Fiction: Incident

By Robert S. Seckel
arttimesjournal December 18, 2018

Bumming is one of my hobbies. There is a thrill in associating with those on the road when you really are not one of them. From the hazy storehouse of recollections that time has merged into a background; I vividly remember one of my first freight train rides.

I was carrying a pack at that time, for I was doing some camping, and I depended on the highways and passing motorists for rides. Luck had been against me most of the day, and when a fellow traveler, whom I had just met, suggested the freights I readily agreed for I had been thinking of the same thing myself. It was dark when we arranged ourselves outside the railroad yard watching for a train - incidentally we were not alone for there must have been at least fifteen men waiting for the same reason. Suddenly someone cried, "She's rolling" and I heard the noisy clatter of freight as the engine strained to pull it out of the yards. It was now every man for himself. Men seemed to appear from everywhere, drawn to the train as though it were a magnet. For a moment I was too surprised to move. Then I realized that if I were going to catch it at all I had to choose riding on the rungs of the ladders between two boxcars. In a second I was running along next to the train and in another I had swung myself aboard.

Holding on to those ladders during the day for only a few miles, and with no pack is hard- here I was at night with a pack and no idea how long before the next stop. It was dark, so dark that I could barely see how my feet were braced. The night air became cooler, and a mist began to fall that dampened and made slippery the metal rungs. The train thundered on, it was impossible to shift my position without danger of slipping. One slip would have been enough even if I had not been directly above a wheel. Meanwhile the pack seemed to get heavier and heavier- my hands began to get numb- cinders flew into my eyes smarting and stinging them. I dared not wipe them for fear of slipping. The tears streamed down my cheek and ran along the side of my nose into my mouth as the eyes tried to rid themselves of the irritant. I could do nothing - only hope that we stopped before the strain became too great. My muscles began to ache. The pack became still heavier and the ever-present din of steel hammering against steel as the train rattled through the wind began to deafen me. Once in a while when we passed a crossing the dull light reflected the rail and wheel below me; then I thought of the stories I heard of mangled bodies found on the tracks by road gangs. Those bodies were once people - damn fools who, like myself, also rode the night. My hands were numb. I could no longer feel my grip. But thank God, the train was beginning to slow-down, it stopped and I managed to climb down.

Aching in every muscle, I ran towards the end of the train. This set my blood circulating again and when I spied an empty car I climbed in. Three hobos were playing cards- they hardly noticed my entrance. I heard a banging ahead as the first cars lurched forward, and waited for the jerk that told me my car was moving. There it was, a few pulsations then a steady rattle. We were rolling again.

R. Samuel lives in Coram, LI; this is his first published story.