Transcontinental (5 page)

The orchestra of sounds the freight parade produced thrummed in Leroy’s ears. The base of it all was a constant resounding rumble, the din of hundreds of tons of iron dragging itself along a steel track. As the train turned, the metal on metal screeched like a fierce bird of prey bearing down on a meal. The relentless rhythmic clacking was grating at first, but he acclimated to it, and after some time it began to soothe him.

The sensation of riding the rails was not unlike another ride he’d been on—an inoffensive little roller coaster at the county fair he’d visited growing up. Those sweltering summer days at the fair with his mother made up some of the few fond memories he had of her. For a small fee he got to enjoy the rides all day, and she got to drink all the beer she could afford—a win-win situation. No matter how many times she’d denied him a cheap toy or gadget because they couldn’t afford it, there was always money for more beer. Sure, she had some trouble driving home at the end of the day, but mortal terror was a small price for a genuine smile from Adalynne Smiley and a reprieve from her grumpiness.

Reminiscing about the fair, he felt a slight pang of pain in his chest. His mother hadn’t been all bad; she was equally enthusiastic about Christmas and birthdays when he was a teen as when he was a child. She taught him manners, despite her unwillingness to employ them herself. And no matter what she had put him through, she was still
his
mother. He guessed he did feel something for her, after all.

But she was gone. He had a new life to discover. Thinking about her wouldn’t help anything. It’d only distract him. He still had to get used to that.

The metallic walls and ceiling of the boxcar were much closer to Leroy than he would’ve liked. After a while, the wall he was leaning on began to heat up, so he scooted forward. If it wasn’t for the moderate draft filtering in through the one open door, he’d probably be baked alive in there. He questioned how anyone could survive a ride through the desert during the day in one of these things. He supposed he’d find out soon enough.

In his bag, he found a granola bar and water. The water had begun to warm up again, but it still hit the spot. The granola bar, on the other hand, did not. He was just thankful there were chocolate chips mixed in, otherwise the fake sweetener and stale half-crunch would’ve been unbearable. He powered through.

Unfulfilled, he went back for jerky. Half of the bag was gone from lunch, and he was only twenty minutes or so into a ride that could end up lasting all day. He took small bites, chewing thoroughly and pausing to let each settle. His mother had always told him, “Eat slow, eat less.” But he had an inkling it was more of a money-saving technique than out of concern for his wellbeing.

He savored the meat as much as the scenery whisking by. It was peaceful. The way his mother had sneered when she spoke of it, he always viewed riding the rails as an undesirable act of desperation. But he was beginning to see the appeal. Perhaps it was something people
chose
to do, too.
 

The scenery was grand, even in the dark; silky silhouettes of the flora, growing sparser as they chugged along, textured the rolling hills and dunes. However he couldn’t help but wonder what his fellow tramps—still felt funny to refer to himself as such—did to occupy themselves on long trips. It was too dark to sketch, and maybe too shaky.

He wondered where she lived. Leroy had spent his life on the west coast. Maybe she lived on the east, or the mid-west. He wasn’t much for cold weather, but up north might be fun. He had experienced snow, but only as fine flakes that melted before they reached the ground. He’d never even made a snowball. Every kid should get to do that.

Maybe she still lived in California. He hadn’t considered this. All he’d ever heard was that she moved away and he wouldn’t be seeing her again, so it was possible. It would be convenient, and would significantly lessen the length of his trip, but he wanted to put distance between him and his old life, both emotionally and physically.

At any rate, he still had to get to Folsom before he’d have any idea where he might be headed. He shuddered at the notion, and did his best to avoid thinking about it. Dwelling on something like that could kill any momentum or motivation he had built up, and what would he do then? Live on the streets wherever he ended up?

That was not an option.

Leroy’s lower back and abs ached. Sitting up straight was difficult in the shaky car. He sat amongst a rainbow of multicolored paper rolls that reminded him of construction paper projects in elementary school. He laid out atop the rolls. It wasn’t great, but it was better than his old futon at home, despite the gaps and holes. If he clasped his hands behind his head, he could prop it up and see outside. It was a strain on the neck, but more interesting than watching the ceiling.

A faint light sifted between the passing trees, producing a hypnotic strobing effect. Leroy let himself get lost in it, watching the twilit world pass.

Gradually, the trees grew scattered, and the light more intense. Leroy gazed out the makeshift window. In one abrupt moment, the trees gave way to a majestic view. The sky was painted watercolor hues of blue and pink as the sun peeked over the skyline, spilling elongated shadows of scrub across the sandy undulations. Cacti of all shapes and sizes protruded from the ground underneath buzzards circling overhead.

Leroy gaped at the scene. The environments of his childhood were urban, metropolitan. To him, nature was simply what took up undeveloped land. This, however, was new, and kind of overwhelming. He’d never beheld such an unadulterated view of natural beauty. He felt a soaring in his chest, as if his soul were a caged bird, finally liberated after fifteen long years. A sense of belonging overtook him. He pined to be down there amongst the bushland, to sit in the sand and relax, to feel the sun and the wind on his skin.

He was convinced: freight hopping was no last resort.

Enthralled, he took it all in.

A moment later, Leroy sensed a modest increase in the train’s pace as it started down a decline. Of course it would speed up right when he began to appreciate the scenery. The view was fantastic, but he was willing to sacrifice it if it meant shortening the ride.

Leroy felt the pull of gravity as the gradient sharpened and the locomotive gathered speed. A tinny, jangling sound caught his ear. He glanced around, trying to locate the source. His gaze stopped on the open door. Leroy crawled on his stomach to check it out.

At the base of the door, a little metal latch vibrated. Leroy surmised it held the door open. It was already halfway unfastened, and the shakiness of the train threatened to slip it out of place completely.

Leroy reached out with his left arm to hold the weighty door in place so he could bolt the latch. He pushed as hard as he could, but the latch didn’t budge. The door was pressing against it, preventing it from sliding. He thrust against the sliding door, but it was as stuck as the latch.

It was hard to utilize his strength laying on his stomach, but he could see how fast the ground below was moving, and dared not sit up in front of the open door. He took a breath, tensed up, and was about to push again, when a gap in the tracks jounced the boxcar, freeing the door from the latch. It rushed forward on the sliding track, with Leroy’s right hand in the path of destruction. He ripped his hand off the track a split second before the door rolled past, slamming shut with a stout click.

Leroy collected himself in the dark. He’d already faced more peril than he’d expected in total. He hadn’t realized life could be so dangerous.

Leroy crouched in front of the boxcar doors. Light spilled in through the contour, creating a glowing rectangle that looked like it could be the door to heaven. It was hard to see in the dark, especially with the light spilling in through the edges, continuously re-sensitizing his eyes. He scanned the door for a handle, a knob, anything, but found none. He patted down the door, again to no avail. The inside was just a smooth metal slab. The door next to it was the same.

He leaned against the back wall of the boxcar, but pushed himself off after feeling the hot metal through his shirt. Slumping forward, he drew a long breath that didn’t come as easily as before. The air was stale and warm, and it’d only been a few minutes. The engineer had said he couldn’t get him all the way to Folsom, but he could be stuck for hours still.

Stuck in the claustrophobic black box, he thought of his old room. Sometimes when he had bugged his mother excessively for unreasonable things—some form of entertainment, or to stay home so he could play outside after he finished his homework—she would lock him in his windowless bedroom and unscrew the light bulb. Day or night, that small room was pitch black, save for the light sneaking through the edges around the door. On the bright side, it had cured his fear of darkness. On the not so bright side, it’d introduced him to panic attacks. The memory quickened his pulse and breathing.

The train’s horn blared, rattling the boxcar and shattering Leroy’s recollection. He scowled, but then it occurred to him that they don’t blow the horn for no reason. He counted two long bursts, a short burst, and another long one, wondering what, if anything, it meant.

A sheen of sweat had formed on his body, dripping down his forehead and into his eyes. It was getting hotter by the minute, and there was a repulsive odor in the air he hadn’t smelled before, just enough to tease the nostrils, but too much to ignore. It stank of decay, as if some cargo the car had carried previously sat rotting in the desert sun. He could feel the air supply getting thinner as he breathed. It all made Leroy sick to his stomach. Water provided no relief.

If only he could get the engineer’s attention, he knew the man would open the door for him. This wasn’t a passenger train, though; there was no handle he could pull to ask the driver to let him off. He’d just have to wait for the train to stop, no matter how long it took, which was a worrisome notion.

Some minutes later, Leroy was taking off his shirt to keep it from getting soaked with sweat, when the train sounded one long, commanding burst of the horn. He imagined an oblivious cow on the track ahead, chewing its cud, a small white bird perched on its back.

To his surprise, the train decelerated. Maybe there was a cow on the track.

The train ground to a slow stop, a whoosh of air deploying as the brakes depressurized. Leroy fanned himself with his shirt, and the moving air felt good, but he sweated more from the effort of it in the stifling boxcar. He gulped down air in deep breaths at a rate that was beginning to alarm him. He knew the more upset he got, the harder he’d breathe, and the cycle would continue. But he’d learned firsthand that logic sometimes failed in the heat of the moment.

Through his increasingly ragged gasping, his ears picked up the sound of men laughing. Fists raised and ready to pound the door, Leroy halted. What if it wasn’t the crew? Maybe there was no cow. Maybe they were at a station, where something much more treacherous potentially lurked: a bull.

He lowered his fists and focused on getting air into his lungs. His chest rising and falling hard, he closed his eyes, assuring himself everything would be fine. At some point someone would have to open the door, lest the world suffer a scarcity of colored paper. Leroy’s breathing began to slow, but each inhalation grew more desperate than the last.

The men’s voices faded. Or maybe it was just his ears ringing, drowning them out, he wasn’t sure. He was sure, however, that if he didn’t get out soon, he had a good chance of suffocating, which only panicked him further, clouding his thoughts and senses.

The air he drew was scratchy, almost sticky in his throat. He’d had enough. He didn’t care if he went to jail; at least he’d be alive. Leroy slammed his fists on the metal door, pain shooting up his wrists, though in his faint state, he barely felt it. He pounded harder, harder, harder, until he couldn’t anymore. Panting, he cried out “Hey, help! I’m locked in!”

He waited a moment.
 

Nothing.

He battered the door, yelling between breaths. “Please! Let me out!”

Still nothing.

Leroy felt weak, his eyelids growing heavy, tunnel vision setting in. He swung his fist at the door until he couldn’t lift his arm anymore.

And then it opened.

The light was so intense that he had to flutter his eyelids until his vision adjusted. Before him stood a lithe, olive-skinned man, stubbly greying scruff on his face and head. Crawling toward the open door, Leroy met the man’s steely gaze. He imagined he looked like some kind of zombie, which was the last thing he did before everything went black.

Chapter 2

Boron, CA

The lack of light was so intense, Leroy couldn’t tell if his eyes were open.

He laid flat on his back. Unsure of where he was or how he’d gotten there, Leroy put his hands to the ground and felt a slick, featureless floor. As he sat up, an ethereal resistance stymied him. In slow motion, he found his footing, then waded into the liquiform darkness.

The pitch black void stretched on in every direction. Even worse, it seemed to stick to his skin, caked-on and stinging. He opened his mouth to call out. His vocal chords vibrated and his mouth formed the words, but there was no sound. Again he tried, yet his hollering only added to the stuffy silence.

Then, a light sparked into existence. It hung in the air, flashing red and blue, then traveled straight down like a lit fuse, forming line after line, until it finalized into the familiar outline of the boxcar doors.