Train Track Creek

A Story by hpage

This is an essay, possibly a memoir. Bits of my childhood, and a few reckless things we did, cigarette heists and creek-side hideouts.

Train Track Creek

We used to smoke cigarettes and swear for fun while we sat pennies, keys, and pop tabs on the railroad track, waiting for the train to come by and flatten them. We laughed and joked about which of us was the coolest, who had the best jokes, and who could do the best impressions. We were thirteen, some going on fourteen, and just as awkward as any other teenagers during that long and carefree summer. I was short and slightly obese for my age, throughout my childhood I never had a pair of pants that didn’t have either elastic waistbands or a tag marked “husky”. I always wore an extra-large KISS t-shirt and chili bowl haircut that I had done at the Wal-Mart salon while my mother shopped for groceries and other necessities for our family of five. My twin brother Chris was also a part of our gang; he was just as awkward and fat as I and sported the same husky waistband and chili bowl haircut"though he preferred a Led Zeppelin t-shirt.

Our mother was a licensed practical nurse who was in and out of every convalescent home in the county. She was an instigator and drama queen, and enrolled at Indiana University-Purdue University Columbus. It took what seemed like twenty years for her to achieve her baccalaureates in nursing. Even with a degree she couldn’t keep the same job for too long, as she was always looking for any reason to “call the state”, as she would declare, and have the place cited for some cockamamie violation or whatnot. I believe she had some kind of Jesus complex, wanting to come out as some kind of hero or champion for someone or anything. She always wanted to be a singer"but it never even dipped its toe into working out. Maybe that was her way of getting some kind of limelight or attention. Maybe that was her way to leave some kind of mark. I don’t know; honestly, I don’t care either.

Our father was a baby boomer, old hippie, and sixteen years older than our mother. In the 70’s, he drove vans with wood-paneled interiors and camped out for day long stretches in corn fields or lakeshores partying. Now, he was an overweight diabetic who lived within his routine. Every day he went to work at the automotive parts factory where he was employed. He would then come home, usually cook dinner or ruefully eat what my mother had made, and then watch television and chain smoke Salem light 100’s while mumbling negative comments under his breath at the local news. He was hard, yet could be lighthearted when he was in the mood. His beard was still red then, but his hair had already been turning gray for some time.

He hardly ever wore a shirt at home, his bushy grey chest hair and scars were hard to forget; one from his neck to his belly button and another about eight inches long on the front right side of his gut. The former, from a surgery following a motorcycle accident, and the latter, from having his gallbladder removed. Our friends got along with him just fine, and he got along with them. They just found it hard to understand what he was saying sometimes. He was from southeastern Kentucky, and also lived in Michigan for twenty years; it seemed that here in Indiana the blending of his native and acquired dialects became something of confusion to natural Hoosiers. Shawn did a pretty good impression of him. We all did one actually; every time we quoted my father we spoke with our “Otis impressions”"we still do today. Shawn and his pal Allen were our other two friends that were present for the biggest part of that summer.

Allen was slim with a buzzed head and a broken front tooth. He was, like my twin brother and I, poor and found fun in anything reckless and unlawful. He was into cars, hot rods, building models, and semi-tractors. His father was a mustachioed chain-smoking truck driver who was lacking an index finger on his left hand"I never found out why he was missing the finger. He drove an old blue Chevrolet pickup truck and it was his baby; we were pretty sure he took care of that truck better than he did his wife. His mother was a very passive and submissive gas station attendant. She was demure and had a strange short neck and a flat face; throughout the years I suspected she was also abused by his father"he drank and always had a very short fuse. I found out years later, after running into her at the very gas station she had always worked, that she had finally divorced him and moved on. Allen also liked raunchy rap music, and he always made us listen to his favorites on an old cassette player in his grandmothers shed"another one of our various summer hideouts. I met Allen through Shawn; they lived eight houses away from each other.

Shawn was also on the chubby side and came from a sort of broken background; he lived with his aunt who was fairly well-off so he seemed to always have everything. We slightly resented him for that, but never knew the extent of his family’s problems until a few years later. His father was, for lack of a more realistic word, a drunk. I never knew what kind of work he did. I did know that every time we went to his house he would be there in the dark gulping Budweiser tall-boys. Their red Rumpke recycling bin was always spilling over into the grass with beer cans. I remember one instance, before I knew what discretion was, I asked of Shawn if his father was a “drunk”; he became offended and withdrawn, I felt like a dumbass and I changed the subject.

His mother was also a gas station attendant, like Allen’s, but she worked at a truck stop. Although married, she enjoyed keeping the company of weary truck drivers and flirted with any man around her. She was a strange woman, and she thought she was cute. She never ate meat, but lived off of cheese pizza with ranch dressing and “veggie whoppers” with extra mayonnaise; she was three hundred pounds and for some reason always intimidating to all of us.

Shawn loved Legos and orange soda, was timid, tried too hard, and had obviously been neglected by his parents. His aunt Cathy and her husband Orville taking him in was the best thing he had going. They were the closest to parents he ever had. Orville was a very bright man, worked at Navistar doing something technical. He had a garage workshop that any man or boy would be envious of. Cathy worked as a waitress at the same truck stop his mom worked at, but she was a little more reserved and only used her flirtations for tips. We thought for that longest time that she was an overbearing b***h, but looking back now I realize she was the sanest adult in our lives. He had anything he wanted whenever he wanted. Her fridge and pantry were always stocked with various cold sodas and the best name brand sweet, salty, chewy, and crunchy snacks. It was a fat kids’ dream. I enjoyed the perks, but material goods had somewhat jaded him to what he had, and they couldn’t cure the hurt that was inside of him anyways; it was a decent enough substitute apparently.

That whole summer we hung out on the railroad tracks and at the creek that ran about a half-mile behind the baseball diamonds at the park down the road from Shawn’s aunt’s house. We rode our bikes through the field beyond the baseball diamonds and left them underneath the train bridge that ran above the creek. I still remember how hard it was peddling that used ten-speed mountain bike through that dense grass, my chubby legs were wore out by the time we got through that field. Allen rode a BMX style bicycle and peddled that thing with a fierce power. He shot right through that grass and always made it to the creek before any of us. Some days Shawn opted to roller blade with his shoes tied together and tossed over his shoulders. We all flew past him on those days, while he sort of hop-waddled sipping a can of Sunkist orange soda.

We had what we considered a hideout on the other side of the creek within the brush and intertwined branches. We spent most of our time there ogling coverless copies of Playboy magazine that we found in the dumpster of the bookstore in town. We played with fire as well, setting things ablaze for no other reason than to watch them burn. Shawn always seemed to have a pocket full of firecrackers and we highly enjoyed shoving them into the mud along the bank to see how big of a crater we could produce. We hunted for crawdads and minnows and fished for blue gill with canned corn as bait, we never caught anything and we didn’t really care that we didn’t.

This creek ran through old corn fields and divided our little town in half. A short hike from our hideout through the brush, overgrowth, cattails, and across a fallen tree we could get to the Wal-Mart on the other side of town. All we had to do to get to this retail outlet was to climb onto a concrete barrier that reinforced the ten foot tall chain link fence that surrounded the store’s property. We then had to climb the fence and carefully climb down the other side. We all got pretty accustomed to climbing this fence after some time, a substantial feat considering that three of the four of us were not quite used to physical accomplishments of this type. On one such occasion as I was throwing my leg over the top of the fence my pants snagged and ripped the crotch clean open. I knew my old man was going to be pissed that I ripped my pants, and that he would probably give me a good a*s-busting when I got home. Luckily, I had grown adept at hiding things from my parents and had also grown larger than my father; his a*s-busting days were over.

Our favorite thing to do once we finally arrived at the Walmart was to employ our usual plan. One would act as a decoy and usually shop for a two-liter of soda, some beef jerky, and Funyuns; snacks for our hideout after our heist. One would act as lookout in the periodicals section; his job was to give some signal to the last two in case of any danger. The job of the last two was to casually wander around the cigarette case"back then they were little kiosks in the middle of the store where you could get your own cigarettes; not locked behind the register. These two would wander past the case and nonchalantly reach out and grab a pack of whatever he could grab and shove them in his pocket. Once the job was done, and all pockets were full, we broke up and left the store independently. When we were out we raced across the parking lot making our getaway. We had to climb back over the fence to get to our hideout"getting back over was tougher than the other side as there was no concrete barrier to give us a boost up the fence.

Once back at our hideout we all collapsed with exhaustion. We caught our breath and laughed our asses off"we felt like outlaws, drinking in all the excitement of our heist as our lives were pretty mediocre. We then passed around the two-liter and emptied our pockets seeing what we made out with. Part of the fun of the cigarette heist was that we never knew what we would end up with because we grabbed them blindly and with swiftness. We divided up our ill-gotten bounty and sat on the fallen tree, like a bench, fighting over the accuracy of the division. We calmed ourselves and regained normalcy, puffing away on Benson and Hedges menthols and passing around the beef jerky.

We continued our cigarette heists throughout that summer, we even brought more friends into our gang. Once Richard and Ronald started hanging out with us we let them in on our scheme and brought them into our hideout. They were twins like my brother and I, they were obnoxious, loud, and poorer, had terrible hygiene, and had even more familial problems than Shawn. Coincidently their father had also been in a motorcycle accident, but he was unlucky as he was bedridden from then on. The poor guy could only lie on the couch watching television and chain smoking Tourney full-flavors. His mind was still bright, he was still a smart man, but aside from that and his right arm the rest of him was useless.

Their mother was also a nurse and she worked every hour that she could to try to keep the family together. Their home always looked like a garbage dump, and was probably fairly close to the boundaries of condemnation because their mother was always working or sleeping, their father was bedridden, and they themselves were too lazy to pick up anything. We liked hanging out with them, albeit they were slightly annoying, they were funny as hell.

Once we brought them into our enterprise things started getting out of hand. They were more reckless than all of us combined. They would run into that store and completely disregard our sound method. They would stuff their pants full of items like bb guns, hatchets, silly string, and cartons of cigarettes. We made one heist with them and when we got back to our hideout we saw the extent of their thoughtlessness. They produced all the items from their pant legs and pockets and we were astounded. At that gathering our lookout admitted that they heard someone over a walkie talkie in the store saying something about checking out these sketchy kids wandering around the store unsupervised. We got out in time though, that was the nearest to getting caught that we ever came.

We all very much disliked leaving our hideout, but like all, we had to go home sometime. Rather cliché that summer, like most around that age, seemed to last a lifetime, but when it was over only felt like a day. My brother and I of course still see each other, and Shawn is still a good friend of mine. But, I’ve lost touch with Allen, Richard, and Ronald. We had good fun in that hideout, and more stories than this one. We learned from that last heist that the words of the old adage “Too many cooks spoil the broth.” were indeed true. We never made another heist after that, and we left our hideout to the next generation of reckless prepubescent adventurers. Besides, after the Page Gang had made their last stand, Wal-Mart started locking their cigarettes behind the register"so we made friends with seniors who could buy them for us.

Those times taught me some good lessons about becoming a young man, and the things you need to leave behind in order to be considered a man. Those were some good times I must admit, but in retrospect I realize that we were doing all sorts of things that we shouldn’t have been doing. I know now that if my son were to grow up and do some of these things I would have to let him have it and make sure he sees the errors of a life like that.

Another good example of why and how the old gang disbanded, and how the brothers Rich and Ron took us to extremes would be another time that very summer. The brothers lived on a rather sparse lot on the outlying edge of a community on a hill. Their backyard was pretty much a field filled with old rotten and rusted automobiles, overgrowth, and an abandoned dog kennel. Beyond that field, I’d say roughly 500 feet, lay a church. This church had a nice lot, lush green grass, and a small playground for the children around the back. The brothers talked us into going over there one day, for what reason is lost to my memory, and so we went.

I was sitting on a swing smoking a Marlboro red and just hanging around. I believe that Shawn was present, as well as Allen, and a couple of other “pals” from the neighborhood. Hanging out on the playground and smoking cigarettes took a turn for the worst within no time. Just how everything went down I do not explicitly recall, but I will try to recollect it as it was.

One of the brothers and the pals from the neighborhood either found an unlocked door or a window and proceeded to enter the church. No one was there, it was a Saturday afternoon, and so I reckon they just took advantage of the opportunity. I myself did not enter the church, and I wanted no part in a breaking and entering"shoplifting was where I drew my line. Those who did enter the church decided it would be nice to do a bit of vandalism and rummaging. The brothers laughed and enjoyed themselves"a strange enjoyment I recall"and I felt sick to my stomach and panicked. Once I saw what they were doing"tearing up flower beds, ripping up bibles, and I think there may have been a can of spray paint involved, I started to leave.

I left the chain-link perimeter and started walking through the field back to the brothers house. As soon as I got half-way through that field I noticed in the near distance a squad car plowing through the grass with lights flashing but no siren. It sped towards me and the driver hit the brakes and slid a little on the grass. A police officer jumped out of the car and shouted to me “What are you boys doing over there?” I was almost stone and merely babbled that I had been swinging while the others were up to no good. He then said “We got a call about some kids vandalizing that church.” I pointed towards the church and mentioned that some were still there and a couple others left. He ordered me to go get the others and bring them back to the church while he went over to check things out. I nervously agreed to his request and started walking towards the house as fast as my pulse was racing.

Coincidently, we had also performed a cigarette heist that day and luckily the policeman didn’t search me, as I had five packs of ill-gotten smokes in the pockets of my cargo shorts. Once I got back to the house I ditched all my contraband in a rotten and rusted Ford Fairlane"a very nice car in its day, too bad it was lying here dead. I then went back into the house and called to the others who had previously been at the church to go back to the church because the police were there and wanted to see everybody. They were reluctant to do so, but did as I had told them.

We strode back across the field and the policeman had the other boys and the brothers rounded up and was questioning them. When we got back there, there was a neighbor"obviously the one who had called the police"sticking their nose into the matter. The officer knew there was an illegal entry and questioned as to who entered the church. I responded that I had nothing to do with that, that I was only swinging and was trying to leave at the moment that he approached me. He believed my truthful testimony and allowed me to leave. I was very thankful for that and I ran back across that field to the house, collected my stashed contraband, jumped on my bike and pedaled back across town to my house as quick as my stocky legs would take me.

This isn’t a very good ending to this story, I am aware, but it is what it is. Some memories are lost over the years, as well as some habits, occurrences, and acquaintances. I am unsure what happened after I left that day, but I do know that moment reinforced the notion that we shouldn’t have ever incorporated them into our gang. We were petty teenagers before they came around. They were broken, and desired some kind of strange attention. And I think that those sensibilities poisoned our group’s disposition. We faded and drifted, spent less time together and eventually our friendship dissolved just like my attraction to petty crime. We put our efforts and energy towards more creative endeavors after that. We stopped hanging around the creek, the train track, we ditched our bikes for mopeds, and we stopped digging through bookstore dumpsters for girly magazines. We kept our noses clean and found passionate interests that we could throw our whole selves into.

I took up the bass guitar and recall playing it non-stop, trying to learn by listening to my father’s old Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin records. Shawn took up the drums and always had a pair of sticks in his pocket, he would ‘air drum’ while he would rollerblade through the neighborhood. We took up new friends and started our first band together. Shawn and I have been best friends since those crazy summer happenings. Our interests were what we had in common. And we discovered that we shared a love and admiration for music. Music kept us together. Time however, keeps up apart now. If only we could extract the time we wasted all those years ago and could put it to good use now. It seems every time we speak on the phone we’re always making plans for recording that record that has never yet been made, and it most likely will not happen. But, that is something we have. We have hope in something, it is lasting. Just like our memories of that summer, that creek, that train track, and those cigarettes.