Vagabonds And Drifters

Short story about traveling the world on a train.

Wyatt sat in the corner of his bedroom, pajama-clad knees up to his chin, book balancing on the edge of his fingertips.

"...and the vagabond jumped through the slight opening as the train bumped along the tracks." He sighed heavily as he turned the page.

'The One Track Mind' series by Lowell A. Norris had been Wyatt Dranger's favorite books since he had been a small child; even today at the age of twelve he still read them all, over and over again. He devoured them.

Train's were Wyatt's passion. Toy trains covered every nook and cranny of his small space. His bedspread was adorned with red and blue replicas and three half-finished models cluttered the kitchen table, much to his mother's chagrin.

Yet, Wyatt's obsession was way beyond mere passion. The boy loved the inner workings of the massive machines from a mechanical and technological interest, yes, but he also had a desire. A strong desire. He wanted to travel. He wanted to see, feel, taste and smell exotically weird and wild places like the vagabonds and adventures in Lowell Norris' books.

Opening his door just an inch, he watched as the light beneath his mother's bedroom door at the end of the hallway flickered out. He exhaled. Wyatt hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath.

Quickly scrambling from his pajamas, he shimmied into a pair of jeans, tucked himself into a flannel shirt and put on the train conductor's cap his Uncle Ellis has given him for Christmas.

Grabbing his sneakers, he shoved a hand deep into the toe of the left shoe and extracted the twenty dollar bill he had been saving. Birthday money from Nana. It was certainly going to be put to good use.

Laying a red bandana atop his bed, Wyatt smoothed its wrinkles, nervously; excitedly. He wouldn't readily admit the nerves to anyone, even to himself.

Opening his underwear drawer, the preteen removed two cans of beans and a bottle of water from its depth and tied them into the cloth. Holding tightly to the parcel he tiptoed softly into the hallway. The door screeched ominously as he pulled it forward.

Standing for a brief moment, he fully expected his mother to emerge, to demand to know what he was doing, to ruin the plan.

As the lights remained extinguished, Wyatt whispered, "Bye, Mom," into the surrounding air and proceeded to slip out the French doors into the backyard and the world beyond.

The one mile journey to the railroad tracks went smoothly and rather quickly. It was almost eleven p.m. Wyatt heard the train's long, low, whining whistle every night. He knew its schedule. It should be along any moment now.

As the guard rails came down, a dark, green pickup truck slammed to a halt. Wyatt quickly turned off the dim beam emanating from his flashlight.

"Can't get caught before my adventure even begins," he muttered.

Looking into the distance, he grinned as the dark shadow inched closer and the train's sweet rumbling sounds filled his ears. Vibrations in the dirt tickled his toes. His heart beat wildly.

His sneakers seemed glued to the earth. He couldn't move. Thoughts raced wildly as the connected cars whizzed by.

Suddenly, he jerked his freckled face upward, realizing his opportunity was slipping by quickly; much too quickly.

The rush of air seemed to suck Wyatt's very soul from his lungs yet his heart was determined to emulate the vagabond life. The fictional lives of the carefree travelers written about amongst the well-worn pages of dozens of hard-back covers were his friends and confidantes; almost like brothers.

Wyatt Dranger needed a brother or a father or somebody. Yeah, Mom was great and all but since Dad had died and they moved every couple of years, Wyatt felt so alone. Besides, every kid he had ever met thought he was weird. He read too much. His teeth were funny looking. His hair was too orange.

Clutching his meager belongings to his chest with one hand, he ran after the speeding train and hoisted himself up into an open box car with the other.

Stumbling and rolling onto his side, he watched helplessly as his cans of beans rolled across the dusty floor and back into a deep, dark corner. He groped around for his flashlight but was unable to locate its whereabouts.

"Crap!" he yelled. The echo boomed in his ears. He stood slowly, trying to acclimate himself to the rocking and swaying of the large tin can. The darkness enveloped him and fear crawled up his backside.

Reaching up to smooth his curly orange locks, Wyatt felt something warm and sticky trickling down his left wrist. He was bleeding. He must have cut his hand as he'd tumbled into the box car.

Moving his feet, he felt the loose bandana and stooped to retrieve it. As he wound the fabric around the palm of his hand, he noticed a small reddish-blue glow in the corner, the same corner his beans had traveled into.

"H-H-Hello?" he stammered.

"Hello," a deep, gruff voice replied.

Wyatt had the urge to wet his pants. A lump sprang up in his throat. What was he going to do? He remembered in the second book of his beloved series a rough character named Radd hiding in the shadows and stealing a newcomer's money. Wyatt had only his twenty dollar bill. Would it be enough to satiate the glowing light's needs?

"I have a little money if that's what you want," Wyatt said shakily. The reddish-blue glow diminished and then disappeared.

Silence.

The moment seemed to drag on forever. Wyatt shifted from one foot to the other, swaying, flailing his arms as he attempted to maintain his balance and keep nausea at bay.

"Don't want nuttin' but fer you to set down, boy," the gruff voice finally said. "You fall and crack yer head open, I'll feel responsible."

Wyatt obeyed and his motion sickness began to subside. "Who, umm, are you?" he asked the voice. Curiosity began to outweigh fear.

"Ever body calls me Law, short fer Lawson Uller. Who're you, young feller?"

Placing his palms in his lap, Wyatt began to think. Should he tell this disconnected entity who he was? Mom had always said to never talk to strangers but what kind of adventure would it be if the didn't? Staring out the open door watching the night fly by, the sleepy boy answered, "I'm Wyatt Dranger, Mr. Uller. Nice to meet you." There, the light in the corner was no longer a stranger.

"What brings you to travel by train this fine evenin'?"

Wyatt shrugged. "Just like trains is all." He tried to imitate his new friend's Southern drawl. He hoped the imitation was flattering and not insulting.

"Me too," Law agreed. "But mostly I enjoy movin' on from place to place. I cain't sit still too long."

"Sounds like a wonderful life." Wyatt's wide smile turned into a yawn.

"Can be but sometimes there's downfalls."

"Like what? I couldn't imagine."

"Oh, not enough to eat. Skeered of gettin' caught." Law cleared his throat loudly. "You do know sneakin' on a train is illegal, right?"

Wyatt knew it was wrong but he didn't know it was illegal.

"Does yer Momma and Daddy know yer out here ridin' the rails, son?"

Curling up on his side, Wyatt thought it best not to answer the question.

"Ya know, I always think it quite interestin' learnin' people's monikers as I traipse 'round the world. Yer name's Wyatt. What're yer Momma and Daddy's names?"

The explanation of his father's death due to an elevator malfunction spewed from Wyatt's lips. He began to cry.

"I really miss him. My Mom's so busy working all the time and she's so tired when she's home. My Dad bought me my first train set, guess that's why I love 'em so much." He paused as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. "My Dad's name was Samuel and my Mom's is Tori."

"Both my parents are gone. I ain't got nobody," Law revealed. "My Daddy was a big reader. When I was about yer age he bought me a book called, 'Train Me' all about trains. I was hooked from then on."

Wyatt grinned again. They both had something in common -- fond memories of their fathers.

"Wait," Wyatt stopped himself. "How do you know how old I am? We can't even see each other."

Law let out a hearty laugh. "I saw ya as you come roarin' through the doorway. I'm figurin' about eleven or twelve?"

"Twelve," Wyatt said flatly.

"You remind me of myself at twelve. My folks had split up and things weren't good at home so I hopped a train and been takin' care of myself ever since. Ya need to go on back home. Live a good life, not one where you'll struggle, always be afraid."

"You're afraid?" Wyatt was puzzled.

"Ever damn day of my life," Law said matter-of-factly. "Afraid of gettin' killed in a train yard, afraid of starvin' to death, afraid of never gettin' married and havin' kids. I'm only thirty but feel like I've lived many lifetimes."

Wyatt's eyebrows squinched together. "But I thought this was supposed to be fun, you know, an adventure?"

"I got bit by that wanderlust bug and it was fun fer a while but after the adventure wore off it just wasn't fun no more."

"Then why didn't you go home?"

"I'd been away too long," Law tried to explain.

Nodding his head, Wyatt thought he understood. "So, how did you find out your parents had died?"

"Umm, well, I, uh, had come through my hometown on a train several years ago and saw it in the local paper there. Please, go home, Wyatt. Don't end up with regrets like me. Be a kid. Yer Momma needs to know yer safe."

Silence.

Then Law heard the snoring.

***

Early the next morning, Wyatt awoke. His neck and back were sore from sleeping on the cold, hard, dirty floor. He groaned as he stretched and clawed at his muscles.

Suddenly, a can of baked beans rolled into his side, a second one quickly followed.

"Mornin'," Law said from his corner.

Wyatt looked in the man's direction. His brown hair was unkempt and dirty. His dark, scraggly beard was littered with dust and food particles. He looked like he had slept in his wrinkled, faded, moth-eaten clothing for a year or more. The boy stared, disappointed in his friend's appearance.

"We'll be stopped here a while. I can rustle us up some breakfast?"

"No, thank you," Wyatt replied politely. "I think I'll just hop off and be moving on foot for a little while. It was nice to have met you."

Each gave a little wave to the other and Wyatt jumped from the box car after a cursory glance around the depot.

As soon as Law was satisfied with the boy's distance he made his way to the old payphone mounted to the concrete wall between two wooden, green benches. He didn't see payphones much anymore. Thank God for small favors.

He counted the sparse coins from his pocket; enough for two calls.

Information connected him to Tori Dranger in Fayettesville and he quickly described where her missing son could be found. The woman cried tears of joy and thanked the drifter profusely.

Placing more coins into the phone, Lawson Uller dialed the number he had committed to memory many years earlier. "Mom?"

Travel can be an adventure but it's always nice to get back home.

Author's Note

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