Riding the Rails: Chicago Bound

Riding the Rails: Chicago Bound





Chick Evens and Tom Fortuna, stood still looked about the railroad yard.
“It’s all right,” Tom said.
“You mean the lousy brakeman’s gone—right,” Chick asked Tom.
“He’s nowhere insight,” remarked Tom.
Evens wiped his hands on his trousers, getting the dirt off of them, he looked down the tracks a-ways, could still see the lights of the caboose, it had left the Jackson Street Railroad Yard, had slowed down a mile away at the Mississippi Railroad Yard (where they were at now, near their homes), but was going in the opposite direction he and Tom wanted to go, wanted to catch a ride from St. Paul, to Chicago. They were both fifteen-years old, it was a Friday night, they figured they’d jump the train as it slowed down, and be in Chicago by morning, have breakfast and if their luck held out, be back in St. Paul by noon the next day for lunch.
The train was coming, he could feel the distinct power in its movement of the ground, unlike anything else, it woke him up—vibrated through his feet to his stomach and arms and throat and jaw and teeth, startled his inners, the sound was so loud and powerful, he could feel, if not sense, and was convinced the train would soon bear down upon him.

Chick touched the stepladder attached onto the freight car that ran parallel to him, as he ran and allowed the pull of the train to automatically lift and pull his body over and up onto its steel ladder—next to it, then he’d hang on with one hand, pull the rest of his body up and to the ladder bars, as Tom would do the same, was doing the same, and Chick noticed underneath the boxcar was a hobo or bum (a hobo being a traveling worker, and a bum being a bum), and in-between two boxcars (the one he was hanging onto, and the one Tom was hanging onto, next to his) was another vagrant; both he and Tom, hanging onto the side ladders, attached to the freight cars. He could hardly see them, but they were there, moving shadows nonetheless, and with the moon being their lamp, he could see their outlines.
The gravel and packed sand along side the tracks, extended beyond the rim of the steel tracks, and solid wooden row of timbers. In part He was about to do what the hobos were doing, riding the rods, that required skill and lots of courage, and it required a man to position himself under the freight car, hanging onto a rod, as Jack Dempsey did when he was sixteen, Evens at fifteen, but not to the extend Jack did. In those far-off days, folks had to go long distances to find work; this was an adventure trip, nothing more. Therefore, he simply, grabbed with one hand, and jumped with one foot landing on that ladder I mentioned, at the end of one freight car, and there he was. The metal ladder went to the roof of the car, he remained on its first step, held with two hands the third bar to the ladder, gripped the iron like bar in front of him with no breathing space between bar and fingers.
Chick was not what was called ‘a teenage-freight rider, riding the rails’ as many teenagers did during the depression years in the 1920s and 30s, on a regular bases, but from his perspective, and Tom’s, it was presumed simply, and attempted at simply, for its romanticism of the road, and in time, Chick Evens would travel the roads throughout the whole United States by car, trains and planes, then crisscross the world by planes. But today, for now, this evening, at this very moment, it was his first ride on a freight train, and his first, attempt at riding the rails, as they say; call it the spirit of adventure.

The boxcars started to speed up; there was acceleration, a rush inside of Chick, along with the trains forward thrust. Likewise, Tom was hanging on tight, heart-wrenching: it was a free ride, open air, exhilarating, and Evens tried to get another look at the traveler underneath the freight car on the car’s structural rods he got a glimpse of his hand hanging beyond the boxcar, and his elbow, his smudged and muddy boots, then he saw another man climbing a ladder beyond Tom’s boxcar, looking like he was going to ride the deck (on top of the railroad car), unless it was a guard. He thought maybe he should have tried an empty gondola car, that is, an unoccupied caboose, but that would have been too dangerous, once in it you’d not be able to escape easily, if someone put a spike in the door, and most of them were closed anyhow, so this was for the most part, safer, yet one needed to be mindful of the risk.

Four miles outside of St. Paul, the train started to slow down; Chick could see and feel the slower movement of the train. What he was hoping was there’d be no swaying trains, coming the opposite way, it could sweep him off the train into it, the one riding the rods were safer, they were confined in a smaller space, less detectable than he, who had to hang exposed, and hang on for dear life; whereas, those under him could roll out and off the train when he wanted to with no difficulty or move back farther in, plus he got only a little dust and cinders on him, whereas Evens got them all, even got dirt thrown in his face, and that got a little fearful for him, and the monotonous sound of the wheels, could lull a man to sleep, on the rails, and falling to sleep, meant falling to your death. Although one needed to be careful if he road the rods, because at road crossings, one could get their cloths caught in planks, and be pulled under the train itself, and cut in two. For some this kind of life, was a lifestyle, for Chick Evens, as already pointed out, it was an adventure, no more, and one that appeared to be ending sooner than expected.
Another three miles and then the train came to a dead stop. They were in some railroad yard, a junction, there was a highway to the left of them, and lights, from a restaurant, a gas station and a bar lit up the area he was in.
Chick stepped down off the ladder backwards, it was easier to pull his self off and then be facing forward in a comfortable option to take a second step, to catch oneself, and not get hurt. The same way he got onto the ladder, achieving solid footing. Then he looked straight ahead, the sign read: “New Port,” and he said to Tom: “Well, exactly where are we?”
(A man yelled from the top of the roof, ‘You kids get the hell out of here before…!”)
“Let’s get going,” said Tom.
“Where is New Port?” Chick asked Tom.
Tom a little embarrassed, remarked, “Seven miles from where we started out from, my older sister lives out here with her husband. And there isn’t any more trains going to Chicago, and only one leaving here at 2:00 a.m., to go back to the Jackson Street Yards, only slowing down at the Mississippi Yards.” (Tom had watched trains pretty much, knew about them, but as far as Chick was concerned: the blind was following the blind.)

“So now we got to walk seven miles back home, is that right Tom?” asked Evens, as if he didn’t know, nor needed any confirmation, but out of anger. Tom looked at Evens, smiled, Evens’ face was unhappy, said in a blunt way, “And we are only 393-miles from Chicago.”
Tom looked at his watch, “its 11:20 p.m., we should get back in a few hours if we keep a good stride.” He commented.
He looked at Tom, “Let’s sit down over by the embankment, rest, get our wind, and then head on back.”
And there they sat, blank like, looking off into emptiness, to nowhere, discouraged, but Evens came to the point after a minute or two of meditation: he got his ride, learned a few things along the way, and for now that would just have to do, it would have to be good enough, like it or not, and his composure showed it was—under the circumstances— showed that it was kosher.
“Let’s go Tom,” said Chick.
“Sure,” said Tom, droopy faced, not looking forward to the seven mile walk back along the tracks, “What’s the matter?” Asked Tom.
“I’m alright, just thinking it will be about 3:00 a.m., by the time we get back.”
“I don’t know, but that sounds about right,” said Tom.
“Come on; let’s get going then, no time to waste.”

It was 2:45 a.m., when Evens walked through the door of his home, everyone sleeping, and he went directly to the bathroom, which meant he had to go halfway into his mother’s bedroom, “Who’s that?” she said.
“Just me, Chick mom, went to the bathroom?”
“Oh, when did you get…?” and before she could finished her statement-question, and before Evens had to lie, she fell back to sleep.

June 1, 2009: No: 409./ds