by Bill Bailey
At this point a sharp wail drifted back from the locomotive: two long, one short and one long. "What's he saying?" my friend questioned, a gleam in his eye.
"We're meeting another train," I guessed.
"No! That's two long and one short. This was two long, one short and another long. I just finished telling you what it meant!"
"It slipped my mind," I admitted. Just then my ears picked up the faint clanging of a bell. It grew stronger till we passed it. Then it gradually became weaker and weaker until it was out of earshot. A little sheepishly I offered him my answer, "It was a highway crossing."
"Right. That's it . You're learning. That's not all, you know; there are others, like backing up or ordering brakemen to different parts of the train. But basically, the ones I told you are the important ones. Just memorize one a day till they become second nature to you. Know what I mean?"
"Gotcha," I agreed.
He pulled out his timetable map. "Lake Charles is a subdivision," he informed me. "We'll probably stop there. I'm hungry enough to eat a skunk. Maybe we can get a chance to hustle some grub somewhere."
The air was warming up now and my eyelids were growing heavy. When I woke up, perhaps two hours later, the train was slowing down. I could hear the click-click of the wheels as they rolled over a branch line and some transfer tracks, sign of an approach to a big town or city with a lot of railroad traffic. My friend was at the hatch door. "We'll be stopping at the other end for coal and water. Get ready to get off. Keep an eye peeled for the railroad bulls." He climbed down, rolled up the papers, brushed himself off, and then went again to peer out. When the train finally stopped, we were a mile or so west of Lake Charles. Cautiously, we clambered down from the cartop and worked our way around a few others. Finally we found a narrow dirt road. It was at least two blocks from the nearest house. "Let's get a move on," my partner urged. "We don't have much time."
As we hurried, we noticed other men emerging from other boxcars. They too were heading for the small section of homes nearby. "I'm going to hit that yellow house. You hit the one where that car is parked. Don't take all day. Meet me here as soon as you get something," my partner advised. He started across the lawn toward the back door. Noticing the other men rushing, I hurriedly knocked at the back door of the brown house. The back door is always better than the front for bumming. The kitchen is usually in the rear, and people might resent your walking up to the front door just to panhandle a meal. If they're willing, they have to walk through the house to get it for you. So approaching the back door is considerate.
I heard footsteps. I straightened my shoulders and, grabbing my coat cuffs, I tugged on the sleeves to pull out the wrinkles. The door opened and a sweet, gray-haired woman appeared. "Yes?"
"Ma'am, I'm traveling through to the West coast to find a job. I'm very hungry. If you can spare something to eat, I'll work for it willingly."
She opened the door a few inches more. "Land sakes," she quavered. "I don't know what this world is coming to. You're the third person today. Every day someone knocks, asking for food. Well, the good Lord has been kind to us; I won't turn my back on someone in need. You believe in God?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am. I pray all the time."
"That's a good boy. Have faith and the good Lord will provide." She toured her kitchen and came back with two sandwiches. "This will help you on your way," she declared.
I thanked her and sped back to our rendezvous spot. I was there first. I took out one sandwich: jelly. I nibbled on it slowly. My partner was still missing. I peered toward the engine; a lot of activity was in progress. Another engine was being hooked on. I grew nervous. I took a few steps toward the tracks. The new engine had been secured to the train. Four long blasts came from the steam whistle. Ah, yes . . . calling the train crew. I started toward the train, trying to pinpoint the car I had ridden in. I made up my mind to hop onto any car, just so I was on that train as it rolled out of Lake Charles. Turning again, I saw my partner trotting toward me, waving me ahead. I picked up speed.
We found our car and climbed down. I opened the other sandwich, which was a pork chop one. I offered him part of it. He refused; the man who had answered his knock insisted he eat his meal right at the door: spareribs, potatoes, bread and cabbage. He was full. He lay back, smoking, while I worked over the pork chop. With two powerful engines pulling our train, we were speeding toward Texas. The border was not far off.
Stretched out, resting, I studied my shoes. The heels were worn down to almost nothing; a few of the nails showed. Gaping punctures in the soles displayed my socks. The uppers had long since separated in places at the sole edges. There were no shoelaces, only shaggy twine.On the road you must have good shoes. Already I was finding it a bit difficult to hop a moving train, for there wasn't enough heel to stop my foot from slipping through the first step on the ladder as I pulled myself aboard. My big toe, emerging from one shoe, had already been banged up hitting the jagged rocks of the rail bed. That same toe had felt a splinter, thistles and a hot cigarette butt. To continue my trip, I would have to make a decent pair of shoes my number one project in the next big city we reached.
I was excited about Texas. I spent most of the trip between Beaumont and Houston peering out of the small overhead hatch, watching the countryside pass by. I was amazed at the large herds of grazing cattle, the big ranches and the oil derricks. But where were the cowboys?
The train stopped in the Houston yards. We hightailed it to the street before a railroad bull could spot us. "This is where I leave you," my partner announced. "I'm gonna scout around and see if there's a rattler leaving this evening for Galveston. If not, I'm gonna hit the highway. With any luck, I could be there in a couple hours. What are you gonna do?"
"I think maybe I'll look for the seamen's mission. They might put me up for the night. I have to get a pair of shoes. Then I'm heading west."
"Hey!" he exclaimed. "I just thought of something. Hit the undertakers up. Good place to get clothes and shoes. One more thing: about a mile from here, just a few yards past the city limits, is the jungle--in case you don't get a flop for the night. At least there'll be a fire going. Don't expect anything to eat unless you take along something for the stew pot. It's been nice knowing you and riding part of the way with you. Take care of yourself." We shook hands and he left.
I trudged on until I came to the ships' channel, which I remembered from my trip on the Lake Gaither. I followed the channel, passing warehouses, small factories, oil tanks and spur tracks. Then I bumped right into a policeman. Quickly, before he could size me up, I spoke. "I'm looking for the seamen's mission. I know it's around here somewhere."
"You a seaman?" he inquired, looking me up and down.
"Yes, sir," I said, wondering if he was going to take me in for vagrancy. He started to say something, then hesitated. This is it, I said to myself. He's going to pull me in.
He cleared his throat. "Stay on this road. About half a mile from here you'll see some oil tanks. Go past them one block, then make a right. The seamen's mission is right across from the YMCA."
The mission was right where he said it would be. Unlike the one in New Orleans, which had been crowded, this one had few inmates. The man at the desk was friendly. He examined my two discharge papers from the Lake Gaither and the El Lago. These, along with my pink seaman's passport, were my most precious possessions. Without them, I had no way to prove I was a seaman. Naturally the first thing any officer aboard any ship would want to hear about would be my experience at sea. My discharge certificates would inform him of my ability, seamanship and conduct while employed. Strange that in some circumstances a slip of paper was a seaman's best protection.
Satisfied, the clerk explained that the mission did not house anyone. He would give me a voucher for one of the cheap hotels in the area, good for a night's lodging. A voucher for supper and one for breakfast would also be issued to me. That was the sum total of assistance the Houston mission offered.
"Shipping must be
good here," I commented. "I don't see many seamen around the place." I took the vouchers and left, slightly depressed. I found the flophouse, registered and was assigned a cot in a room with ten others. After a quick wash I meandered off with my voucher to the restaurant. It was a small, narrow cafe with a counter seating 25. Kept alive by the vouchers of its transient customers, it served food so bad they'd have been out of business if they had depended on cash-paying customers. The stuff had been cooked hours before and left steaming in open pans. Sliced bread sat on the counter in a wicker basket. Flies buzzed around where they pleased, landing in the sugar bowl, in the bread basket, on the utensils. I ate around the fringes of my meal. The liver smelled of rancid oil. The chili beans were so spicy I couldn't taste them. After fighting swarms of flies all through the meal, I had little remaining appetite for their dessert, bread pudding with raisins.
Back at the flophouse, I waited my turn to wash out my socks and underwear in the large sink. I hung them on a makeshift line in the hallway and went to catch some shut-eye. I woke up late. Most of the men who had been in the room had dressed and gone. Only three of us remained. I went to retrieve my laundry. Some sonofabitch had stolen my socks.
After breakfast I set my sights on getting a pair of shoes. With my big toe still sticking out through the front of my worn-out shoes, I headed for the main shopping street. I visited every shoe store I saw. All I asked was, "Have you a pair of left-behind shoes in any condition that might fit me?" After an endless number of stores, one storekeeper finally explained, "Customers don't leave their shoes behind like they used to."
It was already late in the afternoon. I had wasted the whole day trying in vain to bum a pair of shoes. Now I turned to bumming something to eat. A butcher shop came up with five hotdogs. Heading west, I located the jungle a half-mile outside Houston's city limits. My partner had underestimated the distance by quite a bit.
Chapter XV: Different Jungles, Different People
The jungle spread out about 500 yards from the east-west tracks in an open area surrounded by clumps of scraggy oak brush. Scattered around it were a few old car seats, a torn mattress, plenty of tin cans, grates and bricks. Two fires were going. One, tended by only one man, who I figured must be the cook, was small, glowing below a large grate on which rested three pots. The other, larger, fire was a good 20 feet from the smaller one. Four men were chewing the rag around it.
I'd had a different image of a jungle--something with big trees and a running creek or spring nearby. Here there were no trees, springs or creeks. The man tending the tin cans on the small fire noticed me. "Welcome, brother," he greeted, waving a knife in my direction. "Whatcha got?"
"Hotdogs," I replied, setting my small package down in front of him. He laid the dogs out on a flat rock, sliced them and plopped them into a five-gallon can that was stewing away.
"Let's see, now," he mused. "In that can we have some beef, some lamb, a half-pound of bacon, onions, potatoes, parsnips, cabbage, leeks, two pigs' feet--and now, five hotdogs. That should make a good mulligan."
"Is it ready yet?" shouted a man by the bigger fire.
"Hell no," the cook replied. "It's gotta simmer some more now. Take it on the slow bell. I'll let you know." He stirred again, then added a few pieces of wood to the fire. "It's time for another bucket of water, kid, and you're elected. Take this five-gallon can and go about a city block down the track there. You'll come to a brown tool shed. There's a fresh water pipe back of the shed. Bring as much water as you can carry. Make sure you turn that faucet off tight; otherwise those railroad guys might pull out that water line."
The mulligan stew was delightful. Despite the fact that two guys joined us while I was hauling the water, there was more than enough to go around. We sat or stretched out with heads propped up around the fire. These men were all older than I. What they talked about was mostly where they came from or where they were heading. Since our jungle was on Houston's west side, most of the men who passed through it were heading west. As always in my encounters with guys on the road, I learned a lot listening when they talked. Despite their various backgrounds or the difficulties they might be in, they all maintained a sense of humor, and each tried to outdo the other with their yarns. "Ever up in Casper, Wyoming?" asked a heavyset guy sitting on an old car seat.
"Yeah, think I went through there about five weeks ago," someone piped up.
"Did you stay in the jungle there, by any chance?"
"You mean that big hole about half a mile east of the city?"
"Yeah, that's the place. You know how that hole got there?"
"No. Looked to me like an old dried-up lake," the guy guessed.
"Well, lemme tell you the real story," urged the first. "About three years ago, there was a mean bastardly sheriff by the name of Kick `Em Paxton. He hated everybody. At least once a week, he'd ride out to the jungle. You never knew what time he'd show up, barge right in on you, kick over your stew pot and, if you were stretched out, kick you awake. He never arrested anyone, just whipped `em till they got on their feet and scrambled out of his sight. Many a poor guy's rib he broke."
The men shifted. Some lit corncob pipes. Grins lit most of the faces. "Well," the tale teller went on, "for a month he didn't show; most guys thought he had given up raiding the jungle. Things starting settling back to normal, with a half dozen people around at all times. One day two safe-crackers arrived in the jungle. They were old pros. They had a suitcase full of stick dynamite. They got themselves a fire going and started to boil down the sticks to make nitro. I guess they must have boiled down a pint of the stuff when someone yelled, `It's Kick `Em!' Everyone scattered in all directions, including the two safe-crackers, who ran like deer. When the sheriff walked into the jungle, it was empty. He walked from fire to fire, kicking over the tin cans that were to have been meals for the men that night. He reached the nitro, boiling away. He gave it one of his famous kicks. They say that people as far away as Douglas heard the explosion; that was 70 miles away. It broke windows up and down the main drag in Casper. People ran out into the streets scared stiff. To this day, not a single piece of Kick `Em has been found. So that's how that hole that looks like a dried lake got there."
If I ever get to Casper, Wyoming, I said to myself, I'm sure going to look up that jungle and see that hole. One of the men noticed I was wearing no socks. "You like going around with no socks?" he asked me.
"Hell, no. Someone stole my socks last night at the seamen's flophouse."
He reached into his small knapsack and handed me a rolled-up pair. "These should keep your feet warm. At the rate you're going, I'm sure you'll be on your feet pretty soon." Silence. "What?" he exclaimed. "No one laughed at that joke?"
I could have put the socks on by simply pulling my worn-out shoes up over my ankles, but I didn't. I took the shoes off and did it regularly.
The fire kept me warm during the night. Cook was up early. I woke up to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. There was a big supply of bread. Time came for me to move out. Two men had already decided to walk through Houston and catch a train east. The other guys were in no hurry to leave. I asked about the best place to catch the train. "Walk straight down this track about two miles. You'll come to a junction line--one going right, the other left. The one you want goes straight west to San Antonio. Just before you get to that junction you'll see a paddle."
"A paddle? What's that?" I showed my inexperience.
"A paddle's a signal tower."
"Oh," I exclaimed, "the thing with all those little arms that go up and down?"
"Yeah," he told me. "That's what we call a paddle. Anyhow, stay on this side of the paddle in case the train is signaled to stop; catch it there.
It was a slow trip down those tracks. A passenger train passed me going at a good clip. She had several Pullman cars with their big windows, and a diner, where passengers were eating breakfast. I hardly had time to think about how lovely it would be to ride on a train like that when its tail-end passed, sending a
gush of cool air and dust into my face. I scrambled back onto the track bed and continued my slow progress toward the paddle. The further from Houston I went, the more spaced out the homes were. Many were small ranches with a few sheep and maybe a horse or cow. I had to watch each step I took to be sure no pebbles got under my floppy shoe soles. The twine I'd used to bind the soles to the shoes had broken several times. After two hours I had covered not even half the distance. I was hot, tired and hungry. On my left were several small houses.
I knocked on the back door of the first house I reached. Chickens and a calf stood around in the backyard. No answer. At the next house I noticed some movement in a window. I knocked and a man came to the door. "Yup?" he greeted me.
"I'm willing to work for something to eat," I told him.
"Come inside," he invited, opening the door wide. Inside, lying on the floor on a large canvas sheet was a young deer with a small set of horns. It was cut up into sections, drenched in blood. "Killed this critter early this morning. Gutted him and carried him on my shoulders almost half a mile. Sit down there and I'll cut you a venison steak. Ever eat venison?"
"No, sir," I confessed. In fact, I didn't even know what the word meant, but I didn't say anything. I watched him slice off a huge hunk of meat.
"Now I'll get rid of this mess. Otherwise the flies will devour us. Give me ten minutes." He pulled up all four corners of the canvas mat and lifted it off the ground. Out the kitchen door he went.
While he was gone, I gave the place a quick scan. The number of dishes in the cupboard and the pots and pans I could see made it plain to me that this kitchen could accommodate a lot of people at one time. Maybe he had a wife and a lot of kids? I couldn't see into the living room because there was a swinging door between it and the kitchen. Two rifles leaned against the wall in one corner. Everything was neat.
The man returned. He went over to the sink and washed his hands. "Where you from, boy?" he inquired, drying his hands.