday night, and that there would be no school in the morning, so we climbed three fences into one of Tucson's biggest high schools, and for some ungodly reason, decided it a wise decision to set up camp right in the middle of the football field. We fell asleep confident that we would get a solid night's sleep, and wake up alone and refreshed the next morning. These illusions were violently shattered when I arose at 8:00am to discover football players doing sprints 7 inches from my head. Israel stood up, and it was only then that we realized that today was not a Saturday as we had anticipated, but a Friday, and that 150 very confused teenagers were gawking at us as we quickly tried to get our shit together and get going. No sooner had I stood up, when a couple of golf carts, lumbering under the weight of their drivers, approached us. The principle, a wild looking man, with the face of a chipmunk and the body of an elephant seal, escorted us through the gauntlet of bewildered teens and out of the school. Against his better judgment, and my cursing non-stop at him, Israel obnoxiously panhandled every single student and teacher we passed on our way out of the school grounds, my anger at him cooled when I noticed he was actually making a good bit of change, and on that observation I joined in and we left the high school with twenty dollars more than we'd woken up with.
After being kicked out of the high school, we sat despondently in a KFC parking lot for a while, knowing that we had a long day and a hell of a lot of walking in front of us. Even though Tucson has a good sized UP yard in it, I was very nervous about riding a train through Arizona as I had multiple warrants in Yuma and elsewhere, and it was rapidly approaching Christmas time. Israel bought some weed from two truant teenage girls and we were on our way, hiking alongside the I-10, we trudged on, wanting to get to at least the outskirts of Tucson before we tested our luck and jumped on the interstate to try hitch hiking. What we did not realize is just how fucking big Tucson is, we walked for 5 or 6 hours and there was no letup, just mile upon mile of tract housing and strip malls, a tribute to what a sad sad world this place really is. Tank was becoming lazy and uncooperative by that point, and his sluggish, "I'm a giant pitbull, I can do whatever the hell I want" attitude was starting to bring us all down a little bit. It didn't help that as we passed an apartment complex, nature called, and consequently we had a hysterical mexican woman screaming jibberish at us for half a mile as we tried to ignore the steaming pile of shit Tank had just laid on her front lawn.
At this point I should make it known that Tank is a total asshole of a dog. He does what he wants, when he wants..and no amount of begging and pleading or schooling will teach him otherwise. He is a dog that knows he's the alpha-male, the bully dog on the beach kicking sand in the eyes of all the smaller dogs. As a kid I endured my fair share of bullying, and for that reason, I harbor a sort of hidden, pent up hatred for Tank, ridiculous as it may seem. When I helped save his life on the train to El Paso, he thanked me by throwing up on my shoes and stealing my sleeping bag..thus, our relationship is less than cordial.
When mid-afternoon struck, we gave up our march of death and begrudgingly went out and sat on the interstate, fully aware that it wouldn't be long before the Highway Patrol made their grand entrance and kicked us onto the frontage road with a ticket. After about an hour, sure enough, the cavalry showed up and made a big scene over my trespassing warrant in Yuma, threatening to have me extradited halfway across the state to serve my colossal four days in jail. After maybe an hour of haggling and pleading, and Tank not helping at all by barking non-stop at the mexican deputy (it's true, he hates people of any ethnicity other than white), we were released and sent on our way with a warning not to defy the great state of Arizona's hitchhiking laws again or we'd be sent to prison for the next 10,000 years.
At this point I'd had enough. When I am forced to hitchhike, I always rationalize in my mind beforehand that it will be a simple and speedy process, but the second I get out on that road and put my thumb up all the painful memories come flooding back. Hitchhiking is a soul crushing endeavor, car after car..all sizing you up and then quickly rejecting you, it's like being dumped five thousand times in a single afternoon.
Angry, out of energy, and with fresh court dates in our hands, we begrudgingly began to double back down the road we had just spent four hours hiking. This was my second trip to Tucson, but the first one had been so long ago that I was having a near impossible time trying to get my bearings. We headed for the 22nd street bridge, panhandling along the way in hopes of putting together some supplies for the Tucson to Colton trip we were about to embark on. It’s not a long trip but since it was just the two of us and Tank, we were used to living high on the hog when we were riding. The hike down to the bridge was like something out of a World War II documentary. Israel completely lost his ability to keep moving about halfway through the trip; sinking to his knees melodramatically he wailed at me, “I can’t go on, leave me here with Tank. I’ll meet you at the bridge later on tonight”. I knew damn well he was full of shit and if I left him there on the side of the road he would most likely resign himself to home bumming Tucson for the rest of his natural life. I picked his spirits up by getting him half drunk on the half bottle of whiskey still in my bag, then forced him to walk, Bataan Death march style, down the highway and to the bridge.
Staggering up to the bridge like zombie extra’s from “The Walking Dead”, we set down in the same spot i'd caught out from twice before. After the previous night’s debacle at the high school, we were cautious about being extraordinary jackasses again. We bedded down just enough to stay warm, and lay in wait for our exhaust-stained golden chariot to arrive.
The cardinal rule while waiting for trains (at least in my case), is that the second you pull that sleeping bag out of your pack, it’s lights out. It’s happened to me over and over and over again, yet I still ignore it.
Israel and I were both snoring obscenely when two deputies with the Tucson police department introduced themselves by blasting our faces with the power of a thousand suns (aka. There standard issue spotlight). The standard police greeting, “What are you boys up to tonight?” was articulated, a question so mind-numbingly stupid we had to pause and make sure we were talking to human beings, not badge wielding raccoons. After confirming that, yes, we were actually sleeping, the police informed us that there had been a spate of copper wire theft in the building units behind where we were sleeping. They were pretty laid back about the whole situation, and I was beginning to hope that perhaps we would be able to return to our slumber, when the bull pulled up in his SUV and stomped over to us. He announced himself imperiously, “I am Special Agent who-gives-a-fuck with the Union Pacific Police Department, are you aware that you’re trespassing on railroad property?” Actually we were not aware, but before we had a chance to retort he was busy shooing us out of the campsite and onto the main road . It was 3am, we were both exhausted and extremely irritable, so we marched over to a nearby construction site, crawled through an open window, and fell asleep.
As expected we were awoken three hours later by a construction crew asking what the fuck we thought we were doing. We rolled up and got moving, stalking the train yard all morning for another opening where we could access a westbound. A long time passed, the blazing sun finally abated and gradually evening was upon us, still walking around like headless chickens, wondering what to do. We walked to the other side of the yard, filled up our water jugs, and prepared to just climb the damn fence; Tank the primadona would just have to be hurled over the fence…something I secretly relished the prospect of doing.
We began walking toward the throat of the yard where we figured we’d have decent access to the trains when we met a Mexican guy riding his mountain bike home from work. After a brief exchange, it turned out he was an old border jumper who’d done the trip from Tucson to Nogales and LA so many times he could recount the number of cacti between each city. He led us to a series of drainage culverts that were barely noticeable from the street, but turned out to be ideal waiting spots for any westbounds. We shared a bottle with our new best friend, and even Tank, obviously in a spirit of camaraderie, didn’t maul him. He left shortly thereafter and we lay down on top of the grating and waited.
We lay down in the ditch just underneath the fence, both our moods had improved markedly since the beginning of the day, at least now it was just a waiting game and nothing more. We'd only been in Arizona for 60 hours, but I knew both of us were ready to get out. Since the rest of the day had gone so terribly, we expected the rest of the night to follow suit; which made our quick exit all the more sweet. We saw the lights from a huge double stack illuminating the bridge down before us, immediately followed by a throaty blast from the horns. At first I thought it was nothing but units because they seemed to go on forever, but after the eighth one we saw the containers and began scrambling to collect Tank and the bags. I leapt to my feet and started sprinting toward the rear of the train, desperate to find something comfortable..because of the dog we needed a solid floor. I saw what I thought was a ridable 48 and started motioning for Israel and Tank to start booking it toward the car, which they did almost before I waved. Less than a minute later all of us were on board in a nice comfy well, which was a very welcome surface after laying on a steel grating for an hour. The bull made a run up and down our train a few minutes later; as soon as he disappeared from sight we heard the train air up and then we jolted to life.
We hadn't been on a train since we nearly froze to death on our ill-fated San Antonio to El Paso ride, the old familiar feeling of steel on steel was soothing and instantly put me at ease. A celebritory bottle was cracked, and as we blew out of Tucson we stood in silence enjoying the cool air and the warming sensation of the whiskey. It took us ages to retrace the steps by train that we had covered on foot that day, we marveled at what awesome travelers we were, patting ourselves on the back, until Israel realized that we had left half the water and Tanks food back at the hop out spot...so much for the great adventurers. I put on some coffee and we hunkered down for our triumphant return to the city of angels.
Babies on ambien don't sleep as well as we did that night, we went through Yuma and were blazing through California before we woke up. The Saltine Sea appeared on the horizon, a clear and salty indication that we were making good progress. Israel and I sat there in our car, waking ourselves up with the Whiskey from the previous night. We spent an hour and a half debating on which state was crappier; New Mexico or Arizona, it was neck and neck for awhile but in the end we came to a consensus that neither of us had ever liked Arizona and hoped Mexico invaded imminently, slaughtering the Wal-Mart security staff first. This inane, booze-driven conversation continued on into the morning, oblivious to the unholy shitstorm that was brewing directly ahead.
I was staring aimlessly at Tank, imagining the ways I could kill him and make it look like an accident, when I suddenly noticed Israel's face sink. This disconcerting facial expression was immediately followed by an unfamiliar voice yelling "Pull!". I looked up just in time to see a middle aged man in sunglasses and a brown flight suit waving wildly at somebody behind him. I put my face in my hands and cursed my stupidity, I had forgotten about Niland and the INS checkpoint. "We're caught, the gods don't want us in LA", Israel said, totally deadpanned. I nodded in agreement and began packing our bedrolls up. Israel leashed Tank up and we prepared to beg and grovel until they broke down and let us continue on our happy way. This plan was quickly put to rest when three INS agents appeared on the front of our car, with guns drawn, looking very hostile. "Como Esta?" yelled the smallest one in a voice that didn't quite match his body. Tripping over our words, we declared that we were American citizens...the guns relaxed immediately when they heard Israel's down-home drawl, and they waved us on and told us to enjoy the trip. Thinking we were free and clear, we breathed a collective sigh of relief when we heard another voice, one we hadn't heard before, yelling "Pull 'em off! Pull 'em off!". This asshole turned out to be the head honcho, and he told us point blank that they couldn't send us on our way without endangering the agency because of liability. This makes sense, but it didn't stop Israel and I from cursing him violently under our breath.
(They ordered us off OUR train!...emphasizing the possessive is the deluded mindset I always employ when being ordered off somebody else's property).
After leaving our hard-earned ride, we were told to sit in the ballast besides the tracks while they barraged us with never-ending questions. Most of these questions revolved around the fact that they thought we were carrying drugs. The smallest one, with the Napoleon complex and ill-fitting voice, asked us at least six or seven times whether we were carrying anything. We answered no over and over again, imploring them to search our bags if they were so desperate to find non-existant contraband. This turned out to be a stupid move, as they proceeded to empty both our packs and go through everything with a fine toothed comb. As they were digging through our bags nose first, another guy collected our identification and went inside the station to run us for warrants. 45 minutes passed before the tedious process of going through our packs was complete; we were feeling pretty low after having just watched our train air up and take off to Los Angeles without us. We were escorted inside the INS holding station and Tank was put in a kennel outside next to the drug dogs.
Upon entering the station we were quickly fingerprinted and placed inside a holding cell. I was surprised by how full the station was, tired looking Mexicans sat dejectedly around us, their eyes shimmering with the pain that only hopelessness can bring. There was no talking, for a while Israel and I discussed what we were going to do next, but our conversation seemed trivial and childish compared to the predicaments most of these people around us were in. Amidst all the quiet, I overheard the border patrol agents discussing the Mexican family that was in the holding cell with us. These people had crossed the border in southern california and had proceeded to walk across a LIVE navy bombing range in their attempt to reach Indio. The magnitude of such a thing made me reel; this family was so desperate to enter the United States that they had knowingly walked across a virtual war zone. I could feel the desperation emanating from them like an aura. We sat back and waited for our names to be called.
It took several hours for them to run our names due to a backlog in their system,but finally we were pulled out of the cell and into the booking lobby. After pounding Israel with questions over a firearms conviction several years earlier we were cut loose into the mercilessly hot Southern California sun. It wasn't until we were able to get our things and hike to the road that we realized just how far out in the middle of nowhere we really were. Cursing the INS at the top of our lungs, we started hiking down the road toward what we hoped would be some sort of civilization. We were on the edge of the Saltine Sea, a vast inland ocean as desolate and forbidding as any arctic wasteland. Passing drivers must have been disturbed to see two dirty hobos in the middle of nowhere; consequently, people were not eager to help us out with a ride or any water. A few hours elapsed before we came to a small housing community called Bombay Beach; a place that even from a distance seemed like bad news.
Tired and dehydrated, we stumbled into Bombay Beach and pleaded with the first people we met for water. It was a middle aged couple, maybe in their forties. The man was a firefighter in Indio and his wife was a bartender at what appeared to be the only establishment in town. They gave us a couple cigarettes and warned us not to hassle the locals (something I don't usually pay attention to, but here thought twice about). Walking through Bombay Beach was like walking through 1947 Hiroshima; every other house was gutted by fire and theft, trash piled up in the streets, stray dogs roaming around menacingly in packs. If I focused my thoughts I could clearly imagine that I was strolling through a post-apocalyptic zombie movie, all I needed was a chainsaw to decapitate the undead and I would've been all set.
We ended up heading down to the waterfront. From a distance it looked empty and somewhere we could camp without being bothered by the locals and zombies. As we crested a sand dune we saw a truly bizarre sight; trailers, video and sound equipment, and a fully functional movie set right out of hollywood lay before us. Some hip asshole holding a camera immediately ran up to us and informed us that we were on a set and would have to move further down the beach. We asked what all the filming was being done for and he told us it was for "Heroes", a show i'd never heard of but Israel seem pretty well versed in. Apparently the producers had not been able to get a permit to film on the beach in Los Angeles quick enough so they'd had to pack up all their shit and travel to this hellhole.
We laid out our campsite at sunset and settled down around a crude pallet fire. As we sat, watching the sun dip below the horizon, a family came over and gifted us a couple bags of canned food. Fortune is like blood in the water for Israel, once he gets a whiff of it he becomes convinced there is more to follow. Acting on this feeling, Israel became certain that the film crew would give us a ride back to LA, and idea that hadn't even entered my mind. He sprang up and disappeared into the night. Twenty minutes later he returned with forty dollars in his hand, the ride was a no-go, but the film stars had been generous enough to kick us down some much needed cash.
to be continued at some unknown point.
After saying our goodbyes to "the bros", we found ourselves in a sonic parking lot, where we promptly sat down and stared at the pavement for two hours. After sharing the back of a Datsun pickup with two surfboards, tank, and a shit ton of gear, our bodies felt like slowly unraveling pretzels. First thing was first, we needed to make some money, so we headed off toward that holiest of holies, the Wal-Mart. After powering down a couple of forties and feeding Tank, we felt more ready for the day and the task at hand, and set up shop at the exit with a sign and our most poignant orphan faces. It wasn't long before several neolithic security guards approached us and ordered us off the property. We'd made our bones so it wasn't a major problem, we simply moseyed around the parking lot asking for free food from every single restaraunt in sight. Usually, it works quite well when you walk into an establishment, approach the front counter, and with a look of desperation loudly announce that you haven't eaten in a week and will die on their newly shined floor unless you are fed for free. If the place itself won't help you, nine times out of ten some sympathetic customer will pay for you meal. In this instance, however, our tactic failed miserably and we were forced to admit defeat and rummage around the dumpsters for something to eat, paying for food being something we were not big on at the time. As we left to go find a campsite, Israel flew into a rage at one of the eateries that had denied us, and turned on their water main in the back parking lot, causing a flood of near-biblical proportions. Childish behavior was a staple of our time in Tucson. We continued on to the liquor store.
When seven forties of malt liquor are consumed between two people and a dog in less than one hour, chaos and bad judgement are bound to follow. In our state of confusion, we mistakenly assumed it was a Friday night, and that there would be no school in the morning, so we climbed three fences into one of Tucson's biggest high schools, and for some ungodly reason, decided it a wise decision to set up camp right in the middle of the football field. We fell asleep confident that we would get a solid night's sleep, and wake up alone and refreshed the next morning. These illusions were violently shattered when I arose at 8:00am to discover football players doing sprints 7 inches from my head. Israel stood up, and it was only then that we realized that today was not a Saturday as we had anticipated, but a Friday, and that 150 very confused teenagers were gawking at us as we quickly tried to get our shit together and get going. No sooner had I stood up, when a couple of golf carts, lumbering under the weight of their drivers, approached us. The principle, a wild looking man, with the face of a chipmunk and the body of an elephant seal, escorted us through the gauntlet of bewildered teens and out of the school. Against his better judgment, and my cursing non-stop at him, Israel obnoxiously panhandled every single student and teacher we passed on our way out of the school grounds, my anger at him cooled when I noticed he was actually making a good bit of change, and on that observation I joined in and we left the high school with twenty dollars more than we'd woken up with.
After being kicked out of the high school, we sat despondently in a KFC parking lot for a while, knowing that we had a long day and a hell of a lot of walking in front of us. Even though Tucson has a good sized UP yard in it, I was very nervous about riding a train through Arizona as I had multiple warrants in Yuma and elsewhere, and it was rapidly approaching Christmas time. Israel bought some weed from two truant teenage girls and we were on our way, hiking alongside the I-10, we trudged on, wanting to get to at least the outskirts of Tucson before we tested our luck and jumped on the interstate to try hitch hiking. What we did not realize is just how fucking big Tucson is, we walked for 5 or 6 hours and there was no letup, just mile upon mile of tract housing and strip malls, a tribute to what a sad sad world this place really is. Tank was becoming lazy and uncooperative by that point, and his sluggish, "I'm a giant pitbull, I can do whatever the hell I want" attitude was starting to bring us all down a little bit. It didn't help that as we passed an apartment complex, nature called, and consequently we had a hysterical mexican woman screaming jibberish at us for half a mile as we tried to ignore the steaming pile of shit Tank had just laid on her front lawn.
At this point I should make it known that Tank is a total asshole of a dog. He does what he wants, when he wants..and no amount of begging and pleading or schooling will teach him otherwise. He is a dog that knows he's the alpha-male, the bully dog on the beach kicking sand in the eyes of all the smaller dogs. As a kid I endured my fair share of bullying, and for that reason, I harbor a sort of hidden, pent up hatred for Tank, ridiculous as it may seem. When I helped save his life on the train to El Paso, he thanked me by throwing up on my shoes and stealing my sleeping bag..thus, our relationship is less than cordial.
When mid-afternoon struck, we gave up our march of death and begrudgingly went out and sat on the interstate, fully aware that it wouldn't be long before the Highway Patrol made their grand entrance and kicked us onto the frontage road with a ticket. After about an hour, sure enough, the cavalry showed up and made a big scene over my trespassing warrant in Yuma, threatening to have me extradited halfway across the state to serve my colossal four days in jail. After maybe an hour of haggling and pleading, and Tank not helping at all by barking non-stop at the mexican deputy (it's true, he hates people of any ethnicity other than white), we were released and sent on our way with a warning not to defy the great state of Arizona's hitchhiking laws again or we'd be sent to prison for the next 10,000 years.
At this point I'd had enough. When I am forced to hitchhike, I always rationalize in my mind beforehand that it will be a simple and speedy process, but the second I get out on that road and put my thumb up all the painful memories come flooding back. Hitchhiking is a soul crushing endeavor, car after car..all sizing you up and then quickly rejecting you, it's like being dumped five thousand times in a single afternoon.
Angry, out of energy, and with fresh court dates in our hands, we begrudgingly began to double back down the road we had just spent four hours hiking. This was my second trip to Tucson, but the first one had been so long ago that I was having a near impossible time trying to get my bearings. We headed for the 22nd street bridge, panhandling along the way in hopes of putting together some supplies for the Tucson to Colton trip we were about to embark on. It’s not a long trip but since it was just the two of us and Tank, we were used to living high on the hog when we were riding. The hike down to the bridge was like something out of a World War II documentary. Israel completely lost his ability to keep moving about halfway through the trip; sinking to his knees melodramatically he wailed at me, “I can’t go on, leave me here with Tank. I’ll meet you at the bridge later on tonight”. I knew damn well he was full of shit and if I left him there on the side of the road he would most likely resign himself to home bumming Tucson for the rest of his natural life. I picked his spirits up by getting him half drunk on the half bottle of whiskey still in my bag, then forced him to walk, Bataan Death march style, down the highway and to the bridge.
Staggering up to the bridge like zombie extra’s from “The Walking Dead”, we set down in the same spot i'd caught out from twice before. After the previous night’s debacle at the high school, we were cautious about being extraordinary jackasses again. We bedded down just enough to stay warm, and lay in wait for our exhaust-stained golden chariot to arrive.
The cardinal rule while waiting for trains (at least in my case), is that the second you pull that sleeping bag out of your pack, it’s lights out. It’s happened to me over and over and over again, yet I still ignore it.
Israel and I were both snoring obscenely when two deputies with the Tucson police department introduced themselves by blasting our faces with the power of a thousand suns (aka. There standard issue spotlight). The standard police greeting, “What are you boys up to tonight?” was articulated, a question so mind-numbingly stupid we had to pause and make sure we were talking to human beings, not badge wielding raccoons. After confirming that, yes, we were actually sleeping, the police informed us that there had been a spate of copper wire theft in the building units behind where we were sleeping. They were pretty laid back about the whole situation, and I was beginning to hope that perhaps we would be able to return to our slumber, when the bull pulled up in his SUV and stomped over to us. He announced himself imperiously, “I am Special Agent who-gives-a-fuck with the Union Pacific Police Department, are you aware that you’re trespassing on railroad property?” Actually we were not aware, but before we had a chance to retort he was busy shooing us out of the campsite and onto the main road . It was 3am, we were both exhausted and extremely irritable, so we marched over to a nearby construction site, crawled through an open window, and fell asleep.
As expected we were awoken three hours later by a construction crew asking what the fuck we thought we were doing. We rolled up and got moving, stalking the train yard all morning for another opening where we could access a westbound. A long time passed, the blazing sun finally abated and gradually evening was upon us, still walking around like headless chickens, wondering what to do. We walked to the other side of the yard, filled up our water jugs, and prepared to just climb the damn fence; Tank the primadona would just have to be hurled over the fence…something I secretly relished the prospect of doing.
We began walking toward the throat of the yard where we figured we’d have decent access to the trains when we met a Mexican guy riding his mountain bike home from work. After a brief exchange, it turned out he was an old border jumper who’d done the trip from Tucson to Nogales and LA so many times he could recount the number of cacti between each city. He led us to a series of drainage culverts that were barely noticeable from the street, but turned out to be ideal waiting spots for any westbounds. We shared a bottle with our new best friend, and even Tank, obviously in a spirit of camaraderie, didn’t maul him. He left shortly thereafter and we lay down on top of the grating and waited.
We lay down in the ditch just underneath the fence, both our moods had improved markedly since the beginning of the day, at least now it was just a waiting game and nothing more. We'd only been in Arizona for 60 hours, but I knew both of us were ready to get out. Since the rest of the day had gone so terribly, we expected the rest of the night to follow suit; which made our quick exit all the more sweet. We saw the lights from a huge double stack illuminating the bridge down before us, immediately followed by a throaty blast from the horns. At first I thought it was nothing but units because they seemed to go on forever, but after the eighth one we saw the containers and began scrambling to collect Tank and the bags. I leapt to my feet and started sprinting toward the rear of the train, desperate to find something comfortable..because of the dog we needed a solid floor. I saw what I thought was a ridable 48 and started motioning for Israel and Tank to start booking it toward the car, which they did almost before I waved. Less than a minute later all of us were on board in a nice comfy well, which was a very welcome surface after laying on a steel grating for an hour. The bull made a run up and down our train a few minutes later; as soon as he disappeared from sight we heard the train air up and then we jolted to life.
We hadn't been on a train since we nearly froze to death on our ill-fated San Antonio to El Paso ride, the old familiar feeling of steel on steel was soothing and instantly put me at ease. A celebritory bottle was cracked, and as we blew out of Tucson we stood in silence enjoying the cool air and the warming sensation of the whiskey. It took us ages to retrace the steps by train that we had covered on foot that day, we marveled at what awesome travelers we were, patting ourselves on the back, until Israel realized that we had left half the water and Tanks food back at the hop out spot...so much for the great adventurers. I put on some coffee and we hunkered down for our triumphant return to the city of angels.
Babies on ambien don't sleep as well as we did that night, we went through Yuma and were blazing through California before we woke up. The Saltine Sea appeared on the horizon, a clear and salty indication that we were making good progress. Israel and I sat there in our car, waking ourselves up with the Whiskey from the previous night. We spent an hour and a half debating on which state was crappier; New Mexico or Arizona, it was neck and neck for awhile but in the end we came to a consensus that neither of us had ever liked Arizona and hoped Mexico invaded imminently, slaughtering the Wal-Mart security staff first. This inane, booze-driven conversation continued on into the morning, oblivious to the unholy shitstorm that was brewing directly ahead.
I was staring aimlessly at Tank, imagining the ways I could kill him and make it look like an accident, when I suddenly noticed Israel's face sink. This disconcerting facial expression was immediately followed by an unfamiliar voice yelling "Pull!". I looked up just in time to see a middle aged man in sunglasses and a brown flight suit waving wildly at somebody behind him. I put my face in my hands and cursed my stupidity, I had forgotten about Niland and the INS checkpoint. "We're caught, the gods don't want us in LA", Israel said, totally deadpanned. I nodded in agreement and began packing our bedrolls up. Israel leashed Tank up and we prepared to beg and grovel until they broke down and let us continue on our happy way. This plan was quickly put to rest when three INS agents appeared on the front of our car, with guns drawn, looking very hostile. "Como Esta?" yelled the smallest one in a voice that didn't quite match his body. Tripping over our words, we declared that we were American citizens...the guns relaxed immediately when they heard Israel's down-home drawl, and they waved us on and told us to enjoy the trip. Thinking we were free and clear, we breathed a collective sigh of relief when we heard another voice, one we hadn't heard before, yelling "Pull 'em off! Pull 'em off!". This asshole turned out to be the head honcho, and he told us point blank that they couldn't send us on our way without endangering the agency because of liability. This makes sense, but it didn't stop Israel and I from cursing him violently under our breath.
(They ordered us off OUR train!...emphasizing the possessive is the deluded mindset I always employ when being ordered off somebody else's property).
After leaving our hard-earned ride, we were told to sit in the ballast besides the tracks while they barraged us with never-ending questions. Most of these questions revolved around the fact that they thought we were carrying drugs. The smallest one, with the Napoleon complex and ill-fitting voice, asked us at least six or seven times whether we were carrying anything. We answered no over and over again, imploring them to search our bags if they were so desperate to find non-existant contraband. This turned out to be a stupid move, as they proceeded to empty both our packs and go through everything with a fine toothed comb. As they were digging through our bags nose first, another guy collected our identification and went inside the station to run us for warrants. 45 minutes passed before the tedious process of going through our packs was complete; we were feeling pretty low after having just watched our train air up and take off to Los Angeles without us. We were escorted inside the INS holding station and Tank was put in a kennel outside next to the drug dogs.
Upon entering the station we were quickly fingerprinted and placed inside a holding cell. I was surprised by how full the station was, tired looking Mexicans sat dejectedly around us, their eyes shimmering with the pain that only hopelessness can bring. There was no talking, for a while Israel and I discussed what we were going to do next, but our conversation seemed trivial and childish compared to the predicaments most of these people around us were in. Amidst all the quiet, I overheard the border patrol agents discussing the Mexican family that was in the holding cell with us. These people had crossed the border in southern california and had proceeded to walk across a LIVE navy bombing range in their attempt to reach Indio. The magnitude of such a thing made me reel; this family was so desperate to enter the United States that they had knowingly walked across a virtual war zone. I could feel the desperation emanating from them like an aura. We sat back and waited for our names to be called.
It took several hours for them to run our names due to a backlog in their system,but finally we were pulled out of the cell and into the booking lobby. After pounding Israel with questions over a firearms conviction several years earlier we were cut loose into the mercilessly hot Southern California sun. It wasn't until we were able to get our things and hike to the road that we realized just how far out in the middle of nowhere we really were. Cursing the INS at the top of our lungs, we started hiking down the road toward what we hoped would be some sort of civilization. We were on the edge of the Saltine Sea, a vast inland ocean as desolate and forbidding as any arctic wasteland. Passing drivers must have been disturbed to see two dirty hobos in the middle of nowhere; consequently, people were not eager to help us out with a ride or any water. A few hours elapsed before we came to a small housing community called Bombay Beach; a place that even from a distance seemed like bad news.
Tired and dehydrated, we stumbled into Bombay Beach and pleaded with the first people we met for water. It was a middle aged couple, maybe in their forties. The man was a firefighter in Indio and his wife was a bartender at what appeared to be the only establishment in town. They gave us a couple cigarettes and warned us not to hassle the locals (something I don't usually pay attention to, but here thought twice about). Walking through Bombay Beach was like walking through 1947 Hiroshima; every other house was gutted by fire and theft, trash piled up in the streets, stray dogs roaming around menacingly in packs. If I focused my thoughts I could clearly imagine that I was strolling through a post-apocalyptic zombie movie, all I needed was a chainsaw to decapitate the undead and I would've been all set.
We ended up heading down to the waterfront. From a distance it looked empty and somewhere we could camp without being bothered by the locals and zombies. As we crested a sand dune we saw a truly bizarre sight; trailers, video and sound equipment, and a fully functional movie set right out of hollywood lay before us. Some hip asshole holding a camera immediately ran up to us and informed us that we were on a set and would have to move further down the beach. We asked what all the filming was being done for and he told us it was for "Heroes", a show i'd never heard of but Israel seem pretty well versed in. Apparently the producers had not been able to get a permit to film on the beach in Los Angeles quick enough so they'd had to pack up all their shit and travel to this hellhole.
We laid out our campsite at sunset and settled down around a crude pallet fire. As we sat, watching the sun dip below the horizon, a family came over and gifted us a couple bags of canned food. Fortune is like blood in the water for Israel, once he gets a whiff of it he becomes convinced there is more to follow. Acting on this feeling, Israel became certain that the film crew would give us a ride back to LA, and idea that hadn't even entered my mind. He sprang up and disappeared into the night. Twenty minutes later he returned with forty dollars in his hand, the ride was a no-go, but the film stars had been generous enough to kick us down some much needed cash.
to be continued at some unknown point.
