Boxcars

“There is a chink, a nigger, and a cracker in that car; git ‘em outta’ there. Oh yeah, there’ also a kid in there.” I was the kid. Thus with those words, one of the strangest and most profound adventures of my young life was about to take place.
Have you noticed, when you’re stopped at a railroad crossing and a train goes by that there are no more boxcars? The railroad companies have gone the way of the shipping companies. Containers. The story I am about to convey to you, I don’t think could happen today.
First a little history lesson. Do you know where the term “hobo” comes from? Well, for those of you who do not know, I’m a gonna’ tell ya’. After the Civil War, or the War of Liberation, depending on where your sympathies lie, some of the displaced men who found themselves still alive after the carnage had no home, and no way of making a living. So they took to the highways and byways. To earn their daily bread they would offer to work for a day at the farms they passed. Before long, it was discerned that if they had their own work implements work would come easier. Therefore, one by one, they started carrying hoes. And of course before long they were called “hoe boys.” Now English, being the wonderful, beautiful, and living language that is, it was not long before any itinerant man was called a hobo.
This is how the whole thing started. I was hichin’ east on Old US Highway 90, but back then it was just US 90. I was in the desert of Arizona and the rides were not plentiful to say the least. The last ride had let me out in the middle of nowhere; the only things resembling civilization were the train tracks and a few buildings facing the tracks about a hundred yards to the south of me. And oh yeah, there was a long freight train sitting on those tracks, there must have been a hundred boxcars or more.
My attention was drawn to one car in particular. All the cars were brown in color except one about three quarters of the way back. It was green and the door was slid open. I looked down the road, saw not a car in sight, and decided right then and there to hop my first freight train. After all, it was pointed in the same direction in which I wanted to go. The car I wanted was west of where I was standing, so I walked diagonally from the road to the train. Passing not in front of the buildings, but behind them. When I reached the green car, I threw my suitcase in and then climbed in after it. For a moment, I did not see my traveling companions, but as I looked to my right there they were. Over in the far corner were three men. A black guy, a Chinaman, and a white guy. (I know some of my terminology may not be socially acceptable today, but I’m writing from my perceptions as an eighteen-year old kid in 1968.)
The three were sitting on wooden crates; they may have been orange crates, or apple crates. It’s not important, but sometimes details do matter. They were all about forty years of age. The Chinaman was in the middle, he had a beard that was black, wispy, and sparse. It was about a foot long. He was a bit chubby, wore tan pants, a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his biceps, and brown work boots. To his left sat the black man. He was thin (I couldn’t tell how tall any of them were because they were sitting down.) and had grey though out his hair. He was wearing a white t-shirt, black pants, and on his feet were black high top sneakers, US Keds. The white guy was on the Chinaman’s right. Nothing to report on him except he was also thin, had a big smile, and though I couldn’t tell from a distance, but found out later, blue eyes. Piercing blue eyes that when he looked at you would make you feel as though he had known you all your life. Or, at least that he knew all about you, including what was hidden deep within your soul. He wore blue jeans, cowboy boots, a black t-shirt with a denim jacket over it.
If they were startled, they were over it by the time I noticed them. The Chinaman had a hunk of cheese in his left hand and a small knife in his right. All of them, the cheese, the knife, and his hands were poised over a fourth crate upon which sat a loaf of French bread about two feet long. He then said as I stood in the door of the boxcar, “You want some cheese and bread?”
Well, they may not have been startled, but I was. I thought I would have the accommodations all to myself. After taking a second or two to access the situation, I said, “No thank you,” but walked over to where they were, laid my suitcase on the floor, and sat on it, opposite of the makeshift table, facing my three hosts.
After my butt hit the suitcase the Chinaman said, “Where ya’ headed?” To which I replied, “Miami … Miami Florida.” While thinking, “Is this guy the spokesman for the outfit? The other two had not spoken a word.” Just as I was thinking that thought, the white guy says, “Howdy, my name’s Jake, this here is Ying, pointing to the Chinaman, and that sorry son-of-a-bitch over there is Samuel.” As Jake introduced him, the black guy smiled. They were obviously friends. I nodded at each of them as I learned their names. Then Jake asked, “What might your handle be?” “You can call me Billy, Billy Doyle.” “Hold on there partner,” said Jake, “there’s no last names used around here.” Then he smiled, and that was when I first noticed his eyes.
The cheese Ying held in his hand was square in shape. He cut three, inch-wide slices as Samuel tore the bread into three equal lengths. Each man took bread in one hand, and cheese in the other. And with alternating bites of each, finished their repast. At which time Ying wrapped the remaining cheese in a blue bandanna and placed it in the pocket of a brown, leather jacket that was lying on the floor behind him.
While they were eating I ask if they were hobos. You’ve got to remember, I was young, and this was my first encounter with men who “rode the rails.” I had always pictured hobos as looking more like the old Red Skelton character Freddy the Freeloader. You know, baggy pants and patches all over his clothes. Maybe even a week’s worth of whiskers. However, these guys were clean-shaven, except for Ying, and were cleaner, and better dressed than I was.
When I asked if they were hobos, Samuel spoke for the first time. “An honorable and noble profession. What say you fellow wayfarers? Are we indeed affiliated with those modern day knights of the road?” Jake told me I’d have to excuse Samuel, “He gits a bit long winded at times.” “But my bosom friend Jacob, we have not answered the young lad’s query, and his incertitude as to our status should be addressed,” asserted Samuel. “Kid, I told ya’ he was a son-of-a-bitch,” remarked Jake. However, before I could receive an answer to my perfectly legit question, we heard from outside the boxcar, “There is a chink, a nigger, and a cracker in that car; git ‘em outta’ there. Oh yeah, there’ also a kid in there.”
This is where we came in. Before the “bulls” had a chance to stick their mugs into the car, The Three were gathering their meager belongings and heading for the door. I jumped up and scrambled after them. Just as we reached the door two men appeared, and one of them, looking up at us said, “Okay boy’s git off.” One by one we exited our little, and unfortunately temporary, haven. I was the last to disembark. My buddies were already a few steps ahead of me when I tried to catch up with them. But something was holding me back. It turned out to be one of the bull’s big mitt wrapped around my left bicep. “Hold on, not so fast.” When they heard those words The Three stopped, and turned towards the two bulls and me. (Bull is slang for the railroad employees who were charged with throwing freeloading men off the trains.) When the bull saw my compatriots stop as though waiting for me, he said, “This ain’t none of your affair. Ya’ all just keep to ya’ own business and move along.” Jake looked at me and winked. Then The Three, in unison, turned and walked in the direction the highway.
Now as it turned out, this bull holding onto my arm was all right. He had a son my age serving in Viet Nam. When you’re eighteen you think you’re all grown up and you think the rest of the world will perceive you as an adult. But as I write these words almost half a century later, I know how young I must have looked on that day. The man only wanted to make sure I was okay. He asked about my family and where I lived. When I told him I was in touch with my mother frequently and that I was not a runaway, he smiled. That’s when he told me about his son. He also told me ridin’ the rails was dangerous business. “Not all the bulls are like me. Some, if they catch ya’ will beat ya’ with a club. Some might even turn you over to the county sheriff if there’s a road needin’ work. It’d be thirty days at least. Ya’ see some bulls have an agreement with the sheriff, so much for each hobo they turn over. Kinda’ like a bounty. Then the poor son-of-a-bitch is charged with trespassing and vagrancy. That’ll git ya’ sixty days.” He also told me that jumping off a moving train, even if it was only going five miles an hour, could get my head “busted wide opened.” I told him it was my first and last time catchin’ a freight. From then on it was going be the thumb express for me. He then said I was free to go. After walking ten paces, I turned and he was still standing there with a smile on his face, and then he waved to me. I waved backed, then walked to the highway where I had just been less than an hour previous; I thought two things. The first was, “That I bet that bull back there wishes his son only had to worry about jumping from trains and being beaten with a club. And second, “That was a monumental waste of time. I wonder how many rides I missed while screwin’ around.” But as we’ll see shortly, it was not such a waste of time after all.
About fifteen minutes after my return to the highway, the train started to move. At the first sound of those steel wheels turning on the tracks, my three friends appeared out of nowhere. One minute I was alone on US Highway 90 and the next there they were, on the other side of the road. Jake waved, and as soon as the lone car heading west passed, they walked over to where I was standing. Samuel approached me and said, “We saw you with your thumb out. Have you given up your reservation for your Pullman berth?” I must have looked perplexed because Jake interjected with, “He means if ya’ still want to ride the rails come with us.” None of them waited for a reply from me, the kept moving towards the train. By the time I decided that, “It might be interesting traveling with those guys for a day. See how the other half lived,” they were about twenty yards ahead of me. I picked up my suitcase and ran to catch up with them. I wondered why they didn’t seem to be in a rush. After all, the train was moving. (I later learned that a train hauling that many cars takes a while to get up a “head of steam.”) It was a momentous decision to follow The Three, as I came to call them, for the time spent with them would help shape and define the man I would become.
By the time I caught up, they had reached the train, and were standing there watching the cars go by. Our car, the green one, was about twenty back, and headed our way. The train was only moving at one or two miles per hour. As the green car approached, the three started walking in the same direction as the train. When the car came abreast of us, one by one they tossed their gear through the open door and then followed by hoisting themselves up and onto the floor of the car. When all three were aboard, they stood in the doorway looking down at me. The train was now staring to pick up speed. Jake told me to toss my grip up to him, which I did. Then Ying, who had knelt down on his knees said, “Give me your hand.” I was trotting now, trying to keep up with the car. I stuck out my right arm and Ying grabbed hold of my hand and lifted my one hundred sixty pounds as though I weighed no more than a feather.
Once they got me aboard, we went back to the corner with the crates. However, this time they sat on the floor with their backs against the wall of the car. I followed suit and sat next to Jake. Samuel and Ying were leaning against the side wall, Jake and I against the back wall. Samuel then looks over at me and says, “Young traveler. I could tell from your hesitation you have not availed yourself of this means transit before; you must be careful when alighting onto one of these chariots. I saw a man slip and fall beneath the wheels as he was trying to effect ingress into a conveyance of this type. He lost both his legs. Furthermore, exiting while moving, no matter how slow, is difficult at best; and bone breaking at its worst.” Jake intervened with, “Don’t worry kid, we’ll show ya’ the ropes.”
After that, no one spoke. Ying cleaned his fingernails with the knife he had used to slice the cheese. Samuel took a paperback out of his back pocket and started to read. Jake, well I don’t know what he was doing. If I didn’t think it highly unlikely, I would have said he was meditating. Me, I got tired of trying to look cool in front of The Three and walked over to the door, sat down with my legs dangling over the side, and watched the desert pass by.
I don’t know how long I sat there by myself before Jake walked over and sat down beside me. Once he got his long legs dangling next to mine. (I can now report on the height of each of The Three. Jake was tall, about two inches taller than my six foot frame. Ying was about 5’8” and Samuel was my height.) Jake didn’t say anything for the longest time. We just watched the scenery swiftly go by. Finally he said, “You in a rush to git where ya’ goin’?” Now I had told them earlier, when asked, that I was going to Miami. Actually, I did not know where I was headed. I was allowing myself to be blown along on the winds of chance. Like being picked up by someone who says to me, “I’m heading to New York to catch Janis Joplin at the Fillmore East and I’ve got an extra ticket. Wanna’ come along?” Things of that sort were always happening to me in those days. But if nothing interesting turned up by the time I hit the east coast, I’d hang a right and head for Miami for a visit with the folks. So, my answer to Jake’s question was, “No, I’m in no rush to go anywhere, not really.”
“Well,” said Jake, “me and the boys thought we’d extend an invite for ya’ to tag along with us for a while. Kinda’ show ya’ the way of the road. Teach ya’ things that took us time, a whole lotta’ time, to git through our thick heads.” As he said that, we were both looking out at the desert. I turned my head to look at this man I had only met an hour ago, and informed him that I had been on the road for over a year, and I had learned a few things along the way. He just smiled and said, “Boy, there are roads and there are roads. If ya’ not interested then I’ll bother you no further.” “Hang on Jake, you’ve got me wrong. I’d be honored to accompany you three, and I thank you for the invitation. I just wanted you to know that I’m not entirely wet behind the ears.” “Okay Billy. It’s Billy right?” “Yes.” “Why not come over and sit with us, and we’ll talk.”
When we got back to Ying and Samuel, Jake nodded at them. Well, at Ying anyway, Samuel still had his nose in the book he was reading. As we sat down Samuel looked up, so I had a chance to ask him what he was reading. “Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. You ever read it?” “Yeah, about a year ago. I liked it. I also read East of Eden, but I just didn’t get it.” Samuel just looked at me and slowly shook his head. “I understand, I read Eden when I was your age, and like you I did not appreciate the writing, the story telling. May I suggest you reread it in a few decades? I think you will have a whole new take on it once you have some life under your belt. However, we were discussing The Grapes of Wrath. This is my third reading. I love this book, it is writing at its best. But what I love most about it is the last page. When Rose of Sharon bends over the dying man, you remember, the man who had not eaten in a week or more? He had given what little food there was to his son. Well, when she kneels down to his prostrate body, unbuttons her shirt, and starts to give the milk that was intended for her baby that had been still born less than a few hours before … man, that got to me. If I were not a man, I would have cried.”
I noticed that he was not speaking in the affected manner he had used earlier. I think he read my thoughts because he said, “You’re wondering why I’m not speaking like Mr. La De Da any longer, aren’t you.” “I guess so. You do sound different.” “I only speak that way around strangers, never with friends.” So, there it was, I was accepted. I had made three new friends that day.
It was early morning when I first met The Three. As we sat talking and looking out at the cactus plants and Yucca trees, their shadows shrank from their western side until they disappeared altogether, only to reemerge on the eastern side. A small, timid shadow at first, but as the day lengthened, so did the shadows of the cacti and the Yuccas. Soon they would be as long as their more substantial partners were tall. Then they would die for the night, only to be reborn the next morning.
When the shadows had gotten as long as they were likely to get, I asked what we were going to do about something to eat. Ying offered what was left of the cheese. I was mighty hungry by then, but if I was going to eat alone, I’d rather not. And as no one else spoke up and said that the cheese was a good idea, I politely thanked Ying and said I would eat when everyone else did.
Because the light was fading, Samuel had put his book away. He looked at Jake and asked, “What time you figure we’ll hit Lubbock?” “I reckon we’ll be in just about suppertime.” Upon receiving his answer, Samuel turned to me and said, “We’ll be leaving this comfortable abode in Lubbock. This train heads to Chicago from there. After a night to replenish our selves and our stores, we’ll catch the 108 the next morning; it will be heading east to Dallas. Then the 310 to Little Rock and after that it’s old 19 to Atlanta where we’ll spilt up.”
I thought what I had just heard was amazing. How did this guy know the timetable of freight trains? Did freight trains even have timetables? So I asked Samuel, “How the hell do you know a given train will be there waiting for you when you arrive in a city?” “Freight trains have a tighter schedule than passenger trains. There are goods on them that people have bought and paid for. And those same goods have to get out and be sold again for the railroad company’s customers to make a profit. If their customers don’t make money, the railroad doesn’t make money. If there are delays, people will use the teamsters and their trucks to get their goods to market. So the trains are very dependable. And you shouldn’t hop a train unless you know where it’s going. That is your first lesson my young friend.”
Jake and I sat in the doorway looking at the desert, the stars, and the lights of the small towns as we passed. For by then it had gotten dark. I asked Jake what Samuel and Ying were up to; it was too dark inside the car. I couldn’t see into the corner that we had made our headquarters. “Knowing those two, they’re probably asleep. They can sleep in the damndest places, and under the damndest circumstances.” I had been wondering what Samuel meant when he said they, or, I guess now it was we, were going to split up when we got to Atlanta. So I asked Jake, “Don’t you guys travel together?” “Sometimes we do, like now. Guys on the road are basically loners, but no matter how much ya’ like being alone, sometimes it’s good to have a partner to chew the fat with.” I just had to ask, “Where are you going, where are they going?” “Well, Ying is going to New York, and Samuel will be staying in Atlanta. Me, I haven’t decided yet. We just ran into each other at the stop before we meet up with you. We’ve known each other for a while now, but the three of us haven’t been the in same place at the same time for maybe two, two and a half years now. I ran into Ying about a year ago and we traveled together for a few days. But Samuel and I haven’t seen each other since the last time the three of us were together.”
About then the train was slowing down and Ying and Samuel joined us at the door. Jake stood and said, “We better get our gear, meaning him and I, the others were standing there, grips in hand. After we returned to the door, I was asked by Samuel if I had ever jumped from a moving train. I had to admit that I had not. “Well,” said he, “here are lessons two and three. Always leave the train before it gets into the yard. If not the bulls will see you and then there’ll be hell to pay. Next, when jumping from a moving train, toss your grip out first. Don’t try to jump with it; you’ll need both your hands. Then sit down like you were before with your legs outside. Then place your hands on the floor on either side of your body and push off. It’s going to be hard to keep your balance, but after the first few times you’ll get the hang of it. Just remember to push off as far from the car as you can. You don’t want to slip under any wheels.” By then the train had slowed enough so we could jump off without killing ourselves. Then Samuel threw his bag out the door, sat down, and said, “Watch how I do it.”
After the three of them were on the ground it was my turn. I did everything I was told but still landed flat on my face. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I had been closer to the ground, but my feet were a good four feet in the air when I launched myself from the car.
Once we collected our gear and got away from the yard, Jake told me it was time to forage for some vittles. “Did you just say vittles?” asked Samuel. “He sure as hell did, I heard him,” affirmed Ying. Ying then added, “Okay Mr. Vittles, you take the kid. Me and Samuel will meet you at the jungle.”
To be concise and succinct about it, the foraging for food took the form of going to the back doors of houses and asking for a hand out. Now I did the same thing on occasion, but my modus operandi was restaurants, or more precisely, a restaurant’s back door. Anyway, I was told by Jake the best pickin’s were in the poor section of a town. He said, “You never get turned down. Then next were middle class neighborhoods. You stand a fifty-fifty chance in that neck of the woods. And then last are the rich neighborhoods. Unless the cook answers the door you might as well forget about getting anything outta’ that house. Ain’t it funny that the people with nothing are willing to share the little they have? While those with everything are afraid to part with even the slightest bit of what they have.”
We got what we did by Jake telling the people I was his son and we were going to Florida to pick oranges. After hitting three houses, we had all that we could carry, so we headed for the “jungle.” Jungle, as in hobo jungle. Now in the 30’s during the depression every town and city had a hobo jungle, usually on its outskirts. In those days, depending on the size of the town, the denizens of any given jungle could number from twenty to close to a hundred. However, in the late 60’s the number rarely exceeded five or six. In the jungle Jake brought me to outside of Lubbock Texas there where eight of us. The Three, four others, and me.
By the time Jake and I reached the camp, which is how Jake refereed to the hobo jungle, Ying and Samuel were there waiting for us. It had been a good foraging expedition. A couple of cans of soup, a large can of baked beans, various portions of assorted chickens, both fried and broiled, a tub of homemade potato salad, and the piece de resistance, a bottle of bourbon. Jake asked, “Where’d you guys get the booze?” Samuel answered with, “Don’t include me in Ying’s larceny.” In his defense, Ying claimed an altruistic motive in procuring said booze. “You see, it was lying on the front seat of this ’59 Oldsmobile. Now if I had left it there it may have been a temptation to the driver. He may have weakened and started drinking before he arrived home. He might have caused an accident, either from being distracted while taking a swig, or after having become intoxicated. I think freeing that poor soul of temptation is my good deed for the day. Hey, did you guys know I used to be a Boy Scout?” Jake shrugged, Samuel shook his head, and I just looked at the three of them and wondered what I had myself into.
There was a fire going when Jake and I arrived. Sitting around it were our buddies, Ying and Samuel, and four other gentlemen. There was Montana Jack, a lean and weathered cowboy, Stetson and all. Charlie who dressed in a business suit. The only problem was that it was two sizes too big for him, and it was practically in tatters. Then there was Missouri Mike, fiftyish with a full head of white hair with a shock of black just off center on the left side. And last, and probably least, there was Frisco Pete. Yeah, I know, it sounds like a name a bandit would have in a “B” movie. But ‘ol Frisco was a hippie. The funny thing is that he had never been to San Francisco; he was on his way. Of course, he had the prerequisite beard and long hair. And he kept staring at the stars, and saying, “Groovy.” I know what you’re thinking, “What happened to Charlie? Why didn’t he have a colorful handle like the rest? Something like, ‘Cimarron Charlie’. The answer to your question is I don’t know.
After the introductions were out of the way, we settled down to partake of our collation. And I must say, after not having eaten all day, it was one of the finest meals I’ve ever had. Of course, The Three being who they were, insisted that any of the others who were hungry put on the feedbag and join us.
With the meal behind us we sat around the fire like contented potentates of the East, rubbing and scratching our stomachs. Then Jake said to Ying, “Ya’ saving that bourbon for Judgment Day, or ya’ gonna’ break it our before the end of the century?” Ying smiled the inscrutable smile of the Chinese and reached behind him, and pulled out the bottle.
It was then that we heard the rustling in the woods. It came from behind us, and I turned to see what looked like flashlights, maybe two, maybe more, bobbing up and down. A low murmur accompanied the lights. Then we heard the thrashing about and the murmur gave way to voices, men’s voices. In addition, they didn’t sound happy. I got the impression they were not a deputation from Lubbock to present us with the key to the city. And you know what? I was right.
All at once, ten armed me burst into the little clearing in which, until a moment ago, we were enjoying each other’s company and repartee. Most were holding hunting rifles, a few held handguns. However, the one thing all the guns had in common was the fact that they all, and I mean all, were pointed at our merry little band.
We just sat there staring at them, and they stared right back at us. I’m sure our mouths where hanging open. Theirs were not. Finally, after what seemed an interminable amount of time, one of the ten stepped forward and said, “You there by the fire, stand up!” When we hesitated, he added, “I’m talkin’ to you hobos over there. All of you git your asses up!” I looked over to Jake for some kind of guidance. He looked me in the eye and gave me one of his famous shrugs, then he stood up; and the rest of us followed his lead.
When we all were standing, the other nine with the guns, fanned out behind the talker and formed a semi-circle before us. Once his men were in place, the head asshole felt it was time to give his little speech that I’m sure he practiced long and hard in front of his bedroom mirror.
“We don’t want your types in our city. We keep clearing this place out, tellin’ you not to come back, but here you are again. Ya’all just won’t listen.” It was then that ‘ol Frisco the hippie decided to play his ace in the hole. “Excuse me sir, but I’ve never been here before.” The leader turned to Frisco and said, “Shut your mouth!” He stated to turn away, but stopped in mid turn and did a double take. He started walking over to Frisco while telling his men to watch the rest of us. He got to within three feet of Frisco before saying, “Are you in one of them Beatle bands?” Jesus Christ! This was 1968, and this person couldn’t differentiate between an unkempt and dirty hippie and a rock and roller. Okay, I’ll give him that. But back to my story.
I reckon the leader didn’t want, or expect, an answer. He looked Frisco up and down a few times then turned to the rest of us and announced, “Well boys, we’re gonna’ teach ya’ all a little lesson this time. One of you is gonna’ hug a tree and take a few lashes from my friend here, while the rest watch. Ya’ gittin’ off easy this time.” When he said what he had to say, he patted the bullwhip that was hanging from his belt. He then continued, “Now let me see, who’s it gonna’ be?” His eyes, lighted by the fire, and reflecting the flames, looked evil. But I suppose his eyes would have looked evil buying his child (We all know evil men do spawn.) an ice cream cone down at the corner drug store.
The leader looked at each one us in turn. When he came to me he said, “What are you doing here boy?” Before I could answer, Jake stepped in front of me and said, “He’s my son. His ma died this spring and I’m talking him to see his grandmother. He just enlisted to fight in Viet Nam. He’s gotta’ report in three weeks. I lost my job at the plant, so we had no money for a bus, that’s why were here.” The leader responded, “I didn’t ask for no life story.” But you could see that Jake’s bullshit had had an effect on the stupid fuck.
After the exchange with Jake, the leader continued his perusal of the rest of our conclave. Then he came to Samuel. And oh, how did his face light up. A broad smile played across his lips as he intoned, “Boys, I think I found me the perfect candidate for our little lesson tonight.” And then out of the crowd behind him, a voice rang out, “Hey Dick, can’t we hurry this along? My wife says I’ve gotta’ be home to watch the kids by nine, she got a auxiliary meetin’ tonight.”At that point, two things went through my mind. One, what a perfect name for the leader of this bunch. Dick! If I wasn’t so scared shitless, I would have laughed out loud. And two, what auxiliary did that guy’s wife belong to, the Klan’s.
It was at this point Jake figured he better do something, but it sure wasn’t anything I could understand. He leaned into me and whispered, “Follow my lead, keep ya’ yap shut, and do what I tell you without hesitation, and don’t ask any fool questions.” Then he straightened himself, and I waited to see what would to take place next.
Dick, our dear friend, told his men to grab hold of Samuel, though he used a pejorative rather than Samuel’s name. Three men laid their guns against a tree and approached Samuel. Samuel to his credit, did not back up, or even give the slightest indication of fear. Two of the men grabbed his arms, while the third tied a rope to his left wrist. Then they led him over to an old tree. The trunk was about ten feet in circumference. They placed Samuel facing the tree and took his arms so that they encompassed the truck as far as they could go, and then tied the free end of the rope that was already on his left wrist to his right wrist. So this is what Dick meant by “hug a tree.” The three men stepped back to admire their handiwork. Nodding their approval, they retrieved their guns and rejoined the other men.
Then Jake went into his act. He cleared his throat loud enough to get Dick’s attention, took a step forward, and said, “Excuse me sir. I happen to agree with you and your methods. I and my son are heartily sorry for intruding into your fair city. If we had known which way the wind was blownin’ we would have never stopped here for a rest. But seein’ how my boy is about to go off and fight those Godless Commies in the defense of his country, do you think you might spare him the sight of this necessary, but still vexatious act you are about to perform?” Of course Dick didn’t know what vexatious meant. Jake later told me that he used the word because he couldn’t think of another word for horrific, and he didn’t think Dick would have appreciated that particular word.
Anyway, after mulling it over, ‘ol Dick decided to be magnanimous, and granted us permission to leave. When told we could go, Jake again leaned into me and whispered. Get your case and the bottle of booze. Use your case to hide it. I don’t want anyone to see it. Hurry up, we don’t have much time,” and with that he picked up his bedroll and started for the road that ran by the camp. As he passed Ying, I saw him wink. He was moving so fast I had to run to catch up with him. As I caught up with him, I asked if we were just going to leave Samuel there to be whipped. “I thought I told you not to ask any fool questions,” was his only reply.
When we got near the road, we ran into two pickup trucks. “This is what I wanted to see,” said Jake. He opened the door to the closest one, and while taking out a pocketknife he said, “See if the keys are in the other one.” Which is what I did. “Yeah they’re in there.” “Okay kid, we got to move fast if we’re to keep Samuel’s suffering to a minimum. Push that truck out to the road, once there start her up and drive about a quarter mile towards the town. Then pull off to the side into some trees, but keep it facing the road. Be ready to take off in a hurry. And keep the lights out. But first give me that bottle of booze.” He took the bourbon from me. I stood there and watched him open the knife and start to slit the upholstery and pull the stuffing out through the cuts he had made. When the seat and the backrest both had this white stuff that looked like cotton sticking out all over, he unscrewed the top off the bourbon and poured the contents of the bottle all over the seat. As he lifted his head out of the cab of the pickup and saw me, he said, “You still here?” So I went over to the other truck, turned the key so I could put it in neutral, and started to push it towards the road. Half way to the road I turned my head to look back to see what Jake was up to. I turned just in time to see him light a match and throw it into the cab of the pickup.
Whoosh, the goddamn thing caught on fire. But that was all I had time to observe. I had my marching orders and I was determine to carry them out to the best of my ability. Later I learned what happen while I waited down the road. After Jake had a good fire going and there was no chance of it going out by itself, he ran back to the camp. He got there just as Dick had administered the third lash to Samuel’s back. As his arm came back for lash number four, Jake called out that there was a pickup truck on fire down by the road. That stopped Dick in mid motion. His arm fell to his side, and he went over to Jake and asked, “What did you say?” “I said there was a truck on fire down at the road. Just as me and my boy were coming out of the woods, we see three white boys climb into another truck and hightail it out to that county road. Then as we got even with the other truck, flames leapt out at us from inside the truck. She must have a good burn going now.” That was all he had to say. As one, the ten vigilantes stopped pointing there guns at Ying and the others, and ran through the woods from whence they came. Ying told me they were steppin’ and fetchin’ big time. Then he laughed at the memory of it.
However, Jake missed the spectacle of the Great Retreat. He still had his knife opened and in his hand. He went right over to cut Samuel free. Before he had cut half way through the rope, Ying was there with his own knife cutting the rope at Samuel’s right wrist. Jake got through the rope first, and said to Ying, “He’s free, we can take care of that later. Let’s git the hell outta’ here.” Jake helped Samuel; he was weak, while Ying gathered their gear. By going through the woods, they found their way to the truck in which I was waiting. By the way, just as a matter of note, by the time Ying and Jake were helping Samuel out of the camp, our four compatriots were nowhere to be seen.
I did ask Jake why he said white boys had started the fire and stolen the other truck. His answer, “So they wouldn’t go messin’ with no black folk or travelers who may be passing through their shit hole of a town. That was Jake, one minute he was sounding like the dumbest hick the good Lord ever made, and the next he was using words like vexatious and thinking three steps ahead of the rest of us.
The upshot was this. We drove back to the freight yard where The Three got out, I was told to ditch the truck at least a mile form the yard and walk back. We hid out in an abandon shed until our train was ready to leave. During the night we attended to, or I should say Ying attended to, Samuel’s wounds. He had some Chinese shit that he said would fix Samuel right up. And it did. The net day the rips in his flesh did not bleed through his shirt. When the train started to move we ran to it, and one by one, jumped aboard.
As we pulled out of Lubbock Texas, I was thinking that nothing The Three could show me after last night could be anywhere near as exciting. Was I was wrong. We had three more stops on our itinerary, at one, I would be horrified, at another, a mystical experience awaited me, and at the third, well, we never did make the planned last stop. Something came up.
Because we had not slept the night before, we spent that day’s wayfaring in repose. The floor was hard, but surprisingly clean. I awoke in the late afternoon only to find that the others were already awake and sitting at the door watching the world go by; or, at least that little part of it that was known as western Texas. I joined them, and as I was sitting down asked, “So what’s for breakfast?” “We’ll be there in less than an hour. Then we’ll forage before going to the camp,” answered Jake. With Samuel adding, “Hopefully Ying will remove temptation from some poor soul’s car again. I sure could use the help of some spirits. My back is hurting something awful.” Ying looked at Samuel, “I’ll see what I can arrange.” And that was it. None of us spoke until we got to the outskirts of Dallas. Then Jake said, “Okay boys, time to detrain.”
Of course, I fell flat on my face. But no harm done, I stood up and dusted myself off, and said to no one in particular, “I’ll get the hang of it if it kills me.” Well, I’m still here, but I never did get the hang of it. The last time I jumped from a moving train, albeit, a slow moving train, I performed my usual ballet, ending up kissing dirt.
The first neighborhood we reached after leaving the train was a good one for caging food, if not an entire meal, or so I was informed by Samuel, and seconded by Jake and Ying.
We split up as we had the night before. And as we had the night before, I played the part of Jake’s son. Once we had all the food we could carry, and on the way to the camp, Jake told me the “son dodge” was the best. He had never gotten food so easily, and he asked me if I would travel him, at least until I lost my youthful appearance. I think he was joking, or maybe kidding on the square, but I was non-committal nevertheless.
When we reached the camp, Ying and Samuel were nowhere to be seen. However, there were other inhabitants milling about. There was also a raging fire, about three times the size of the one in Lubbock, and sitting around the fire were six men. As we walked up they nodded, but went right back to talking among themselves. Also at the fire, ensconced upon a throne of an old Lazy-Boy type recliner with the white stuffing showing through rips and tears in the fabric, sat an old black man with a full head of white hair. When Jake saw him, he whispered under his breath, “I’ll be goddamned!” I asked Jake who the guy was, but received no reply, probably because he was three steps in front of me hurrying on his way to the man in the chair. Not knowing what else to do, I followed Jake.
When we got closer, I saw that the man’s face was gaunt, he looked downright emaciated. His cheeks were hollow and his cheekbones seemed very pronounced. His head sat upon a thin body and he looked to be about six feet tall, but it was hard to tell because he was sitting down.
When Jake reached the man he said, “Hey Oracle, it’s me Jake!” I was right behind Jake and that is when I observed the most remarkable thing about the man he called Oracle. As he turned his head in Jake’s and my direction, I saw that he had not iris nor pupil in either eye, there was only white showing. The man was blind, totally blind. It was an eerie sight indeed. If not for the broad smile upon his face, I’d say he looked light one of those zombies in a “B” movie from the fifty’s.
As I caught up to Jake and stood next to him, he reached out an arm and laid his right hand on the man’s shoulder, saying, “How you ya’ been old stick?” I didn’t know if he was referring to the thinness of the man’s body, or if stick was a term of endearment.
The man, Oracle, kept his smile, nodded his head, and exclaimed, “Jake, you old shit-kicker, when did you blow in?” “Just got here. You been here long?” “Me and Marvin been here two days. Probably leave tomorrow. We’re headin’ for sunny California.” “Oracle, I want you to meet a young protégée of mine. I’ve been teaching him the ways of the road. Well, with a little help from Ying and Samuel.” “Are those sons of bitches here too?” Yeah, they’ll be along presently, but this here is Billy. He hasn’t even hit his majority yet and he’s out hoppin’ freights.” Oracle extended his right hand, I did likewise, and we shook hands. “Glad to meet ya’ Billy. Any friend of Jake’s is a friend of mine.” I verbalized the same sentiment by saying, “Same here.”
After the conclusion of the introduction, Oracle invited us to have a seat and take a load off. Then he said, “Marvin’s out cagin’ us some eats, why don’t you fella's join us?” Jake replied, “We just came in from a foraging expedition of our own, we’ve got plenty.”
Eventually Samuel and Ying walked into the camp. When they saw Oracle, they had the same reaction that Jake had. They rushed to him, shook his hand, and shot the shit for a few minutes. Then it was time to eat. Ying and Samuel laid their plunder next to our plunder, and I must admit between the four of us we made quite a haul that night. We were discussing what to eat and what to save for the next day when Marvin walked in. Of course, it was a repeat of when Jake had first spied Oracle. It was old home week. It was then that I found out who the hell Marvin was. When introduced to him, I was told that he was Oracle’s traveling companion. You see, Oracle was in his sixties and Marvin was about thirty. They had hooked up more than dozen years earlier when Marvin was a skinny teenager who had just run away from home and didn’t know the ways of the road; and Oracle’s sidekick at the time had just been hit by a highballer out of St. Louis, killing him instantly, and leaving Oracle without a set of eyes. They’ve been together ever since.
Ying was the chef of the outfit. As he opened cans and put them next to the fire, making sure to turn them every once in awhile so both sides would heat up, he laid out the already cooked food, like chicken, and the slab of meatloaf that Jake and I got from a very nice lady who flirted with him as she wrapped the meatloaf in wax paper. Jake extended an invitation to the other men congregated around the fire. His offer was politely declined. I think they were too busy passing a bottle of rye between themselves to stop for something to eat.
When Jake noticed the rye across the fire, he said to Ying, “That reminds me. Any luck in the booze department?” Ying looked up from his culinary duties and informed Jake that to date he has never let him down and he wasn’t about to start. “Look under my coat over there on the log. You’ll find an almost full jar; I was going to surprise you after dinner.” Jake walked over to where Ying had indicated, lifted his leather coat, and there on the log sat a mason jar. You know the kind they put up preserves in, with the rubber gasket and metal hinge that secures the lid and holds it in place. This jar was about nine inches high and held what looked like water. As Jake held the jar up to the light of the fire he asked Ying, “Where you cha’ get it.” Ying’s answer, “You don’t want to know.”
Jake walked over to where I was sitting and sat down on his heels. He then flipped up the mental hinge, removed the top, held his nose over the opening, and inhaled deeply. Before coming out with, “Mighty fine bouquet.” Turning to me he asked, “Billy boy, you ever had any shine? You ever have any sweet mountain dew?” I had to inform him that I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. “I’m talkin’ about moonshine boy, Nectar of the gods.” “Well, if that what you’re talking about, then no, I’ve never had any moonshine.” “Well, Billy my friend, you are in for a treat. It’s best enjoyed after dinner because to partake before hand, you won’t want any dinner. However, seeing as how you’re a cherry, take a swig, it’ll get the gastric juices flowing.” He then handed me the jar, adding, “Make the first one small; it’ll set your throat afire.” Of course, I’m thinking that I’m cool; I’ve drunk 151 proof Wild Turkey bourbon, so this watery looking stuff can hold no surprises for me.
I didn’t take a small pull as advised. It’s funny that when you’re eighteen you have all the wisdom of the world. You know everything. But as the years pass, that knowledge gets whittled down until you’re as ignorant as the rest of humanity. So knowing all, I gulped a mouthful of 190 proof liquor. I reckon you all know what happened next. It burned all the way down and exploded like a mini A-Bomb in my stomach. I then started coughing and choking, if not for Jake being ready for just such a contingency, the jar’s contents would have been lost. But just in the nick of time, Jake took the jar from my hand, and saved me from spilling the precious liquid onto the ground. If that had happened, I’m sure I would have been ostracized for the duration. All had a great laugh at my expense, even Oracle and the six guys swigging rye on the other side of the fire.
Ying prepared our spread, Marvin prepared his and Oracle’s, and they both rang the dinner bell at the same time. So, when my coughing and the accompanying laughter subsided, we all sat down to a meal fit for a king. That is if the king liked beans, cold chicken, meatloaf, and raw carrots.
I sat next to Oracle while we ate, and he started asking me questions about my life. After we had exhausted all the small talk, he asked what had precipitated my going on the road. I told him it was something inside of me that I had always, for as long as I could remember, wanted to know what was at the end of the road. I told him that as a kid, I would see a train of boxcars sitting on a siding and have the urge to jump into an empty one, and ride the train to wherever it was going just to see what was at the end of the line. He then asked me if I had ever read On the Road by Kerouac. When I answered in the affirmative, he asked what I thought of it. Before answering, I asked him if he knew the story. Him being blind I couldn’t ask him if he had read it. Well, he looked right at me with those sightless eyes and said, “I read the damn book. Does that surprise you?” It sure as hell did. Then he explained that he had read it in brail, you know the raised dots. I don’t think it’s in use anymore, what with audio books and all. “There are books in brail in almost every library. Usually when we hit a town, Marvin and I search out a library, and we’ll spend the day there reading. We can’t check out any books because we’re not members of the community, but we’re both fast readers, and we both love books. And if we’re in a small town with no books in brail, Marvin and I will sit in a corner of the library and he will quietly read to me. But tell me now; what was your take on Kerouac’s Road?” “I guess when it came out in the early fifties it was quite scandalous. But I found it rather boring. I’ve been on the road, hitchhiking, for more than a year and a half, and I’ve had more adventures, been in more weird and bad situations in a week than he experienced the whole time he was ‘on the road’. And it’s no wonder; he took a bus everywhere he went! I mean, how are you going to meet people and get into their lives if you’re sitting on a goddamn bus?” When I had finished speaking, Oracle let out with a good belly laugh and said, “I guess great minds do think alike. That was my take on the book also. I kept waiting for something exciting to happen. I had to stop reading it three quarters of the way through.”
And so it went, we ate, and we talked of books. It was because of Oracle I read Tolstoy, Mailer, and countless others that he said I should check out. He also told me of the ponderous books that would be a waste of time. Authors like Nietzsche and Balzac. “Stay away from Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche and Honoré de Balzac,” he advised. “They’re more long winded than I am, and that’s saying something. “ Of course, I knew of Nietzsche and Balzac, but this guy knew their full names. I’m telling you this about Oracle to give credence to what I am about to relate. I want you to know the man known to me as Oracle was a well read and intelligent man who had spend his life in the pursuit of knowledge. You and I should be as well read and as intelligent.
By the time we had finished eating, the other members of our little assemblage, the guys with the rye, were somewhere out there in the darkness. They had finished their drinking for the night, probably because the bottle had been emptied, and had gone off to find a place to sleep away from the fire and the scintillating conversation. Ying was breaking up a wooden crate and throwing the wood on the fire to build it up when Samuel asked Oracle to tell us a story.
I think I should digress for a moment and tell you what I learned of Oracle the next day as we were Little Rock bound. Of course, Oracle was not his real name. I never did learn the name he was born with; I don’t think anyone knew his appellation. But here are the pertinent facts. According to Jake, Samuel, and Ying, Oracle was gifted with Second Sight. He could tell a man’s past having just met him. He knew the secret desires hidden within, and more often than not, he could foretell the future. I guess they didn’t call him Oracle for nothing. Jake told me he, Oracle, had an amazing track record when it came to seeing into someone’s future. In fact, he was so good at it, he had stopped relaying the information he saw in his visions. That statement prompted two questions, and so I asked them. “What do you mean visions, can a man blind from birth have a “vision?” In turn, Jake informed me that, “All I know is what Oracle told me. He said when he has a vision he is not blind. He sees colors, he told me he knows what blue looks like, what orange looks like, what a rainbow looks like. He told me he sees faces, the faces of the people the vision concerns. He told me of this little scar here, hell, I had even forgotten about it.” And as Jake said that he turned his head and showed me a small scar above his left eye that I had not noticed before.
Then I asked Jake the second question that came to mind when I was told Oracle had stopped telling men of their future. “Why.” “The exact same question I asked him,” uttered Jake. “He told me that once it was known that his predictions where right most of the time, men tended to alter their lives in anticipation of the event prophesized. Oracle told me it was not his intention to influence the lives of men.” (Oracle, Jake, and men like them only had congress with other men. The only time a woman came into their lives was when they were foraging for food, or they were availing themselves of the delights of a working girl, a prostitute.) Then Jake continued, “So even though he still has visions, he keeps them to himself unless it’s a vision like the one he told us about last night.” This gets us to where I wanted to be ten paragraphs ago.
I want to tell you what I heard on that warm summer night forty-two years ago. As the fire lit Oracle’s face, illuminating the white in his eye sockets, we five (The Three, Marvin, and I) sat spellbound as Oracle told us of the entity we know as God, and the creation of this universe. In the over four decades since I first heard this tale, I have not forgotten a single word. Therefore, I am able to retell the man’s words even though that man has returned to the dust from whence he, and all of us, came. However, as you’ll shortly see, there is no such thing as death. We are immortal, we are gods!
So here it is, verbatim, with just a short set up; make of it as you will.
I sat across the fire from Oracle with Ying and Jake on my right, and Samuel to the left of me. Oracle sat in his chair facing us. Marvin sat on Oracle’s right. The fire, as I’ve said, lit his face. He sat with his arms resting on the armrests of the chair. Picture the Lincoln Memorial. If he had eyes, he would have been looking slightly over our heads as he began to speak.
“Every culture has a creation myth. Ours is that the world was created in six days, and Adam and Eve. The Apache Indians have Changing Woman who was impregnated by the sun and gave birth to Nayé Nazghane, Slayer Of Monsters. However, I would like to tell you guys how we got here and why. If you like, you may call this Oracle’s creation myth.
“In a place of no time and no space existed an entity. As far as the entity knew, it just was, and always was. This entity knew it was a part of something greater, but did not know what.
“Before our universe in which we inhabit existed, before time existed, It was. It is known as The First State. Within the entity were the powers of creativity and It knew of their existence, but the ways to produce them were unknown to It. The entity existed in a State of Being, but without a means to find expression for that Being.
“We were within Its dreams, and while still within Its dreams, It gave us consciousness. The entity felt pressure from us, the conscious, but still probable selves who found ourselves in a God’s dream. To release us would give us actuality, but it would also mean losing a portion of Its consciousness. With love and longing, It let us go, that portion of itself, and we were free. We exploded in a flash of creation.
“Now we were in a place of no time and no space. Therefore, we created, along with our brother who had dreamt us into existence, time and space. We created our universe.
“Then we populated what we had created with a portion of ourselves. We created the stars and the planets.
“Because we existed in a place of no time, the eons upon eons that it took for the cosmic dust to congeal into stars, and the planets to cool, was less than a day to us.
“To paraphrase the Bible, we looked upon what we had created and saw that it was good. However, we were not done with creating, after all that is why we separated from our brother, we are the expression of Its Being.
“Once the planets had cooled enough to support life, we injected another portion of ourselves into their eco systems. We started the process of life.
“After countless millenniums, the life forms on the various planets were at a stage of development so that we could inhabit them and experience the physical realm.
“Because we are of this star system, of the planet known as Earth, I will speak of the events that took place here. Though similar things took place in other star systems, on other planets.
“At first we would stay only a short while. It was good to feel the wind and the warmth of the star upon the bodies of those we inhabited. To run through the tall grass, to hunt small prey, these are sensations known only on the physical plane.
“Over time we stayed in the bodies for longer periods, we did not leave to go to our place of no time. We did not go home.
“Because time meant nothing to us, we tarried too long in the bodies that we had brought into existence, and some of us could not extricate ourselves when we desired. We were stuck in the physical.
“This was the fall of mankind as metaphorically told of in Genesis.
“The portion of us that stayed in our place of no time came to the rescue of those who could not return. We tweaked the DNA of an animal that today is known as Neanderthal Man. After many generations, what was once Neanderthal Man was ready to house those stuck in the physical. We had created human beings.
“Thus started the process of returning home. Our brother loves all that we have created down to the least. It celebrates the dearness and uniqueness of each consciousness. It is triumphant and joyful at each development of each individual. It revels and takes joy in the slightest creative act of each of us.
“We are those that were here in a time long forgotten. We are the ones who stayed too long in the physical. Each life we live is a step closer to home. Each life, when completed, is a gift to our brother. Our experiences allows it to BE. Our creative acts, as I’ve said, are the expression of Its Being.”
When he had finished, Oracle sat back in his chair, tilted his head skyward, and sighed. I on the other hand, sat in front of the fire, with mouth open. It was a strange tale I heard that night, but one that resonated with my being. His story made more sense to me than the bullshit in the first chapter of Genesis.
It was late by the time Oracle had finished, it was time to sleep, and it was time to reflect on what I just heard. His words started me on a quest, a quest that has lasted almost forty years, and is still on going.
As we got up and made ready to bed down, Oracle, without tilting his head, if he had eyes, he would have been looking at the stars the filled the sky that night, said to Ying, “Ying my friend, there is a bad moon rising, please take care of your yellow ass.” Prophetic words, however, prophetic words that were not heeded. Ying would be dead before our home, the Earth, made another revolution on its axis.
The next morning we said our goodbyes to Marvin and Oracle. And as I shook his hand, Oracle confided in me, “When you’re my age you will write of your youthful adventures, in one of your stories I will be mentioned, make sure you tell your readers how handsome I was,” and then he laughed. Because at the time I had not been told of his Second Sight, I told him that I did not expect to make it to thirty, let alone sixty. He just smiled and said, “You might make it if you keep your nose clean, and play your cards right.”
We jumped the 310 to Little Rock and settled in for the last ride the four of us would take together. 310 refers the number of the locomotive not the time of departure. How those guys knew the numbers of the trains is beyond me. The number of the diesels were not painted on the front as they had been in the old “steam” days.
The only thing of note to report about our trip to Little Rock is that the train pulled onto a siding where we sat for three or four hours. The delay kept us from getting into Little Rock until it was too late to knock on any back doors, so we pooled our meager resources and sent Ying to the nearest liquor store. We had decided to drink our supper that evening. Or The Three did, and I just went along. We waited for Ying to return, and then we set out for Little Rock’s hobo camp.
As we approached the camp, we saw no fire through the trees and heard no voices. “Looks like we got the place to ourselves,” announced Jake. There was a full moon, so we had no trouble finding wood in which to build a fire. Once the fire got going, we four sat around it passing between us the fifth of Jim Beam bourbon that Ying had bought. I sat opposite Ying, and Samuel and Jake faced each other. As Ying tilted his head back to take a deep pull from the bottle, he hesitated and said, "You guys think that moon up there is the one Oracle meant?” “If it is, you better pass that bottle over here before the motherfucker falls on ya’,” exclaimed Jake.
Just then I heard a voice behind me say, “Well well, if it ain’t my old friend Ying Lee.” I jumped about three inches off the ground because there was not supposed to be anyone behind me. Ying stopped looking at the moon and handed Jake the bottle before he said, “Nick Testa, what the fuck ya’ doin’ here?” “Just lucky I guess. I’ve been lookin’ for ya’ pal. Where ya’ been hiding?” By now, Jake and Samuel were on their feet and moving to the voice behind me, which prompted me to finally turn around to look from whence the voice came. What I saw was a man about five and a half feet tall, with maybe three or four day’s growth of beard. He was wearing an old blue suit, no tie of course, and he had in his hand the biggest goddamn handgun I have ever seen. They’re all big when they’re pointed in your general vicinity.
As Jake and Samuel started for him, the man Ying had called Nick Testa, raised the gun and swung it form side to side, telling the two to stop where they were if they didn’t want a piece of the action. Ying then chimed in, “Hey Nicky boy, this is between you and me. Let’s leave others out of it.” It was about that time that I decided to stand up so that I could observe all the participants of the unfolding drama that was taking place. In effect, this guy had us covered. Why he was holding a gun on us I knew not. However, I did know that it did not bode well for my friend Ying once I looked into the man’s eyes. They were filled with hate.
Before we get down to the nitty gritty, allow me to fill you in on what I later learned. The whole confrontment was because of something that happened either three or four years previous, depending on who was telling the story, to the night in question. Samuel swore it was three years, and Jake was just as adamant that the nexus to that night happened four years previously. Regardless of the time frame, this is what brought Nick Testa and his gun to our campsite that night forty-two years ago.
The three of them, Jake, Ying, and Samuel were headed west, just south of Detroit when the train pulled into a yard, or siding, I forget which. The point is the train stopped. It was in the early morning hours and they had been asleep. However, they were awakened by the sound of a suitcase being thrown into the car and slamming onto the floor. The suitcase was soon followed by the dark figure of a man. The Three thought nothing more of it and tried to go back to sleep. Now the thing is there was a mattress in the car when The Three climbed on board. It must have been brought there by an enterprising hobo. It was only wide enough for one, so Samuel took out three wooden matches from his shirt pocket and broke one in half. Then putting them between thumb and forefinger, told the other two to chose. The one ending up with the short match would get the mattress. Long story short, Ying won the right of a comfortable night’s sleep. So when the intruder, climbed into the car, he found the mattress and Ying in the corner with Jake lying next to him, and Samuel next to Jake.
Standing at the foot of the mattress the intruder kicked Ying on the souls of his shoes. When riding the rails, or when in a hobo jungle, you always sleep with your shoes on, it becomes second nature, because if you don’t, you’ll very likely wake up and they’ll be gone. Anyway, Ying ignored the first couple of kicks hoping the guy would just give up and go to his own corner and go to sleep. But that didn’t happen, so finally Ying raised his head and said, “What do you want?” “I want you outta’ my bed.” When he heard that declaration, Ying sat up and informed the man that there must be some mistake. By then, Samuel and Jake were propped up on their elbows listening to, and watching what was taking place in the dim light. When the man repeated his demand for Ying to vacate the mattress, Ying scooted down to the bottom of the mattress and sat there. His head was even with the man’s knees, and without looking up he asked, “Would you please say that again?” But before the man could utter a word, Ying lashed out at him with his right leg, connecting with the man’s left knee.
I was told by Jake that the guy went down fast and hard. All the while yelling and cursing. Jake said his howling was so loud they thought it would bring every bull within miles to their car. With the man sitting on his butt, holding his knee, and rocking back and forth, he was now even with Ying. Even though the light was dim, Ying recognized the man and said, “Nick Testa is that you?” And Testa, then looking at Ying said, ‘Goddamn it Lee, you likely broke my knee!”
Well, it turned out that they knew each other. They had worked together for a summer at a fish cannery in the Northwest. But they never did like one another, or, as it was explained to me, Testa did not have any use for Ying. To quote Samuel, “He was a racist son-of-a-bitch!”
The train stated moving about the same time the two old comrades-in-arms realized they knew one another. At that juncture, Ying raised himself from the bed, stood over Testa, and said, “I’ve got to get my beauty rest, and with you here I wouldn’t be able to close my eyes for fear of waking up with my throat cut from ear to ear.” He then grabbed Testa by the scruff of the neck, well, actually by the back of his shirt, and dragged him over to the open door Testa, had just come through moments before.
When they got to the door, Ying said, “Here, let me help you. Let’s se if you can stand on that leg.” He reached down, and taking hold of Testa under his arms, raised him to a standing position. Ying: “How’s that?” Testa: “It hurts like hell” Ying: “Good!” And with that, he pushed Testa out of the moving car. Then he kicked his suitcase out after him.
Now back to the ranch, so to speak. When we left off, the man, Testa, was holding a gun on us four. More so on Ying than the rest of us. He told Jake and Samuel to move down next to Ying, which they did, though very slowly. Me, I was standing right in front of Testa, about four feet in front of him. He finally acknowledged my existence by saying, “You got no part of this boy, if you want you can leave now.” You know it never entered my mind to leave. Those guys were my friends. The time I had known them did not matter, the depth and commitment of the friendship is what mattered. “No thank you, I’ll stay with my friends,” was the only response I could give and still be able to look at myself in a mirror.
Once we were grouped together on the other side of the fire, Testa took a few steps in our direction. It was then that I noticed he walked with a limp. He stopped about ten feet in front of us and said, “Mr. Lee, I have something to say to you.” Ying informed Testa that he had interrupted his drinking, so get on with whatever he had in mind. “Always the chink wise-ass ain’t ya’ Lee?” Ying just shrugged his shoulders and stared at Testa. I saw no fear in Ying’s eyes.
“I’ve been carrying this hog’s leg Colt since our last meeting. You crippled me and threw me off a moving train. And I aim to get mine back. Now you other fella’s just stay outta’ this. It ain’t no concern of yours. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you interfere.” He stopped speaking for a moment, took a deep breath, smiled, and said, “Mr. Lee if you please, take two steps forward.” Ying did not hesitate. Without looking at any of us, he took, first one step, then the second, but he did not stop there. He rushed Testa and when he was five paces from him, Testa fired. He got off two shots before Ying collided with him and they both went down.
Before they hit the ground, Jake and Samuel were there. Jake wrestled the gun from Testa’s hand and slipped it in his belt. Samuel hit Testa three or four times, right in the mouth. Me, I was frozen in place.
When I could move, I walked over to where Ying lay on the ground. Testa was out cold, but no one paid him any mind. Jake and Samuel were kneeling over Ying. He was flat on his back looking up at us. He had a smile on his face. He also had two bullet holes in his chest. He looked at Samuel, then at Jake, and finally at me. When he saw the horror in my face, he winked at me. Then he died, his eyes still looking at me, but not seeing me. None us moved for a few minutes. Jake closed his eyes, and Samuel took his arms and folded them so his hands rested on his stomach. I was the first to turn away, and when I did, I saw that Testa was gone.
I hurriedly told the others, but got no response from either of them. When I insisted we should do something, call the police so they could pick up Testa, and get an ambulance to take Ying somewhere, I was told by Jake, “No, we take care of our own. First Ying, then Testa. He can’t go anywhere. There are no trains leaving at this time of night. They don’t start until 4:00, 5:00 a.m. We’ve got a few hours to catch up with Mr. Testa.” When I countered with, “Maybe he’s hitchhiking out of town, or walking.” I was told by Samuel, “No, he’ll stay off the streets. He’s thinking we’ve set the cops on him. He’ll hide until he see the first train moving, then he’ll catch it. And then we’ll catch him.” That was it. End of discussion.
“The first thing we need are some tools to bury Ying with. You two prepare him. I’ll be back.” Then Jake walked into the darkness. The fire was getting low, but because of the full moon, we had no trouble seeing what we had to do. Samuel told me to get Ying’s bed roll, which I did. After I handed it to him, he unrolled it and spread it on the ground next to Ying. He then looked up at me and said, “Help me lift him onto the blanket.” I had never touched a dead man before. Well I had, but it was a mummified dead man. Ying was still warm to the touch, so it was more like he was sleeping. Once we had him centered on the blanket, Samuel started to wrap him in it. I stopped him by asking him to wait a moment. I went over to the fire where Ying had been sitting, looked around for a moment, saw what I was looking for and brought it back to where Ying lay. “Think Ying may want this to help him on his journey?” And lifted the half empty bottle of Jim Beam. Samuel agreed and told me it was a great idea. And just when I’m feeling pretty good about myself for having thought of such brilliant scheme, Samuel asked me, “Don’t you think it would last longer if the top was on the bottle?” I hadn’t noticed. I went back and looked for the cap, found it and gave it to Samuel. He smiled at me and said, “It’s okay kid, we’re all a little shaken up.” He secured cap to bottle and placed it on Ying’s stomach. He then clasped his hands around the bottle. As he finished wrapping and tying the blanket, Jake returned.
He was carrying a shovel and a pick axe. “Got these at a construction site down the road. Had to break into their tool shed.” He handed me the tools, and he and Samuel picked up Ying and carried him to a thicket of oak trees. In the center of the thicket were the roots would not be as dense, they started digging. First Jake with the pick, and then Samuel with the shovel. Back and forth they worked until they had a whole, or should I say grave, about three and a half to four feet deep. It was six feet long. I know because Jake paced it off.
With me watching, they gently placed Ying into his final resting place. When Samuel started to fill in the grave, I said, “I want to do something. Let me fill it in.” “Sure Billy, but pack it in hard, and whatever dirt is left over, spread it around so that the ground is level. Jake and I will gather leaves to hide the fact that any digging went on here. After the leaves were spread and the place looked as pristine as it did before, Jake said, “I need a drink, where’s that bottle?” Samuel and I looked at each other before Samuel, said to Jake, “It’s with Ying.” Jake looked at each one of us in turn, and then stated the obvious, “Right where it should be.”
“Well, if I can’t have a drink, let’s go and see Mr. Testa,” said Jake as he picked up the pistol he had taken from Testa and had placed by the fire as he dug Ying’s grave.
When we got to the yard, we squatted down in the shade of a shed, out of the moonlight and watched the idle trains. We knew, or Jake and Samuel knew, that Testa was not too far away, doing the same thing. I asked Samuel, “Suppose he’s already on a train?” “That isn’t likely. “He’d be afraid the bulls would see him and chase him out of the yard or worse yet, turn him over to the police. No, he’s hiding and waiting, just like us.”
We had no more than an hour to wait when the train in front of us backed up to couple with a line of cars, maybe eight or nine. When the cars had become part of the train, and as the train stared its forward motion, we saw a solitary figure run out from behind a building and jump onto one of the cars that had not yet passed us. “That’s it gentlemen, we’ve got us a train to catch,” said Jake as he stood watching the car we wanted approach us. He had been absent mindedly playing with the pistol. But now he stuck it in his belt and headed for the train. Samuel and I followed.
Jake was the first to jump on, next Samuel, and lastly me, as usual. By now, I could get on a moving train by myself and without too much difficulty. But it was still a struggle. By the time I flopped onto my back inside the car and laid there a moment to catch my breath, Jake had backed Testa up to the back wall. As I got up and walked towards them, I heard Testa say, “… and you were there, you saw it. He rushed me. I was only gonna’ scare him. But when he rushed me I was in fear of my life.” Jake looked over to Samuel and expressed his doubts as to the veracity of Testa’s story, “I think he’s a lying sack of shit. What do you think Samuel?” “I agree and concur wholeheartedly,” responded Samuel. No one asked my opinion.
Because of the full moon, the ambient light inside the car was enough for me to discern the terror upon Testa’s face. Just when I thought, “What are they going to do now that they’ve got him?” four shots rang out. The first into his forehead, not quite right between the eyes, but pretty good shooting nevertheless. The next three as he lay on the floor. Those went into his chest. Then I heard clicks as the spent chambers revolved to the firing position. Jake stood over the dead man, right arm out stretched, pointing the gun straight down at the body, and continued to squeeze the trigger until Samuel came up next to him and gently eased the gun from his hand. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve ever killed a man.” Jake said that more to himself, than either of us.
Well, I reckon it’s time to wrap up my story. It’s getting late. They dragged the body over to the open door and we waited until we were crossing a river. Then Samuel took hold of Testa’s wrist and Jake his ankles and they swung him back and forth, counting one, two, three. On three, they flung him out the door as far as they could. They wanted him in the water, not on the side of the tracks. It was my job to throw the gun out. Which I did without screwing it up.
We did not know where we were headed. Jake said because of the moon he could tell we were going in a southeasterly direction. We did not want to be caught in that car because of all the fresh blood on the floor. That would take some explaining.
We ended up in Tallahassee. Samuel still wanted to get to Atlanta, so he said he was going to catch a fright headed in that general direction. Jake said he had a woman down in Bonita Springs and was thinking of spending the winter with her. Until then he thought he’d pick oranges. The picking season was less than a month away. Me, I had had enough of boxcars and travelling for the moment. I was going home to mother. I invited them both along and told them they could stay as long as the wished. Both politely declined.
We said good bye to Samuel at the yard, then Jake and I hitched together as far as Orlando where we said goodbye. We both lied and said we’d meet up on the road at some future date, knowing that was highly unlikely. At least I did, because I knew right then and there that my boxcar riding days were at an end.
The End