The Door to Freedom

It’s not easy to lasso a free spirit, no matter how close you are to it. The lure of the rails is dangerous, one slip, and it’s all over, one ride, and you can be hooked for life. 

He was the uncle — barely. Born eight months before his nephew Richard, uncle Bo was the youngest brother of Richard’s mother, who had given birth to Richard just after her eighteenth birthday, while pregnant at the same time as her mother, who was thirty-six, and giving birth to Richards uncle Bo.

Although it may not be rare for a mother and daughter to be pregnant at the same time, still, I feel compelled to add they were not pregnant by the same person! Otherwise this story would take on a very different tone and be found a place on a far more sordid shelf.

And so it came about: Born on January 9, 1953, Bo was an uncle by blood, a brother by name, and nearly a twin by timing, as his nephew, Richard, was born on September 9th that same year.

Now, I have to wonder, would it have been a conundrum had it been the other way around? I’m not so sure. Certainly, somewhere in this world there are nephews who have uncles younger than themselves.

Regardless, the two boys, more like brothers than many actual brothers, became quite inseparable in those younger years.

But, time passes quickly; the boys grew, and as the teen years set in, so did the boredom of life on the streets of the old home town.

The summer of 1966 was still raging with Beatlemania, not to mention Dracula: Prince of Darkness, playing on the big screen, sucking blood and causing mayhem.

In the world they had inherited less than two decades after World War Two, the Vietnam War raged and the flower children continued their sex-crazed, countercultural revolution!

(“Hi there, groovy guys, and groovy gals. Peace love dope, beads, bells, incense, crash pads, and Hare Krishna, all you groovy freaks.”) Wink Dinkerson of KRUT radio, the offspring of Cheech and Chong. It was a new age, or so it seemed.

It began on a hot afternoon in August of 1966, when the least identical twins-of-a-different-mother were wandering around town looking for anything to do.

No money, nowhere to go, and no one to see, they roamed across the Twelfth Street bridge that led from the residential side of town, across the P.R.R. rail yards, and dropped back to the street next to railroad station.

Two blocks from the bridge, at 12th and 12th, they stopped at the restaurant where Bo’s mom (aka Richard’s grandmother) worked as a waitress.

Each boy laid claim to a stool at the counter where Mama-Grandma set them each up with a Coke..

“And where are you two off to,” she asked.

They both shrugged their shoulders, and Bo asked, “Can you give us a quarter to go to the Olympic?” The matinee began at one o’clock and would keep them occupied until after dinner.

The Olympic Theater, just around the corner from the restaurant, was a cheap-seat theater that offered a three-horror-movie matinee every Saturday for $.25 cents; a full afternoon of Boris Karloff, Lon Chaney, Bela Lugosi, and many more. Bo’s favorite was The Slime People or anything with Vincent Price.

Reaching into her apron pocket Bo’s mom fished among her tips. Sliding nearly a full hours wage across the counter, she gave them each a quarter and a dime, i.e., a movie and a popcorn, for which neither returned a thank you. Instead, they quickly finished their Coke and left the restaurant.

As they turned toward the bridge in the direction of the theater, Richard noticed something…something that flashed in his brain like a ticket to Disney World.

“Come on,” he said, slapping Bo on the shoulder. “I got a better idea than a movie.” He started off toward the bridge at a quick trot.

“Hey man! Come on! It’s too hot to be running,” Bo called to him, but he only quickened his pace.

As they reached the bridge, Richard turned left onto Tenth Avenue, still running. Another two blocks and he finally came to a stop at a large group of bushes. The bushes hid the chain linked fence that kept people from wandering onto the many sets of railroad tracks that passed through the city.

“What are we doing here!” Bo asked, feeling even more sweaty than usual, and rather perturbed.

They had just run four blocks to a group of eight-foot-high hedges that were full of trash, and nothing more to be seen but a vacant brick building on one side, and the railroad tracks on the other side behind the fence.

Richard stepped over to the fence and pointed to a freight train moving slowly along as it passed through the city; “There, that box car right there,” he said.

Moving slowly toward them was a boxcar with an open door, exposing its cargo. Richard saw it when they were in front of the restaurant, and it was moving slowly enough that the boys were able to run ahead of it.

Having been caught before in the rail yard, he and Richard had their butts whipped with a belt by Richard’s dad. Bo’s flashbacks put a knot in his stomach as he once again followed his nephew onto this hallowed ground that was sanctified by the railroad police and a sacrificial ass-whipping.

They crouched tightly against the fence until the boxcar was at a slight angle approaching them. Richard whispered, ‘Let’s go,’ as if the bushes were listening, and off they darted across the two sets of open tracks that lay between them and the oncoming car.

Bo’s brain was bursting: ‘Oh my god, it’s broad daylight and we’re running toward a moving train with the Twelfth Street bridge less than two blocks away! We are definitely going to jail,” he thought.

If he was nothing else, Richard was dauntless. Why, in anybody’s mind, would jumping into a moving freight car seem like fun? What was there to gain by it? Bo was perplexed, but followed nonetheless.

As he caught hold of the bar to pull himself into the moving car, Bo shouted, “WHY CAN’T WE JUST GO SEE THE MOVIE!”

Quickly ducking between the pallets of cargo to avoid being seen, Richard began investigating the cargo.

All of the pallets were covered in thick cardboard and strapped in multiple directions. There was no getting into them without a knife or tools. Richard decided to check all of them hoping to find a vulnerability or a different type.

As the train continued its slow rolling motion, Richard climbed onto the pallets and began leaping from one to the next. At the leading end of the car, where there was more light, he found all of the pallets were strapped and sealed in the same fashion. Coming back to Bo at the door, he said, “I’ll check the others and we’ll go!” Bo rolled his eyes and sat down against one of the pallets.

If Richard took much longer, they would soon be in the Juniata shop yard, which was a mile or more from town and the theater, and the matinee was about to start. Bo was  becoming very anxious.

Bo shouted, “Why don’t we just go see the movie,” but Richard had already moved away, ignoring him.

The partially closed door put the trailing-end of the sixty-foot car in deep shadow, far more murky than the leading end, so Richard stood there as his eyes adjusted to the dimness.

Pausing on top of the last pallet in the middle row, he strained, peering at the floor six feet or so below.

Below him, in between the pallets and leaning up against the bulkhead, Richard detected the shape of something he couldn’t quite see. It looked like a bundle or maybe a large sack.

He stared, trying to adjust his eyes when, suddenly, Bo shouted; “WE’RE STARTING TO SPEED UP!”

The sudden announcement startled Richard as he concentrated on the shadowy enigma below him. Then, as he was trying to discern what it was he was looking at…the bundle on the floor suddenly moved, looked up, and spoke to him in a loud, gravely voice.

“If you’re gonna to get off this train, you’d better move your ass or you’re on your way to Harrisburg!”

Richard nearly pissed in his pants and began leaping toward the door.

By the time Richard crossed the pallets to the door, the train had gained enough speed that the nearby tree were rushing past them.

As Bo stood at the door he realized: If we jumped now, besides being shredded by the shale, or bashing our heads into the railroad ties and junk along the tracks, we will most likely be splattered against a tree like a bug on a windshield.

As the two stood staring out the door, and the train gained momentum, a ragged, weathered, creature suddenly appeared behind them from between the pallets.

With the voice of a heavy smoker, and a lit cigarette between his fingers, he said, “What in hell are you two doing on my f***ing train? The door standin open shud’a told you there were somebody already in here.”

Looking at one another, then out the door, then back at him; the two stood there speechless. To jump or not to jump, that was the question!

“Well you just as well settle down cuz yer gonna be here for good bit a’fer ya kin git off. I’m guessin ya live in Altoona! Anyone’d live there is nuts.”

Rather than responding, once again Richard shows his balls by stepping toward the hobo he asking, “Can I bum a cigarette?”

A look of surprise crossed his face, and the hobo responded, “What! I ain’t given you my smokes boy! Do I look like I’m made of money?” He croaked a short laugh as smoke billowed from his mouth and nose.

Richard reached into his pocket, pulled out his thirty five cents and held it out before him. In response, the hobo gave a rasping, phlegmy chuckle that emitted from his chest like and exhalation through bubbling tar.

“Thirty-five cents!” The man said, squinting at the coins in Richard’s hand like they might be counterfeit.

“Hell, boy! That’ll buy a lungful and a half these days, with a little left over. Wha’d you two break open yer piggybanks to go to the movie? That’s definitely not travelin money!”

He plucked the change out of Richard’s hand with delicate, nicotine coated fingers, then dug into his dirty coat pocket and produced a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes.

He tapped two cigarettes out and said, “Yer too young to be smokin!”

Richard extracted one of the cigarettes from the pack while Bo starred at them as if he was watching an episode of the Twilight Zone.

“I ain’t a charity, boys. But fair’s fair. You want one too,” he pointed second waiting cigarette toward Bo.

Bo reached for it, but the hobo suddenly jerked it away. “That’s thirty five cents, boy!” The hobo grinned at him.

“I only got a quarter,” Bo responded, handing the coin to the hobo.

A sudden click of a battered, monogrammed Zippo lighter, appeared as if by magic in front of the boys; its metal etched with initials no one had asked about in a long time.

As quickly as it appeared, the Zippo snapped shut and disappeared. The hobe watched with deep curiosity to see if the boys were really smokers, or just pretending.

While they both took a drag and inhaled without incident, he sized them up with the eyes of someone who’d seen the best and worst of people, and usually both in the same day.

“Names don’t matter out here,” he said gruffly, sinking down to lean against a pallet like he was folding into the shadows. “But if you need to call me somethin,’ call me Sully.”

He took a long drag of his own stubby, unfiltered cigarette, and held the draw like it was something precious and special. When he spoke again; once more smoke billow from his mouth and nose.

“So, what is it? You boys running away, or just being stupid? I heard you say something about going to a movie.” His one eye squinted as the smoke rolled into it. “This ain’t no goddamned movie, is it?”

Bo opened his mouth to answer, but Sully cut him off with a grunt.

“Hell, it don’t matter one or the other!  Can’t say as I mind having the company either. My guess is that you,” he pointed to Bo, “are the follower, and you,” turning his gaze to Richard, “ are an instigator. I know a troublemaker when I see one, and you, boy, you got some balls on ya. Didn’t act like you’z afraid of me at all.

Neither of the boys responded. Bo, drawing on the cigarette, turned to watch the scenery pass by the door, wondering where and when their journey would end.

Smoking their cigarettes in silence, they watched trees, then an open field, then some houses and old rusted cars, then more trees, over and over, as if they were in a living theater.

The ethereal feeling Bo had earlier expanded; his mind was chewing on what was happening, here, and now. He was beginning to understand why the hobo did this. Why he actually loved being a part of this constantly moving world; part of these things seen from the rails alone; an esoteric world that only the riders of the rails are privy to, fall in love with, and marry themselves to.

It’s total freedom, Bo thought; a complete escape, not only from responsibility, but from answering to others for his life, his thinking, his way of life; coming and going as he pleases.

Sully’s voice suddenly broke through the noise of the moving boxcar: “Yer a thinker, ain’t cha boy?” The hobo said, staring at Bo as if he instinctively knew what Bo was mulling over.

“Believe me, you don’t want this life, boy! No way for a dog, let alone a man, to live. I guarantee it. Still, I guess yer gonna do what yer gonna do.”

They rode on in silence for the next twenty or thirty minutes when, without a doubt, they sensed that the train was being slowed, once again.

“Yep” Sully said, “Best back away from the door boys, we’re rollin into the Tyrone yards and you don’t want the bulls to see you. Fact, I should probably pull that door to, less you boys are thinkin bout git’n off here. Which I strongly advise!”

The boys stood and stepped to the opening and peered ahead to where they could see the beginnings of Tyrone, Pennsylvania, a small city that could be seen just beyond the rail yards and approaching rail station.

The train was slowing by the minute and was now nearing the same walking speed as it was when they climbed aboard. Bo and Richard looked at one another, then back to the approaching town.

“I’m jumpin off,” Bo said. You ready? He looked at Richard questioningly.

Without response, Richard remained at the door for a few more seconds before he stepped back and squatted next to palate near Sully.

“Nah! I’m gonna wait a while.” Richard responded.

Sully handed him another smoke and let out a laugh! “Don’t tell me,” he croaked, “Did I git it all wrong? Son of a bitch, and here I thought I could read anybody!”

Richard’s eyes were staring at the floor in front of his feet. His thinking was what it would be like to keep going, to see Harrisburg, Philadelphia, maybe even the New Jersey coast line or New York city. He looked back at Sully who was still grinning at him. “What,” he asked, “It’s my life, ain’t it.” Sully put a finger to the bill of his cap in salute.

“That’s how I got started,” Sully replied, grinning.

Bo had already taken hold of the the rail at the edge of the door and stepped out onto the ladder outside.

“Come on, man, let’s go before it starts moving again,” Bo said imploringly to Richard.

There was no time to argue about it. Richard continued to look toward the fields, past Bo, as if he was no longer there.

The train came to a narrow patch of grass leading to an open field and Bo’s foot met the ground. He let go of the boxcar.

Standing there, waiting, he thought, “There’s no way that Richard won’t get off that train.”

The open door of the slow-rolling car had nearly disappeared into the distance when Richard and Sully leaned out. Both giving Bo a weak salute, they disappeared as the door of the car slid shut.

“But,” he thought, “but what if I get on and Richard gets off, and I didn’t know it. Or what if Richard has already jumped off and I didn’t see him?”

Taking a deep breath, he watched as the remaining cars began to once again gather speed. As the last car passed, he turned and walked across the field toward the train station.

On the other side of the field was a road, and a quarter of a mile or so on that road was the train station.

Sitting on the bench in front, Bo waited until the shadows of the day lengthened, hoping that Richard would come walking in from somewhere.

As the sun sank behind the trees, he finally went to the pay phone at the end of the building, took out his only dime, and dropped it in the slot.

9–4–4–1–5–9–3 — the phone rang at the other end.

“Hello.” It was the voice of his older brother, Rob.

“It’s me, I need a ride, can you come get me, please?”

“Where are you,” Rob asked.

‘I’m at the train station in Tyrone. 

“What the hell are you doing there,” Rob snapped.

“I jumped on a boxcar and it started moving too fast and I couldn’t get off.”

“That was a dumbass move! Are you all right?”

“Yea, just cold,” Bo replied.

“I’ll be there in about an hour…you dumbass!”

The phone clicked and Bo sat down once again on the bench. Tyrone was at least thirty miles from home, and had he tried walking, he wouldn’t be there before morning; if he could even walk that far, and with the sun was setting, he would have to walk in the dark.

By the time Rob arrived, Bo was sitting under the small, dim light above bench. It wasn’t all that cold, but for some reason he was shivering, making him all the more grateful for his brother’s rescue.

It seemed like midnight by the time Rob arrived. His legs felt weak and worn as he raised them into the car and they pulled away from the station without speaking.

They were nearly half way home when Rob said, “You know people have been killed pulling crap like that,”

“I know,” Bo responded, “It was a dumbass thing to do — I know – sorry.”

“I’m guessing that you’re pretty hungry; supper will be ready by the time we get back.”

Feeling more sick than hungry, Bo wondered where Richard was by now. No money, clothes, or anything to take care of him except for Sully’s road wisdom.

The anxiety took its toll and Bo drifted into sleep as his mind reeled and a deep sense of loss and panic settled into the pit of his stomach.

Arriving home, little was said about it. Bo embellished the story with no mention of Richard, or Sully; nothing but that he just got crazy and tried it. His mother was still working, so nobody asked about Richard.

Although he felt responsible, he couldn’t bear to send everyone into a panic. If Richard did keep going, Bo understood why.

The next two days passed and still no sign of him; everyone in his family thought Richard was staying at his grandmother’s house, which he often did, and everyone here at his grandmother’s assumed he was at home. No one was yet the wiser.

Bo, tried to justify his continued silence. He lay across his bed wondering what would happen when the absence was finally discovered.

“Should I tell? It’s not like he was kidnapped, but they wouldn’t know that. So, then, who do I tell and will they realize Richard made a choice?”

The following morning, he came to the dining room where his mother was having her coffee and sat down near her.

“Mom, Do you remember the other day when we stopped at the restaurant…” His mother, in her typical stoic way and knowing him as she did, offered him a cigarette. She knew he was about to make a confession.