Here Comes the Rooster (2017)
Bakersfield made me feel like a home bum after five days of bumming it. That last bone-chilling night, with a film of frost on my bag, waking up to a text message on the roof of a church, made me smile. My breath froze in front of me, like plumes of white smoke, as I walked to the train tracks along the dark streets to meet my road dog, Rooster from Squat the Planet. With three points of attachment, I crossed over the knuckle of two boxcars holding onto the brisk metal ladder. Shortly after the air hissed like a vicious snake, I hopped off, afraid of leaving him behind.
He stood a few inches taller with a lanky frame, and two backpacks next to him. His long jet-black hair and scruffy beard hid his face along with a baseball cap. He gradually added new studs, pins and patches to his hat as he wandered the road. Aside from that, we looked similar, not resembling “Dirty Kids” and the appearance of other riders captured through Brodie’s lens of 35mm film.
That day rekindled my spirits, having a friend to kick it with by the tracks, while waiting for our next ride out of town. Much of train hopping involved patience, using that time waiting to keep myself occupied. With small talk, it made it lighter on my mind to pass the time. My thoughts did not wander as much to empty spaces and nihilist thoughts. I took a break from reading and writing for the first time since late November, scrawling notes on my phone instead, and enjoying the small talk of another fellow traveler.
We waited patiently passing time with words until the faint squealing of steel furrowed our brows. A large train slowly rolled into Bakersfield headed southbound. Our heads moved from boxcar to lumber rack to oil tanker to gondola, scanning the train for a rideable freight car. Inch-by-inch the locomotive slowed to a screeching halt and the train followed like dominoes.
We sprinted towards the gondolas. I climbed up; ladder after ladder, my fingers turned a rusty brown as old paint flaked off the cars. Poking my head over the side, my efforts remained futile, seeing every car loaded to the brim with wood. My adrenaline pumped as we galloped along the ballast and my hopes slowly dwindled nearing the end of the train. I followed behind Rooster as he stealthily climbed onto the plank of the cab. To my surprise, he jiggled the door handle and we both scurried quickly into the locomotive, placing our gear in the bathroom, and then lying out on the floor.
We never called in an equipment number, but we knew she headed south or east. She purred as loud exhaust bellowed from her engine. She pushed the cars faster and faster until we plowed through the yard whistling smoothly across the narrow steel beams of track for the mountains. I looked down at the speedometer and just 13 miles out of Bakersfield, the locomotive gradually came to a halt. I panicked. My heart raced fearing the worst. “Maybe someone called us in from a crossing?” I thought. Minutes turned into, what felt like hours, as our train waited patiently hoping to chug along the single track through the Tehachapi Mountain Pass. My anxiety faded and once I heard the air release, a spark of joy shot a smile across my face.
She continued rolling through the mountains steadily picking up speed as we rode Cadillac in a luxurious multi-million-dollar cab. The area came equipped with comfortable, leather seating, a toilet, ice box, an outlet to charge our electronics and most importantly computerized train controls, that if touched would surely get us pulled off the train, arrested, and possibly thrown in jail.
We plopped our asses in the chairs as she squealed around the steep curves, clanking through the greenest of mountains. Cows grazed yonder, sipping from the dry riverbed, a motionless puddle of water. Dry trails of tributaries faded out of view between the barren trees as we chugged along getting closer to the desert.
The door opened and the sound of diesel exhaust roared from the pusher. Rooster walked out onto the plank. The cool breeze tickled my nose as I followed behind him, grabbing onto her railing tightly with each step forward. My hands clasped her cold metal, ch...ch...ch...ch rung in my ear drums, rattling out every sound, but the sound of the locomotive hauling tons of freight. The sun began to vanish behind the mirage of mountains and our journey on the plank ended quickly as we scurried back in the cab for warmth.
Colton, California lay just past the Tehachapi Loop and with the night sky fully immersed in twinkling stars; he pulled out a bottle of Whiskey. I did not drink too much, but a few swigs. I felt a little schwilly with the last drop of whiskey burning the back of my throat, but it faded with time.
Drugs and alcohol left my life years ago, but with new company on the open road, I made an exception, taking a few swills to new experiences, new people and new places.
She chugged along at 15 mph through the mountains until gaining speed over the pass. We now entered the high desert and kept our eyes peeled for the yard to avoid the bull, but we must have dozed off. She pummeled along the steel putting us straight in the yard and kept rolling and rolling. “Fuck,” we needed to get off as she started heading westbound. She slowed down to a few miles per hour and we grabbed our gear, darting out the back of the unit. Headlights shined in my eyes as the bull sat there in his vehicle playing on his phone. I made a run for it, sprinting towards the highway, breathing heavily as I scrambled over the flimsy, chain-linked fence. I looked back at Rooster. “Come on dude...GO...GO...the bull is right there...”
He hobbled faster throwing his two bags over the fence as he climbed his way to freedom. Once over, we casually walked down the shoulder of the highway to find a spot to sleep. The bull never noticed us, or he did not care, either way, we managed to stay out of jail, and citation-free. A Walmart towered above the other industry near the yard and we set up camp in the adjacent field, sleeping on a nice grassy patch under a small hill by the open road.
