Charlie

A story about a soldier.

Fog rolled up across the tops of the willows and moved among the pines as the freight train rolled down the widening valley. Charlie stood at the edge of the boxcar door facing backward, out of the wind. It was a decent downgrade and the track had deviations both vertical and horizontal creating an unusual floating effect for the rider. This is common coming down into cities and yards. It is not an unpleasant feeling. I gazed out the door into the gray afternoon passing by, comfortable on my lazy boy. That is, a partially inflated cargo airbag that was left here by some shipping employee who didn't even know he had done me a grand favor. I had been sitting on that thing for over a thousand miles and it was holding good.   

I contemplated Charlies filthy old surplus field jacket. I was trying to decide if that oily sheen it had rendered it more water resistant and insulated than when it was newer.
He didn't appear uncomfortable in spite of the fact that we were traveling open air for the most part. I figured it to be about 40 degrees and decided that yes, Charlie was wearing some kind of oilskin garment which had very good insulating properties. I then thought of sharing my summary with him and quickly decided against it.

The couplings on the cars took to banging back and forth as the freight slowed down. The occasional hiss of the air brakes accompanied the arrival of street signs, billboards and buildings as they came into view. The boxcar we had boarded in Elko was a good one. It was new and all the wheels were nice and round. It swayed  little as we rolled into Eugene. I loaded tobacco onto paper and willed untrained fingers to magically produce a round, tight stick like Charlie did.
It only took me three tries to make one this time. I looked up as I put fire to it and Charlie grinned at me, his teeth an unholy shade of green.
"What?" I asked.
"You may get the hang of that yet," he said.
I shrugged and demonstrated that the thing was functional.
"Lookit there, you even got tobacco poking out of both ends."


I stood and joined him at the door. We watched the faces behind the barriers as we passed intersections. People waiting impatiently, fiddling with radios and digging in bags, they seldom noticed us as we rolled along for free. I suppose most people don't have the time to notice a fellow in dark green coveralls and wayfarers standing in a boxcar next to a tall psycho looking guy. Who has a filthy coat and three missing fingers. The ones that sit in the wheel chair don't seem to anyway. The ones that sit in the other seats will spot you occasionally. Kids almost always see us. That's how I was introduced to this primitive form of travel. I saw one of those guys when I was a boy. The one I saw had a nice hat on. Like my Granddad wore to church. And he was sitting in the door of the boxcar. Something I had recently learned was a dangerous rookie move.

The clanging of the crossing barriers came more often as we exercised right of weight.
"Here it comes," said Charlie stepping into the interior darkness and motioning me to follow. In seconds we passed a knoll that had a white blazer sitting on it. There was a uniformed guy standing in front of it. Charlie gave him the bird though we were invisible as we passed. Railroad bulls don't bother tramps if they don't see them. That's what Charlie says and he has been living out here since 81.
 What a deal. He joined up and went to Vietnam, where he lost 3 fingers and his soul. He brought a nice drinking problem home with him, purely medicinal, and due to lack of general ambition, got worse.
Drinking led to dope led to crime and he did 8 of ten for some insolvent accounts that came up.
When he got out he was clean and real sure if he wasn't careful he would be right back in a jam. He started riding trains to find a destination that just never came along. Riding trains was something Charlie was real good at.

The string of rail cars wound around a corner and when we got about halfway we threw our packs out and jumped after them, looking ahead first for obstacles and  being careful where we lit. We shouldered our packs and headed for the 'gas station', a local service point for various types of individuals.  We walked between two rows of cars. There didn't seem to be an end to it. I hooked my thumbs into the straps and watched as a light rain changed the shade of the crushed rock on our path.

The air in the brake system was on in the train to my left. Charlie had told me the significance of the air lines:
"When you are in the yard, and you hear the air, but see no locomotive, means the train is leaving later."
"But how do I know which way it is going?"
"See that heavy plastic tube there between those tracks?'
'Yeah."
"That's an airline, whatever end is hooked up is the direction the train will go."
"Cool.' I said. "You're an observant sort of a feller aren't you?"
When we finally got to the end, I noted with some annoyance that there was no line hooked up. This one was not going our way. Shame too, because there were some good rides near the end of it.
We turned south toward the corner of the rail yard and Charlie pointed to a hole in the cyclone fence, behind which were some old abandoned loading docks. As we approached I noted the smell of urine, and the graffiti. Two different clues to two different animals who inhabited this area. The first species is known as Ground Pounder. These are tramps that are to lazy to travel or work. Instead they learn the area they choose to live in and watch for opportunity to steal from their own kind. They are worthless, and seldom dangerous to an intelligent being. The other animal, the one who has left his mark in spray paint instead of urine, is a social consequence.
When you remove the moral aspects of a society you break the family unit. The offspring of this society will be looking for a connection that no longer exists within the walls of their biological family. As it has been broken. Therefore, the child often looks elsewhere for structure and does not find it, as a rule, in school.
Or in church.
So, watch out for these kids when you are on the road. Be aware of a gang of children with nothing left to lose.

Up ahead there was an old abandoned two story office type building with the outside stairs demolished. Charlie walked right up to one of the windows, threw down his pack, and in about 6 moves disappeared in the second story window.
I then noticed the railroad spike, driven into a crack in the wall. Just at the right height to use as an additional step. I threw our packs up to Charlie and followed him through. We walked out of that room into the hall and headed toward the back, in the direction of a nice smell.
We went into the second room from the back, which had a picture window and an open fire. And a great view off toward the freeway. No, really, it was a great view. There was also another person in this room. And he and Charlie were acquainted.
"Hello Charley."
"Howdy Trenton, out and about again are ye?"
"Uh huh. What's goin on with you these days?'
Introductions were made. Trent was a fisherman from the SF area. He grabbed his pack and rode around the country in the off season. He was a shorter, cleaner version of Charlie. Beard, quality clothes, excellent shoes. He thought it was neat that Charlie had someone he trusted enough to travel with.

"Did you see the new bull?"
'Yup, a little as we passed."
"Heh, he's a bit different than Lenny the Lion huh?"
'Don't have a clue this one. How long you been here?'
"A couple days, get out your cups guys, this chowder is fresh out of a big can, just like you like it.'
"Bullshit," said Charlie, "I'm going to the store."
I thought this was strange as I knew we spent our last five bux on tobacco.
Far be it from me to interfere.  He took off and Trent and I had a good chat about fishing boats and hay balers. Two eagles from different nests.
As we talked, the flames in Trent's firebox, though small, kept the chill off nicely. And the breeze carried the smoke out the hole in the side of the building where the stairs used to be.
An hour later Charlie came back. He had two of the big McDonald's bags full of burgers, pies and fries. Most of which were still hot. Wow, I thought, he musta robbed the joint.
As it turns out, the drive thru was slow, the employees were bored, so Charlie talked them into feeding a bunch of hungry people he knew. This guy was sharp I tell you, there was thirty dollars worth of burgers there if there was a dime.
We poked at the fire and talked as the rain poured through the night. Later I made a bunk on a pile of cardboard and slept the sleep of the dead. I had a dream about swimming like a fish, in the ocean. It was fun. I had someone with me too. For some reason, my 3yr old niece showed up.

I woke up before daylight and rounded up the various water containers that we had. I had noticed an old pump house over by the loading docks, and thought maybe there would still be water. I was wrong. Nothing but pipes sticking up.
I took the string I had brought and tied all the handles together and went in search of water.
When people think of riding trains, they mostly think of buzzed hobos. With tidy camps by little creeks, with a coffee pot and a can of beans on an open fire. They imagine, as I did I suppose, that the happy hobo just traveled around the country, living off the fat of the land and playing his harmonica to keep the blues away.
It's actually quite different than that.
In reality, there is always a hell of a lot more walking involved than one might think. There are good Samaritans out there, but you have to find them. Or you can stand out by the freeway or the mall with a clever sign. Generally, because you aren't attached to the day to day monetary crap that 'civilized' people conform to, your expenses are slashed 10 fold, and a few dollars can get you through the day. How tramps acquire that token is variable.
I had a pretty good gig I thought. I didn't like the idea of standing out at Walmart with a placard, and I was loathe to steal or rob. Odd jobs were exactly the right thing. So whenever we hit population and made a camp, I would shed the coveralls I had, put them in a plastic bag, and walk down the street free of grit and grime. You may have noticed, you can get dirty just looking at freight trains.
Local missions I have noticed, often have people come by looking for laborers, down on their luck, like me. I have had to stand around for 3 or 4 hours for 3 or 4 days, but I always encounter someone who needs some cleaning, carpentry, or company.
As a rule, one days work could usually bring 50 to 100 bucks. Do that one and a half times a week and I was set.
On this particular morning, I was addressing another thing about rail life that is not part of the romantic fantasy. Water. Or the lack thereof rather. You see, if you use water, which we did, you have to carry it. There are no spigots on the side of trains. And don't get any wild ideas about walking around two or three city blocks of warehouses and such and finding a faucet. I tried that already.
I had a plan to go talk to the railroad cop, or bull. He had an office a quarter of a mile up the way and I knew there was water there. With absence of shame or misgiving I marched right over there carrying my various containers. I knew this might become a confrontation, but I didn't care. No one in their right mind would hassle a man looking for water, I thought.
The lights were blazing in the gray dawn as I approached, and I had my radar on.
Halfway around the building I spotted a spigot. Right in plain sight. I knelt and began filling up, waiting for the man to come around. This time he didn't so I finished up and headed out. As I walked I was singing...
...I've always been crazy and the trouble that it's put me through...
It was turning out to be another lovely day.

Author's Note

I don't think I am going to get all this down today. It's a few journal pages that hold a lot of history.
But you can tell what you like or don't like about it anyway.....

Reviews

[Jim Walters]

I believe you have a good thing going here, but first you need to get your paras in and quotations cause it's a bit jumbled now and hard to read.

even a journal entry (if you are going to show it) need a bit of finishing. Do the best you can.......then prepare to have to rewrite it anyways.

I didn't see a focal point..........every work of art needs a focal point.

[Alex Thomas]

As I read more of your work, the more I think you should arrange all of these anecdotes into a memoir. It needs more of a focus, but sometimes stories in life have no focus. Sometimes, tasks are set before us will no meaning later on in life. And usually these are the best times. A vivid piece. A good look on the life of a hobo.

[J. Marc]

I would agree with Jim Walters : some paragraphs need to be focused or should I say shortened.
What I like is the fact that you took the luxury of expanding on inner, human feelings, that you did not try to embellish and present only clean and heroic characters. What I love is passages like this one: „When you remove the moral aspects of a society you break the family unit. The offspring of this society will be looking for a connection that no longer exists within the walls of their biological family. As it has been broken. Therefore, the child often looks elsewhere for structure and does not find it, as a rule, in school. Or in church. So, watch out for these kids when you are on the road. Be aware of a gang of children with nothing left to lose.“ It is your personal interpretation of a commonly held principle and makes your writing original.

[emmajoy]

' I loaded tobacco onto paper and willed untrained fingers to magically produce a round, tight stick like Charlie did.
It only took me three tries to make one this time. I looked up as I put fire to it and Charlie grinned at me, his teeth an unholy shade of green.
What? I asked.
You may get the hang of that yet, he said;'

You had me from the lines above. Great story here, fine descriptions of people and places, thoughts and dialogue. There are touches of other writers which makes me think you're quite a reader .. or, failing that, you're just a very fine writer waiting to give birth to a masterpiece.

I agree with Mr. Walters, maybe a little more attention to the technical side of things would open the sluice gates more .. re flow .. but, that still doesnt detract from real live story-telling!

[cest la vie]

I can tell you I like. Real people, real stories make the best read. In my opinion. Your scene set up is on point and I instantly want to be in the lazy boy chair, riding the rails.
Please continue as I can see a a wonderful slice of your history unfolding ..
Yes sir, good stuff here!!