The Dirty Parts of the Bible: A Novel (8 page)

I
didn’t have sex with the girl, but I sure got screwed. There was no going to Texas without money. And there was no going back to Remus empty-handed, either. Even if the railroad let me return on credit, there was no way to pay it back—Father had given me the last of his money. And supposing I did go home, what would Father say? I could picture him shaking his bandaged head and saying, “As it is written in Proverbs, ‘Many a man is brought low by a loose woman.’”

Why did I have to give that girl my money? I felt sorry for her, I wanted the hell out of there, and I was too flustered to stop and divide it between the two of us.

I bummed around town all morning, staring in shop windows and sitting on park benches. I went into restaurants and offered to wash dishes in exchange for food, like people in the movies always do, but no one would have me. In the afternoon, I swiped a bottle of warm milk off someone’s porch. I took one swig and spit it out—it was as sour as an old sock.

Around dinnertime, the gray sky let loose with a cold drizzle. I sat under a tree and pulled my coat over my head, but it was no use. I was cold, broke, and lonesome. In other words, I had the blues.

I started humming a tune I’d once heard a logger sing back in Remus:

I got the blues so bad,

the whole round world looks blue;

I ain’t got a dime, and I don’t know what to do.

Somehow, that made me feel a little better. It helped to know that I wasn’t alone—lots of other guys had been down and out, just like me. And what did they do? They sure didn’t sit around and mope.

When a woman gets the blues,

she hangs her little head and cries;

But when a man gets the blues,

he grabs a train and rides.

That’s what Sammy Swisher did, and Eddie Quackenbush, and Bucky Hendershott—all my old friends. They’d jumped freights and beat it out of town. I’d always been too scared to try, but now there was no other choice.

+ + +

By the time I got to the trainyards, the sky was pouring buckets. I walked along the tracks, past rows of empty boxcars, soaked through to the bone. Finally, I came to a tin-roofed shed with an open door, and ducked inside for shelter.

It was dark inside, so I was startled to get a welcome. “Hey ’bo—got any grub?” When my eyes adjusted, I saw five or six men huddled in a circle around a makeshift stove. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of brewing coffee.

I’d read a few stories about hoboes, so I was anxious to try out their lingo. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m busted. Flatter than a pancake.”

But instead of welcoming me as one of their own, they looked away and muttered amongst themselves. “Awfully fancy duds for a ’bo,” said one.

“Too soft for a bull,” said another.

“Must be a punk,” said a third. He turned and called out to me—“Hey kid, where’s yer jocker?”

They all laughed. I didn’t know it at the time, but a jocker is an old hobo who lords over a young boy—or punk—forcing him to beg for handouts and do things you couldn’t pay me to describe.

As I tried to explain myself, a Negro in a black overcoat walked over from the other side of the car and put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t waste your breath on these buzzards. They ain’t worth a fart in a whirlwind.”

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a face creased and oily like worn leather. Between his white whiskers and lively eyes, he looked both ancient and ageless—a look I’ve only seen in black men. Atop his head was a frayed derby, just like Chaplin’s.

“Name’s Craw,” he said. “What’s your moniker?”

“Tobias. Tobias Henry.”

He shook his head. “That’ll never do, greenhorn. If you want to be a hobo, first thing you need is a proper moniker. Where you from?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t know the place,” I said.

“Try me, kid—I’ve been everywhere.”

“Remus.”

Craw looked up and scratched the whiskers under his chin.

“It’s in Michigan,” I said, trying to help him out.

“Damned if you’ve haven’t stumped me,” he said. “Now—where was I … ?”

“You were saying I needed a moniker.”

“Ah, yes.” He put his left hand on my shoulder. “I hereby christen you …
the Remus Kid
.”

I wished he hadn’t. It was embarrassing enough to be from Remus. Even worse to be
called
Remus.

“How about Glen Rose, Texas,” I asked. “Ever been there?”

“Sure have. In fact, I’m headed that way now—to Oklahoma, maybe on to Fort Worth.”

My eyes widened. I didn’t even know which train I needed to hop. But if I could follow this veteran …

“Mind if I tag along?” I asked.

“I’d enjoy the company.”

When I held out my hand to shake, Craw pulled his right arm out of his pocket and held up a steel hook. “Lost it twenty years ago in Cincy,” he said. “Last time I ever tried to shake hands with a brakeman.” I shuddered at the thought—and the sight. “I assure you I’m quite harmless,” he said. “Unless prodded, provoked, or otherwise perturbed.”

+ + +

We milled around for a while, till a whistle moaned in the distance. Everyone quieted down and straightened up. It was the Southern, Craw said, and that meant we were getting on board. “The metal will be slick—for God’s sake and your mama’s, step lively.”

As I followed Craw towards the door, one of the hoboes laughed. “Looks like the punk found himself a jocker.”

“Better watch out for ol’ Craw,” another told me. “He’ll bugger anything with two legs.”

Craw flashed his hook. “Shut your grub hole, or this’ll be up your arse.” The ’bo stopped laughing and backed off. “I’ll have you know,” Craw continued, “I’ve met some very fine one-legged women in my day. I even bagged a three-legger once, out in Frisco.” He paused. “Ah, the things she could do with that leg.”

Great—I was about to climb into a boxcar with an old pervert. Craw turned and gave me a wink—whether to assuage my fears or confirm them, I wasn’t sure.

The whistle blew again, much louder. “So when you jump,” I asked, “what exactly do you grab hold of?”

“A ladder,” Craw said. “if you can find one. Just stick behind me and do just as I do. That is, unless I fall. If that happens, do the opposite.”

As the train approached, it rattled the shed like an earthquake. The hoboes waited inside till the engine rolled by, so as not to be seen by the engineer. Then they spilled out the door and scampered like a pack of gray rats toward the train.

One man turned around and pushed his way back inside. “It’s rainin’ like Billy-be-damned out there. I ain’t gonna break
my
neck.” I looked to see if Craw had heard, but he was already lumbering towards the train. I threw my pack over my shoulder and followed.

The ground shook below and rain pounded down from above. Boxcars and tankers whirred by with increasing speed. Smoke and steam billowed out in thick clouds that clung to the damp air. I could barely see Craw and had to run my fastest to keep pace.

We ran alongside of a boxcar till Craw got even with the ladder. Then he leapt up and hooked it. Hand over hook, he climbed up the bars to make room for me. I came as close to the spinning wheels as I could bear, then lunged for the ladder with all I had.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have much. I snagged a low rung and my legs flew out from under me, whipping my body to the side and slamming my gut against the edge of the car. With all the wind knocked out of me, I hung there limp as a ragdoll, my toes kicking against the gravel and raindrops pelting my face like nails.

I reached for the next rung with my right hand. My fingers slipped off the cold, wet bar and my arm fell to the side, sending my pack tumbling under the train. I hung by only one hand now, and my arm felt like it was tearing out of its socket. I pictured that lone arm riding all the way to Texas, still holding on long after my body had been ground into hamburger.

On the bright side, no one would call me the Remus Kid ever again.

T
HE
next thing I remember, my whole body was laid out flat and shaking on a boxcar floor. I couldn’t see Craw’s face in the darkness, but his voice was unmistakable. “Congratulations, my boy—you made it aboard with all your parts intact. So far as I can tell, that is. Whether or not you’ll be able to have children is an open question.”

I scooted back against the side of the car and rubbed my hands together, trying to bring some feeling back. “How did I get here?”

“Well,” Craw said, “I was going to compose a ballad in memorium of your demise, but I couldn’t decide whether it should be called ‘The Remus Kid’s Last Ride’ or ‘The Remus Kid’s First Ride’—so I gave up and rescued you instead.”

What I didn’t understand was how he could have dragged me all the way up the ladder and into the car, especially with only one good hand.

Craw slid over next to me. “Hungry?”

“You bet—I haven’t had a bite all day.” My stomach growled to second the motion.

“Be grateful you had one yesterday,” Craw said. “That’s better than some folks.” He pulled a silver tin out of his coat and peeled back the lid. With his hook, he speared a strip of pale, flaccid meat and dangled it in front of my face. The scent of lye burned my nose.

My stomach stopped growling and tightened into a knot. “What
is
it?”

“A Hoover steak.” Craw slurped it down and fished me another piece.

I nibbled on the edge—it tasted like a piece of bologna that had met a violent death and been embalmed. “I take it you didn’t vote for Hoover.”

+ + +

Sleeping in a boxcar was enough to make me miss my berth. When I woke up the next morning, I had to piss through a crack between the planks and hope that Craw’s tastes were limited to women. But I wasn’t in a position to complain about the accommodations.

Thankfully, the cracks in the walls were wide enough to let in some sun and provide a glimpse of the countryside, too. Missouri in May: it was the most beautiful land I’d ever seen—lush and green, with dew-drenched hills. We rolled on over mountains (maybe they were just hills, but they felt like mountains to me) and through cut-rock gorges. Craw called out all the stations from memory—Rolla, Lebanon, Joplin, Springfield.

After a while, he slid over next to me. “If I were your father,” he said, “I’d be worried about you. Of course, I speak only hypothetically. I have no children—to my knowledge, at least.”

“I didn’t run away,” I said. “My father’s the one who sent me out. He got in an accident and lost his sight.”

“I’m sorry,” Craw said. “How did it happen?”

“A bird shat in his eyes.”

He leaned in closer. “I can hardly hear with these old ears of mine. It sounded like you said—”

“Bird. Shat. He got drunk and passed out on the lawn. A bird flew over and—”

“Say no more,” Craw said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I know what it’s like to have a drunk for a father.”

“He’s not a drunk,” I said. “It was the only time he’s ever touched the stuff. He’s a Baptist preacher.”

“
Say no more
.”

Craw scooted away and started carving at the wall with his hook. After a while, I saw he was carving a rhyme:

Baptists and Catholics, all have their creeds;

Still the doubt is, where true Christianity be.

“You’re a poet?” I asked.

“No, but I dabble.”

A minute later, Craw made his way to the back of the car to pee. He unzipped his pants and looked back over his shoulder. “My pecker’s a poet.”

“How’s that?”

“He’s a longfellow.”

+ + +

By now, I knew Craw was more a braggart than a pervert. When I asked him about his travels, he spun tales of riding the rails and stowing away on ships, bumming all the way from Alaska to Timbuktu and back—twice.