Speedballin', Spacebags & Sidewalk Slammers (2017)
We woke up in a field. My head throbbed from the whiskey the night prior and I swore to myself I would take a night off the booze, but we all know how that goes.
“Rooster ya wanna hit up Walmart?”
“Fo Sho, lemme just sleep another hour...fuckin' tired bro.”
I found it odd how I kept myself preoccupied so easily, but, “Without employment and little to do, why not wander in thought? Why not read and write, drift about by freight train, and hitchhike? Why not embrace the beauty of the distant landscapes, the freedoms of America?” I thought. I gained a certain satisfaction from staring off at the mountains for hours whose peaks drizzled like white chocolate. I waited in deep thought, rubbing my feet, for Rooster to wake up. For the first time in weeks, I started to regain feeling in my frostbitten toes as the temperature soared into the high 70's.
Rooster yawned and stretched with a big sigh, “Oommf...we need to get whiskey for the train ride. Think ima take a break from trains today...if that's ok with you?”
“Word, sounds good dude. Check out the yard, try to find the hop out, and get some rest.”
“Fo Sho, gettin' drunk tonight.”
“Aight...I'll have a few...”
I stood up, wobbling and hungover, for a brief tramp to the Walmart, flinging my gear down on the sidewalk by the electrical outlet. One after the other, Dirty Kids approached. Dirk looked like a typical train kid wearing Carhartt pants, some holes blown out in the ass, sporting a studded, sleeveless, jean jacket covered in patches, with a grimy hoody and a newsboy cap atop his head. His greasy short black hair curled under his cap and his tanned skin reflected many days of tramping on the open road. Meeka, his little pit-mix, pranced around next to him with shiny golden-brown fur and a cute swagger. Cid on the other hand wore shorts over long johns with flaps of camouflage cloth dangling behind his ass. Under a studded and patched cap, he had a buzz-cut with a patch of long blonde hair.
Dirk grabbed a marker to make a sign, scribbling the word ‘FEWD?’ in big, bold, black letters.“You think the kids these days will get it?” He said.
I chuckled, “Yeah...looks like Food...am I right?”
“Yeah, pretty broke, tryin' to fly a sign to make a few bucks before headin' to see my sister in LA.”
“No doubt,” I said.
Rooster and I offered him some food, but he declined. He just wanted some beef jerky. So, Rooster set off to grab it and peaches while we all loitered outside.
Cid looked over at us. “Any you’s seen Randy anywhere...I was sposed to meet em here. Haven't seen em...”
Dirk blurted out, “Yeah he caught a train north...other day I think.”
“Really...what the fuck...why the fuck he goin' North? Well ok...guess I'll kick it here for a bit...see if he shows up. I'm broke as fuck, haven't had my name ran here since ‘09, wanna keep it that way. Any you’s tryin' to score some dope? I know a home bum who sells it under the bridge...”
Dirk chuckled with a spurt of joy. “Yeah man...was spun out last night, but why not? You guys wanna chip in on a spacebag tonight?”
I nodded, “Yeah I'm down, but I'll pass on the drugs.”
A flabbergasted expression struck Cid's face. “What you guys gonna do all day then?”
Rooster walked back into the circle, throwing a package of chipotle beef jerky at Dirk.
“Score, thanks dude.”
“No problem. Me and Brian are gonna check out the yard for the eastbound hop out. Kick it, relax, then drink later tonight.”
Cid scoffed, holding back laughter. “Wwwwhaaat? You don't drink durin' the day?”
“Nope. Only at night to sleep.”
“Haha okkayy. Well we're gonna shoot up dope under the bridge. Spacebag later?”
Everyone nodded in agreement.
“Oh by the way...hop out is near Cedar...it'll be an intermodal,” said Cid.
We trucked along towards Cedar to check out the hop out or lack there of one. Both of us chipped in for sidewalk slammers, buying two 40's and two Four Loko's. We watched the mouth of the yard from a distant grassy field, taking cover near the only lone tree. I left an imprint of swamp ass on the cinder block beneath me as we watched for eastbound trains. Everything plowed on through heading westbound, and the only eastbound trains rolled too fast to catch on the fly. Not sure if Cid juked us in the wrong direction, but no trains stopped, changed crews, or slowed down enough to catch out.
“Cid’s full of shit. We'll check out the other end of the yard tomorrow bud. I dunno about you, but I'm gettin' drunk. Dirk never hit me back...don't really wanna hang with a bunch of junkies anyway.”
“True...just seems like bad news. Let's drink, figure the hop out tomorrow,” I said.
Hours passed and it looked hopeless so we started to tip our elbows, getting tipsy off sidewalk slammers. Plans fell through for a communal Spacebag, and after hardly any schwills, I passed out in a field on a pile of prickly goat-heads between a patch of grassy pavement. That night I awoke stumbling around to piss and lodged at least 10 of those fuckers in my frostbitten feet. I reached down plucking the little balls of cactus-like thorns out of my feet and blacked out into a drunken stupor.
The sun fried my face like a boiled egg waking me just past dawn. My eyes sagged with tiredness about them, but surprisingly I did not feel hungover. I looked over at Rooster, who lay there dead on the pavement, as the sun tickled his beard with undulating heat. Sweat broke out across his brow, but he just lay there unabashed by its torment for hours.
I read an old kid's classic, “The Boxcar Kids.” My eyes shifted to the yard dog working and breaking up trains while the mainline stayed open for traffic. Occasionally westbound intermodal trains cruised by, but nothing eastbound.
Brrringggg...brrringgg...Rooster leaned over like a sloth and answered his phone. “Yo what's up? Who is this?” He said in a raspy, cotton-mouth voice.
“It’s Cid...did you steal my fuckin' pack?”
“Hold up man...this is Rooster. We weren't even with you guys the other night...what're ya talkin' about?”
“Ohhhh shit...my bad...Dirk gave me the wrong number...we were speedballin' last night with a group of friends...pack went missin'...we're cool man...my bad...thought you were one ah Randy's friends.”
“Oh...well hope you find your shit bro.”
With a long yawn, he sat up and looked over at me. His bloodshot, teary eyes drooped in the violent sun. “Man, I'm fuckin' tired as shit...still...”
“Haha you're just hungover Rooster...we'll grab some food and head further up the yard.”
“Fo Sho...ima pack up my shit and we'll roll out.”
Tramping along down the highway towards Walmart, we wandered parallel to the tracks. Walmart felt like the ultimate bum spot full of train kids, and home bums alike. We loitered, charged phones and handled our fair share of harassment from rude locals. Some old, wrinkly bitch, with half her teeth, snarled at us, and spit projected from her mouth like she just took a slobberknocker.
“Nope sir-e, you ain't gettin' my dollah...no way...dirty ass, non-workin' scum bags...tryin' take my hard earned dollah...nope,” she cringed.
Under my breath I mumbled, “Suck a dick lady...I never asked you for your fuckin' dollar. I'm not spangin' or flyin' a sign...I have my own money...I work...fuck off.”
My frustration got the better of me and Rooster calmed me down.
“Dude, chill out. She’s not worth it. People like her are lookin' for a reaction. Be nice or ignore her. She's not expecting that.”
I cooled off and my temper subsided, taking his advice kept us out of jail, so it did not escalate to a physical altercation. The ugly bitch and her man stumbled away from the vending machines all strung-out, bickering obscenities while we both smirked. “Whatever,” I said.
We tramped towards the overpass at the other mouth of the yard, studying it like a textbook. Junk trains all lined up awaiting departure. Railfans ruined our attempts to hideout under the bridge, as we waited patiently for their train boners to diminish. After a few snaps of their cameras, they reached their climax, and flocked back to their vehicle for the I-10. We hustled along the overpass, scurrying over the guardrail for the clearance box under the bridge. Several train tags scrawled out everywhere along the concrete covering the structure wall-to-wall. We left ours of course, scribbling them on in thick black marker.
No sooner did the felt-tip marker leave the wall did we hear the ear-piercing thunder roar, the horn of a departing train. She rolled past at a slow speed, clicking and clanking along the steel, with a consist of mixed manifest freight. Rooster fumbled for Union Pacific’s phone tracer number, calling in a boxcar on the locomotive, while I scrambled down the slippery, dirt embankment.
“GO...GO...SHE’S HEADIN’ TO EL PASO...” he screamed over the rumbling noise.
I ran alongside her last freight cars, dancing along a grainer. I courted her with my hands clasped onto the brisk ladder, pulling myself up, and propping my boot on the last rung. Scuttling aboard, I threw my bag onto the porch, squeezing myself into the foxhole. It felt claustrophobic as I curled into a tiny ball, but I stayed hidden for at least a few miles outside of the Colton Yard. I wanted to stay on this train. After all, it brought us one-step closer to Phoenix.
At the first siding, we hopped off to find a more comfortable ride. Rooster hustled off towards the backend of the train, trudging along the ballast.
He yelled back at me, “High wall grainer, two cars down bud...LET'S MOVE!”
I threw his gear over and hopped off with my pack clung around my shoulders. My lungs gasped for air and I dashed for the open grainer as she sat still and motionless in the moonlight. We chucked our packs on the porch of the high wall and waited for the higher priority train to pass. What did we do to kill the time, you ask?
We got loaded and took schwill after schwill of Black Velvet Whiskey. I loathed the putrid taste of liquor, but getting tipsy on a train definitely made it easier for me to catch some zzz's at night.
Black outlines of mountains cast out into the desert as the train accelerated along the thin rails of steel. Rooster sat there bundled and calm looking off into the night sky, as I did myself. The stars frolicked among the full moon and to the north; Venus struck the sky with her brute, blinding ecstasy. The pure beauty of the landscape mixed with the booze put me in a trance. We both lay there against the cool metal porch, the train rattling full-throttle, as we sipped whiskey, and lost ourselves in the vastness of Mother Nature.
As we approached Tucson, we both took shifts sleeping. I hardly remembered fading away, while the train jarred and wiggled along the tracks, but I did for at least a few hours, stuffed inside my sleeping bag, boots and all. As the train lulled along the tracks, my eyes broke out into a saccade, fixed on the dark silhouette climbing the ladder of the adjacent freight car. I heard a holler from Rooster.
“Come on up dude...let's train surf the roof of this grainer...”
“Fuck man...I don't know.” I hesitated.
Everything I learned about hopping trains, train safety and the dangers of riding on the roof, all made me apprehensive towards it, but she crept along gingerly enough, in the middle of nowhere.
“Alright,” I yelled up at him.
He roared from the top of the train like a lunatic as I held onto the top of the ladder.
“Well come on up...made it this far...”
My heart thumped with loud bangs knocking my chest cavity from pure adrenalin. “This was so fuckin' stupid,” I thought as I crawled up onto the roof, my knees buckling under me, as I held onto the side grates of the grainer, prying my fingers into the metal ridges.
“Well stand up, walk around a bit...make it quick...”
I stood up quickly like a baby taking its first steps. It was not so bad. Actually, I felt a sigh of relief exit my lungs. I stood there, above the highway, chugging along through the desert towards Tucson, surfing my first train, which all lasted a mere two seconds from my fear of slack-action.
We skedaddled down the ladder and safely jumped onto the porch of our high wall grainer. I wiggled into my sleeping bag, immediately feeling the warmth engulf my body and frostbitten toes. The wind wreaked havoc on my body, chilling every inch of it from that stunt, making my hairs stand on end. My hair cascaded behind me into darkness as I locked eyes onto big city lights and in those few seconds the world stood still. I felt freedom in its entirety.
In the past month, I experienced more on trains than ever before, but I learned one important lesson on my long trek from Seattle down the coast of California to Tucson. “Never underestimate winter and what it can do to your feet without the proper boots!”
We arrived in Tucson and hopped off before entering the yard, sleeping at a dead-end street by an industrial park, beneath the waving branches of a small tree. I thought about my feet and how I neglected them over the past month, wondering if irreparable tissue damage in my toes would ruin my life of travel, but only time would tell.
Later that afternoon my feet tingled with a warm, numbing sensation and pain shot up through my toes as we walked. We put the road on hold for family, hitching a ride with Rooster's aunt to Phoenix who saved him from possible arrest in Tucson for panhandling. That was that.
