Transcontinental

by Brad Cook

  That was an interesting concept. Alcohol, if nothing else, had been plentiful in his household. He’d always had access to it, whether he wanted it or not. And he didn’t. Could that be why?

  He decided it wasn’t. It wasn’t the only reason. His mother had given him ample cause to disdain the drink—mood swings, vomiting, incoherence, incompetence. He wanted none of it.

  “If drinking and the view do not cut it, I suppose all we are left with is conversation.” Ant rubbed his hands together, smiling. “My favorite.”

  Leroy wrung his hands, cracking his knuckles.

  “I know just where to start, too. Care to tell me about Baron?”

  The question was like a punch in the gut, nearly knocking the wind out of him. How did he know about Baron?

  “It must be someone important. I find that those we speak of in our sleep usually are,” Ant responded as if reading Leroy’s thoughts.

  After brief consideration, Leroy decided it couldn’t hurt to tell him about Baron. Yes, Ant might deem him crazy, but that was of little importance to him.

  “Baron was my only friend,” Leroy asserted. “He wasn’t real, though.”

  “An imaginary friend?”

  “Uh-huh.” Leroy rested his cheek on his knees.

  “A coping device. Completely natural for a young boy.”

  Leroy felt lighter hearing that. “He seemed so real. I could hear him, feel him. Then one day he was just… gone. Poof.”

  Ant nodded solemnly. “That, also, is natural. At a certain point, the mind outgrows the need for constant companionship, and—”

  “I want him back,” Leroy stated, a flat tone in his voice.

  “That,” Ant said, “is not natural.”

  “I don’t care. He was my best friend.”

  “You said he was your only friend.”

  “Which means he was my best friend.”

  “When one is young, you see, these things are acceptable. There comes a time, however, when one must grow up, live on his own. Both physically and mentally. Only then is he fit to call himself an adult.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then again, there is nothing wrong with wanting a good friend.”

  “He’s gone. End of story.”

  “Okay. Now, is art a subject you wish to pursue?”

  Finally, something Leroy wanted to talk about.

  “Like, as a career?”

  Ant nodded.

  “Haven’t thought much about it, honestly.”

  “I am starting to see a pattern here,” Ant said with a smile. “It is never too early to start. The most successful people in life plan, and plan thoroughly.”

  Leroy inhaled deeply, looking away. “Yeah but what if I don’t have it? Planning can’t fix that.”

  “Have what?”

  Leroy thought back to how Ant had put it. “The capability to produce art.”

  “The fact that you, of your own volition, have taken to sketching as a hobby tells me there is something there, some source of creativity. Maybe it will suffice, maybe not. But it is a start.”

  That made sense. Sketching was the only thing that set his mind at ease, that fulfilled him. That had to mean something, which was a comfort.

  “And school? You will be attending college, I hope?”

  Leroy snorted. “So I can sit there while the professors lie to my face? Sounds great, can’t wait to go.”

  “I never said I lied,” Ant corrected. “My job was to provide lessons on the history, important figures, and notable techniques of the broad field of art, not to assure the students that they would be successful artists, however one defines that concept. In fact, I stressed that the vast majority of them would not be successful. So yes, I gave them a reality check. But I also gave them hope. Each student left my class with the knowledge that the world of art is unforgiving and undefinable, but true creativity is unstoppable.” Ant gazed off, his eyebrows low. “I hardly think one should be admonished for that.”

  That seemed to hit much closer to home than Leroy had intended. Time for a little backtracking. “I wanna go. I doubt I’ll have the money.”

  Ant lightened up a bit. “You see, that is why high school is crucial. Work hard enough and you will not have to pay.”

  Leroy raised his eyebrows. “I won’t have to pay anything?”

  “If you get a good scholarship, that is correct.”

  “Free college?”

  “Free college.”

  This was news to Leroy. No more slacking off when school came back, he decided, though he wasn’t even sure where he’d be by then.

  “How about role models? Anybody in particular?”

  Leroy racked his brain. Certainly nobody from his own life came to mind. There was one person, though. “Guy on TV I guess.” Leroy squinted. “Can’t remember his name. I liked him because he had an afro. White guy with an afro,” Leroy smiled. “Sometimes if I woke up early enough, I’d catch his show. It was just him and a canvas, so low budget I almost felt bad for him. But he didn’t seem to mind. He’d sit there and paint these crazy landscapes in, like, ten minutes. Lakes, snowy mountains, forests with all kinds of trees, even a log cabin once in a while.”

  Ant inhaled to speak, but Leroy continued. “And the whole time, this guy would talk so softly. I’d have to turn the sound up to fifty just to understand him. But I could tell. I could hear it in his voice. He was just… happy.”

  Ant’s fervor to speak had died down, but in that moment of silence he found his chance, snapping his fingers and pointing. “Bob Ross!”

  “Yeah! But after a while I couldn’t find him anymore. Woke up earlier and earlier to check, but the show just wasn’t there.”

  With a gentle tone, Ant said “Unfortunately, he passed. A few years ago.”

  There it was. Leroy had assumed as much, but to hear it confirmed hurt like hell nonetheless, because he seemed like a good man, and a great artist. But also because, and he knew it was dumb, he felt that as long as Bob Ross was on television, Leroy could watch, he could observe, study him. Find out what it was that made him so at peace.

  Originally, he thought being that skilled at anything would be its own reward. As he grew older, however, Leroy began to suspect it wasn’t so simple. A whole spectrum of emotion, completely disconnected from any activity or hobby seemed able to spring up within him at any time. Anger at his parents’ lack of concern for him. Anxiety at having to deal with them. Fear of what he would do without them. He doubted a skill would be enough to wash those away. There had to be something more.

  “He was known for his soft demeanor, attributable to his military experience, funny enough. After he left, he vowed to never yell again, spreading only positivity. It is a shame more people do not follow his lead.”

  That was one thing they could agree on.

  “You know, he donated each painting he created on the show to help local television stations. He held seminars, recorded instructive videos, published how-to books. He did it all,” Ant sighed. “The world is a lesser place without someone like him in it.”

  Leroy wasn’t surprised to hear that. Bob seemed like a genuine soul. Then it dawned on him that maybe this was a cause for Bob’s incessant happiness. He didn’t just do what he loved; he did what he loved, and used it to help others. It rung true. What good was a painting if it hung on a wall, unseen?

  Nodding his head, Ant said “Good choice, Leroy.”

  It was then Leroy noticed the buildings blowing past them growing both in number and size. He clutched the ladder beside him and stretched to look in front of the train. Hazy in the distance was a series of skyscrapers, and two huge, ornate shafts of stone supporting a crowded bridge.

  Noticing Leroy, Ant peered around the train. “Ah, the Tower Bridge of Sacramento. This is good news for you. Folsom is near.”

  Leroy wondered again about the extent of Ant’s travels. He seemed to know California pretty well. And how did he go from a teacher to a freight-hopper? The two were worlds
apart to Leroy.

  Like a slideshow with too few slides, Leroy’s anxious thoughts circled back to his father. In jail. Where he was headed. If not for visitation, then perhaps a short incarceration. Lots to look forward to.

  Ant cleared his throat, then spoke. “There is something I must tell you.”

  Leroy waited.

  “This train is not going to Folsom.”

  “I know. It’s going to Portland. But we’re not.”

  Ant looked at him and nodded briskly. “My point. Unless there is a crew change before we pass Folsom, we may have to jump.”

  Leroy didn’t like the sound of that. That’s probably how so many people get injured while freight hopping, he thought. A glance down at the ground rushing past entrenched his wariness.

  “No way. We’re hauling ass.”

  “At some point the train will slow down. They always do in the big cities. That is when we jump.”

  He still didn’t like the idea, but if the train was going even half their current speed when they jumped, things would go a lot smoother.

  “From there, we either hitch it or hoof it. I leave the choice to you.”

  “You don’t think we’ll get picked up by a serial killer or something?”

  “That is the stuff of movies,” Ant chuckled. “I have hitchhiked dozens of times and not once had a bad experience. Some of them have been just that, an experience, but never one I have regretted.”

  Thinking about it, every time Leroy had seen a movie or TV show with a serial killer, they were the ones hitchhiking. He wasn’t a serial killer, and as far as he knew Ant wasn’t either. That was still to be seen, though, he supposed. Leroy suppressed a nervous laugh.

  He shot a sidelong glance at the sun, nearly straight above them. Had to be a bit past noon. If he wanted to get to the prison before visiting hours ended, they’d have to hitch a ride, he decided.

  “We’re gonna hitch. I want this done today.”

  Ant bowed his head in a single nod then turned away again.

  Leroy had to admit that a small, scared part of him actually wanted to go in and talk—or explode at, rather—to his father. To tell Roy how much he hated him for whatever he’d done to remove himself from Leroy’s life, regardless of how terrible a person he was. He created Leroy, so he was responsible for him, or supposed to be.

  Only a small, scared part of him, though. The rest was fear, anxiety, hesitation. An intense inclination to find any possible way out.

  To his left, Ant clasped his hands under his nose, brow furrowed. Leroy wondered if Ant was as apprehensive about jumping as he was. He doubted it. The man probably couldn’t count the number of times he’d hopped off a moving train. At least once, if his story about his elderly attacker was true. Must be something else on his mind, Leroy concluded.

  The train rolled by Sacramento, sunlight glinting off glassy skyscrapers.

  “I once knew a man,” Ant started, sweat moistening his creased forehead, “who found himself in a quandary.”

  Leroy looked over. Ant was facing away, hands clasped, brow furrowed.

  “You see, he had to make a choice. On one hand was the promise of a comfortable life, consistent and routine. On the other, uncertainty, but in that uncertainty lied true freedom.”

  Leroy thought he knew who Ant meant. “And what’d he choose?”

  “You tell me.”

  How presumptuous for Ant to assume he knew the life Leroy would’ve led if he hadn’t left. Some of the foster care and adoption stories he’d heard from the kids at Ms. Stacey’s had kept him awake at night. Besides, uncertainty was a small price to pay for true freedom.

  “I’d go with option B,” Leroy said smugly, although not long ago he would’ve surely gone for the former.

  With that, the tension seemed to melt from Ant’s face. His lips spread into a smile but the sweat on his forehead remained, like puddles after a thunderstorm.

  “That is what I had hoped.”

  Chapter 3

  Sacramento, CA

  A few hundred feet out, Leroy spied the sign for Interstate 80 East.

  Finally.

  A shirt draped over his head and neck, Ant slogged on ahead of Leroy. Noticing the sign, he pointed, then turned. “Ha! Just as I said.”

  Leroy laughed through his nose. Right after the giant road sign a mile back.

  The train had slowed as it passed through Sacramento, which was one thing Ant had predicted. It was a happy surprise when it came time to jump and they were rolling at ten miles per hour, tops. Since then, they’d been hiking the city’s outer limits for an hour. Maybe it was because he rarely went outside growing up, or maybe it was just today, but that afternoon felt ten times hotter than any he’d experienced prior. He’d taken Ant’s lead and covered up with a shirt, but it was getting sweaty.

  Ant had explained to him, after he put up his hitchhiking thumb to a passing vehicle and promptly got it smacked down, that hitchhiking in a city was a terrible idea. They were headed for the highway, even though Ant had also told him that hitchhiking on the highway was a terrible idea. The key, he said, was to hang out on the on-ramp. Apparently the old fist-and-thumb were nearly obsolete, as those willing to give a ride would recognize a hitchhiker, thumb or not. More often than not, Ant claimed, the thumb just got the attention of police.

  As they turned right at the intersection, an overpass came into view.

  “There we are.”

  It struck Leroy as odd to put a highway on-ramp right next to a neighborhood, but then again, it must’ve been convenient for those that lived there. Especially if they were hitchhikers.

  They reached the stretch of road leading to the overpass.

  “About halfway up is best.”

  Trudging through the grass beside the road, dodging ant hills, Leroy watched a car speed past. The driver caught a glimpse of him and looked away.

  Halfway up, they sat in the grass.

  “I know I’m full of dumb questions, but how long does this usually take?”

  “They are perfectly reasonable questions, Leroy. There are enough people in this world who will try to tear you down. Do not do it to yourself.”

  Leroy rolled his eyes. “If it’s a reasonable question, answer it.”

  “It is a difficult question to answer because there are so many factors. Afternoon is not the best time to hitch, as people tend to drive longer distances in the morning and evening. Also, there are fewer drivers between lunch and rush hour. And,” he went on, “in heat like this, people often opt to stay inside. All of which would explain the low traffic volume.”

  A weak horn behind them beeped, then again as if to compensate for the hoarseness of the first. A camper van had pulled off the road and parked. As the passenger window lowered, a scruffy young man, shirtless and smooth with a trucker hat and sunglasses, smiled at them.

  “Hop in, guys! Plenty of room!” he called out.

  Leroy looked to Ant for guidance.

  “For the record, that is not the average wait time for a ride.”

  Ant helped Leroy to his feet and hurried him into the back of the van. Tie-dye sheets over the windows gave a colorful liveliness to the greyscale interior, which was much larger than Leroy had imagined. There was a sofa on one side and a table with chairs on the other, with a small bathroom and kitchen in the back. In a cubby above that, a bed was mostly hidden behind a curtain.

  “Welcome, brothers, welcome. I’m Jordan, and this is Sheila,” he said as he patted the stout head of the golden retriever on the passenger seat.

  Noticing the dog, Ant flinched a little bit.

  “Is… Sheila friendly?”

  “Oh don’t worry, man, we’re both pacifists.”

  Ant smiled disingenuously and sat on the couch behind the passenger seat, out of view of Sheila. Leroy sat at the table.

  Jordan spoke, glancing at them in the rear-view mirror.

  “So where are you guys from? What’s your story?”

  Leroy’s mouth
hung open, at a loss for what he should or shouldn’t say, but Ant started before he had to figure it out.

  “I am Antoine Bevilacqua, a misplaced soul careening through a capricious life, wherever it leads me.”

  “A kindred spirit,” Jordan laughed.

  “And this is Leroy. He is going to Folsom to speak to his father in prison.”

  Leroy shot Ant a hard glance, which Ant returned.

  “Harsh, man. But I’m happy to lighten your load, help you get there.”

  Leroy peered around the seat at Jordan. “Thanks. Can I pet your dog?”

  “She’d love you for it.”

  As he rubbed the dog’s head, she closed her eyes, licked her lips, and stretched her legs. Leroy had always wanted a pet, but even if his mother had allowed him one, he knew deep down the animal would be just as unhappy as he was.

  Scratching behind Sheila’s ears, though, he began to think that maybe it might’ve been a worthwhile investment.

  “How ‘bout you? What’s your story?” Leroy asked Jordan.

  “Ah, you know, man, the usual. The woman left me for another guy, and I’ve been drifting ever since.”

  Leroy hoped that wasn’t actually the usual. Across from him, Ant clasped his hands under his nose again, looking down.

  “Hey Antoine, man, can I ask you a favor?”

  He perked up. “Certainly.”

  “I’ve been awake and driving for like three days now, so if I pull over—”

  “I will drive, yes, that sounds like the safest option.”

  “Thanks. I wanna squeeze in a power nap.”

  Jordan steered the van to the shoulder, flicked on the emergency flashers, and parked, then jumped up from the driver’s seat and squeezed past Ant.

  “You realize that Folsom is only a half hour away?” Ant asked.

  “Perfect! Just enough time.”

  “Okay, then. May I ask just one favor?”

  “Totally, go ahead.”

  He glanced at Leroy from the corner of his eye before speaking. “Could you take Sheila back with you?”

  “Uh, sure, yeah, man,” Jordan replied, retracing his steps. “Here, girl.”

  Sheila forced her head off the chair and looked up at Jordan, a slight wag swishing her tail back and forth.