The Boxcar Blues (2 page)

Surprisingly, Luke said, “I knew that house
wasn’t no good. They got a new car, curtains on the windows and
fancy shutters. Ain’t no way they’re going to give nothing away.
Rich people hold onto their fixins like it’s life or death. They
don’t know about bein’ hungry.”

“
Yeah, I can’t argue with
that.”

Again the boys walked toward the tracks,
watching for another house that might be worth a visit. Every house
they passed looked as if it was long deserted; no lights, screens
torn, shingles falling like snowflakes. A sad reminder of transient
times when people lived somewhere until the rent was due, then left
town.

A quarter mile from the tracks they saw a
pear tree that hadn't been picked clean yet. Luke scrambled up the
tree and filled his pockets with ripe pears. A block later they sat
down under the portico of a closed Standard Oil station and ate
most of the pears. Curly said, “Pork chops would have been a lot
better. I hope the guy back at that house chokes on his next meal
until his fat ass quits breathing.”

Luke looked off in the distance. He didn’t
care if they guy choked or not, he was thinking about his future.
He asked, “Where you going next?”

Curly grabbed handful of pebbles and tossed
them one by one at a faded sign. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll catch
out and see where I end up. How ‘bout you?”

“
There ain’t no point in
staying here.” Luke stood and looked toward the tracks. “We might
as well travel together for a while. What’s your name?”

Curly held out his hand and said, “Abraham
Levitz. Most people call me Curly.”

Luke shook his hand and smiled, “Luke
Jackson and everybody calls me Luke.”

“
I kind of like traveling
with someone. Don’t do it often. Most of the time I stick to
myself.”

“
That’s why you ain’t
eaten in so long.”

“
Wha’dya mean,
Luke?”

“
You’re the worst chicken
thief I’ve ever seen.”

CHAPTER TWO

An hour later Luke and Curly hopped into a
boxcar on a westbound freight train that was just gathering steam.
Out of habit they looked to see who else was in the car. Once the
train was under a full head of steam it would be going too fast to
jump off and they’d be trapped with their fellow riders, whether
they were good or bad, for the entire trip.

At one end of the boxcar they saw a few men
who gave them a cursory glance, then went back to sleep; those
weren't the ones they worried about. They were looking for the men
who stared at them, sizing them up for robbery or other violent
act. Luke was searching for the look of those who carried a hate
for black people with them. They weren’t hard to spot because they
never hid their hatred; in most cases, they wore it like a
badge.

They didn’t see anyone who looked
troublesome, but still Luke decided to hide out in the end of the
car that was filled with packing paper. He said, “I’m getting some
shut eye under this packing paper. Wake me if you decide to drop
off.”

“
O.K.” Curly gathered some
paper for padding and sat down near the doorway. As the rhythmical
clicking of the wheels increased and the swaying of the boxcar
became more erratic, he lowered his head and thought of his family
back in upper New York.

His Dad would be working the fields seven
days a week, trying to raise enough produce to feed the family and
sell what was left over, if there were buyers with cash. His
brothers were too young to leave home, but had wanted to go with
him rather than live with the bitch his father had married. She’d
moved in and turned their life into a living hell. An ex-school
teacher, she’d taken to whacking their hands with a ruler when the
chores weren't done to her satisfaction. The last straw had been
when she grounded him because he wasn’t paying close attention to
her tutoring. He’d complained, but his father said the extra
schooling was good for them and they should be grateful for her
help. Curly countered with, "It's her or me. If she stays, I'm
leaving."

His Dad said he loved this woman and she was
staying. He warned his son there wasn't much work to be had.
Undaunted, Curly packed his bags and left that afternoon. Since
then he’d traveled over a thousand miles looking for work. Every
time he was turned down for a job his Dad’s words rung in his ear.
He was thinking about finding work when sleep came.

Curly woke with a start when he sensed
someone near him. Before his eyes could focus in the blue-black
light of the approaching dawn, he smelled them; there was no
mistaking the gamy scent of hobos. He saw a dirty, tattered man
sitting a few feet to his left, between him and the doorway. Dark
eyes stared at him from under a worn fedora, but the voice came
from his right, "Don't be afraid, boy. We’re your friends and want
to give you something to eat."

Trouble! Nobody ever offered you food in a
boxcar. Curly turned his attention to the speed of the train — was
it slow enough to jump off? No, the engineer was high-balling it.
He had no idea how long before there'd be another water stop. His
only defense was to bluff.

In his huskiest voice, Curly bellowed, "I
don’t want your fuckin' food! Get the hell away from me before I
throw you off the train."

"Whew-we," the one on his right said. "We
got us a tiger, Gene. He's gonna throw us off the train."

Curly’s head spun as he looked around the
boxcar. It was deserted. He wondered if Luke was still sleeping in
the packing paper. Then he calculated his chances of surviving a
jump from the fast moving train — they weren’t good.

The man on his left pulled out a knife. The
other one laughed, "He-he, you still gonna throw us off the train,
sonny boy?"

Curly thrust his hand in his jacket pocket
and screamed, "I'm packing a rod. Get the hell away from me or I’ll
shoot!"

"Uh-oh, he's got a rod, Gene." The guy on
his right quickly grabbed him by the crotch and laughed, "Where you
got that rod boy? You got it hidden down here by your little
pecker?"

Curly threw a forearm into the one who'd
grabbed him and tried to scramble to the other side of the boxcar.
The guy with the knife grabbed his collar and threw him to the
floor, slamming his face into the wood.

Curly felt blood on his cheek, and the tip
of the knife sticking him below his ear. A threatening voice said,
"Don't make a move, kid."

"You ain't gonna to be throwing anybody
anywhere." The one who'd grabbed his crotch was fumbling with
Curly's belt buckle. When it was undone, he tugged Curly's pants
down.

Curly shouted, "You God damned queer
bastards. If I get my hands on you, you're dead!"

A fist to the side of his head, then, "Shut
up, kid."

Curly grit his teeth, steeling himself. His
urge was to struggle, but the knife point in his neck stilled him.
He was prepared for the worst, when he heard Luke’s voice bellow
above the din of the train. “You two, leave him alone."

As his assailant turned toward the voice,
the pressure from the knife let up. The guy on his knees had also
looked toward the voice. Curly rolled and drove both feet into the
guy’s crotch. A loud scream told him he’d connected. He scrambled
away, pulling up his pants.

The one with the knife spun toward him and
yelled, "Com'ere kid, I ain't done with you."

Luke stepped out of the shadows. The guy
with the knife turned toward him and attacked, slashing wildly.
"Get outta here! This ain't none o' your business."

With astonishing quickness, Luke grabbed the
guy's wrist and wrapped an arm around his neck. The hobo struggled,
but Luke twisted his arm until a bone cracked. The hobo roared in
pain and dropped the knife. Curly grabbed it.

Luke threw the guy out the door. A scream
followed the hobo then faded into the distance. He pointed to the
second guy and said, "You want to take care of this one?"

"Yeah." Curly knelt over the cowering man,
laid the knife across his throat and screamed, "You queer son of a
bitch. I ought to dress you out right here."

The man cried, "Look kid, we was jes' havin'
a little fun. I wasn't gonna stick it in ya'." Wide, terrified eyes
searched Curly's face to see how much hatred was in the boy. He
muttered, "Wha-what're ya' gonna do?"

"I’ll fix you so you won't be able to fuck
anybody ever again."

The man cried, "No, no, wait a second,
kid!"

Luke said, "You better not cut him or he'll
die for sure."

"You just broke a guy's arm and threw him
off the train."

"Yeah, because they were gonna hurt you.
This guy ain't so dangerous now."

The trembling hobo picked up on the
reasoning, "Yeah, kid, listen to him. I ain't gonna do nothin' now.
There ain't no use for you to hurt me, we can jest forget about
this."

Curly kept the pressure on the knife and
told the man, "Mister, you've got ten seconds to get off this train
or I'm gonna cut you long and deep."

"Wait, I gotta get my pants on."

Curly threw the guy’s pants to the end of
the boxcar, "Move it!"

"But wait, kid, I can't….”

Curly jabbed at him, backing the guy up
until he teetered in the doorway. One slash with the knife and hobo
jumped, bare-legged, to join his friend.

With his heart racing, Curly stood in the
doorway of the rocking boxcar, looking into the fresh morning
light. He felt several years older than a few minutes ago. Turning
to his new friend, he said, "Thanks for the help."

"That’s O.K. Now that we got rid of them, we
better drop off, quick."

"Why?" Curly didn't understand the
urgency.

"'Cause, if either of them two live, they're
going to be screaming about a white man and a Negro that threw 'em
off the train. Word's gonna go down the line and the law will be
waitin' for us at the next stop. They'll just throw you in jail,
but they'll sure as shootin' lynch me."

Curly leaned against the swaying wall of the
boxcar and said, "Are you serious?"

Luke asked, "Curly, how long you been on the
road?"

"A month or so. Why?"

"Well, you sure ain't learned much. I'm
surprised you lived this long."

"Wha'dya mean?” Curly shot back. “I can take
care of myself!"

Luke snickered. "You sure got a short
memory."

Curly reacted, defensive, "Yeah, well that
guy had a knife."

"We’re slowing for a grade. Let’s ditch this
westbound and catch out on an eastbound. They'll be looking for us
at the stops west of here. Our best bet is to head back east for a
few hours.”

“
Do you mean the law will
be looking for us?”

“
They might be. We’d best
avoid them.”

“
That means we can’t show
our faces around here, right?”

“
That’s right.”

“
Shit!” Curly yelled. “If
we can’t show our faces, how the hell are we going to get anything
to eat?”

“
I don’t know, Curly. I
guess we don’t eat.”

CHAPTER THREE

As the train slowed Luke heard the telltale
banging of the couplings slamming together. From experience he knew
it would take a minute or so before the train was slow enough for
them to jump from the boxcar without being mortally injured.

Once the train reached walking speed the
boys jumped onto the cinder siding and rolled into the tall grass.
They walked along the tracks for an hour or so until a water tank
appeared in the distance. Approaching it cautiously, they made sure
there were no other hoboes waiting for the next train near the
tank.

Luke cautioned, "Go way back in this field.
Some of the railroad bulls in these parts carry shotguns. If they
think someone is waiting to hop a train, they've been known to fire
a few rounds of buckshot into the field."

Seeing no one, they ran into the field and
laid down. Curly asked, "What if the bulls kill someone by shooting
into a field like that?"

Luke answered, matter-of-fact, "Someone gets
killed, most likely they dig a hole and throw him in it. Since I
been ridin' the rails, I’ve seen hundreds of guys die out
here."

"All of 'em shot by the bulls?"

"No, most of 'em are killed getting on or
off trains. Guys make the mistake of ridin' the blinds between
passenger cars, or they ride the rods below boxcars. They’re both
dangerous. Saw a kid last week, sittin' the doorway of boxcar
swinging' his feet when the train went by a switch. The switch
caught his feet and took him clean out of the car. 'Nuther guy
tried to catch out, but the train was goin' too fast. It threw him
right under the wheels—cut 'im in half."

"Holy shit." Curly said, thinking how lucky
he'd been so far. They turned toward the mournful whistle and
unmistakable chugging of an approaching train. Knowing the brakeman
would be looking for hobos, they waited in the field. After the
train took on water, they heard the two short whistle blasts that
signaled the engineer was about to blow down the boiler. Once the
tall driving wheels started to turn, they sprinted for the train.
Luke saw Curly heading for the front ladder on a closed boxcar. He
grabbed the rear ladder and climbed to the top of the same
boxcar.

Once on top, Curly slowly walked the catwalk
toward Luke.

Halfway there he saw Luke waving and
shouting, "Get down, Curly, get down!"

Curly lay down. Luke ran toward him and
said, "Don't you know nothin'?"

"Wha'dya mean?"

"Don't walk a boxcar with your back to the
engine until you’ve taken a good look ahead; that's a good way to
get killed." As Luke said this, an over-hanging signal arm whizzed
by, barely four feet over their heads.

Luke continued, "See that? If you're
standing with your back to the engine and one of them, or a bridge
comes along, you're dead. You always walk a catwalk facing the
engine until you’ve taken a good look down the line."