The Runaway

by Mike Walsh

  Michael crawled out from his hiding place and brushed himself off. He looked around, pitch black. He saw what looked like a bridge going across the water but it was flat, not high like the Washington Bridge. Even though it looked close, it took him a half hour to get up close. It was some kind of bridge, but all blocked off like it was still under construction. It looked like it went all the way so Michael started out, walking fast.

  It seemed like he was walking for hours, looking back about the same distance as looking forward. The sky was getting lighter and the breeze that was earlier had calmed down. Michael felt a hot day coming and him out in the middle of a river. He pushed on and soon the sun started to come up. He was closer now to the other end, he assumed New Jersey, and walked faster. He didn’t know what he would do at the other end, workers would probably see him. He heard church bells and remembered this was probably Sunday. There won’t be any workers to catch him or report him.

  The sun was about ten o’clock when Michael stepped on dry land. He was hot and thirsty and tired of walking. There was construction debris all around and he was in a tall chain link fence enclosure. He went to one end, a foot or two in the water and climbed up a little, and worked his way around and out without getting wet.

  He was in a little park with grass and trees and some old wood picnic tables, but no road to go with the bridge. Very strange, but still tired and thirsty. He found a water bubbler near the sidewalk and that took care of the thirst. It looked like there was a highway at the edge of the park and Michael headed towards it. He pulled off his jacket and shirt and walked in his undershirt.

  He came to a roadside diner, a shack really, and stopped for some cereal, toast and a glass of milk. The man behind the counter looked at him funny when he handed over a five dollar bill to pay the 30 cents. But he said nothing and gave him his change. What would Michael do with the twenties in his pocket?

  Chapter 3 – New Jersey

  New Jersey was a strange place, Michael thought. Just over the river was the big city, New York. And across the bridge is open fields and farms. Michael walked and walked, seemed like miles. Very few cars came by. He counted his steps for awhile, counted the electric poles, counted the houses he saw, all nice and neat in front with rolling lawns, house uphill on one side, downhill the other side. Red barns, a few cows, lots of fences and eventually lesser nice houses – houses with no paint and barns somewhat ramshackle. Dogs running loose and a few junk cars visible. He guessed this was New Jersey, no different than any other place.

  Michael saw the car coming, looked like a 46 Ford or Chevy, dark gray or black, gray he saw as it got closer, and a Ford. Two guys in it, probably won’t stop. A two door sedan, lots of room for him in the back. He was wrong. The car skidded to a stop off the tar and onto the gravel shoulder.

  He ran to the car as the guy in the passenger seat got out to let him in between them. He shivered a little like he thought he had made a mistake, but it was too late, he was squeezed in between a bad smelling driver and his fat, foul mouthed passenger.

  “Hey, fuck, kid, you coming from New York, or what?” he said.

  Michael said, “Yeah, but I was just passing through. I didn’t stop or nothing.”

  “Oh yeah?” Ronnie said, and started light smacking on the back of Michael’s head.

  “Oh yeah? You didn’t run into an old friend of ours, Charlie, did you? Huh? Did you? Huh?” All the while keeping up the head smacking, getting a little harder all the time.

  “You got the roll, huh kid? You got the roll on you somewhere? Let’s have it, huh. Come on, let’s have it. We haven’t got all day.”

  Michael looked at him, blank eyes, like he didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “Oh, ‘scuse me, kid. I forgot to introduce us. Him there is Eddie, and I’m Ronnie. Yeah, we was good pals with Charlie. He was a good guy. Too bad he had to go that way. Well, that’s life, huh? Live a little, die a little. Meantime, we got some business with you, huh? Don’t we?”

  Ronnie was getting more and more worked up. Eddie kept looking at the road and back at Ronnie and the kid. His eyes started to panic. This wasn’t his style. But he was afraid of Ronnie. Ronnie had cut a man once and Eddie kept his distance and his mouth shut. No sir, he didn’t like it, but he’d just keep driving.

  Ronnie kept up the banter, smacking the Michael’s head and patting him down for the roll. Michael didn’t say anything, didn’t cry or holler. Just sat there and took it.

  Ronnie was saying to Eddie, “See, I told you to go south. Kids always go south and west. Off to Miami or Hollywood. Always someplace warm. Told ya, didn’t I? That old broad was right. Looked like a runaway. She must see a lot of em, down in the hollow.”

  Eddie saw the trooper up ahead first, giving a ticket to an old man. He slowed down to not attract attention. Michael saw him, too, and instinctively he reached out and jerked the wheel left across the road right at the trooper. The old man was facing the road and saw the car coming first. He jumped over his hood, agile for an old man, and the trooper swung around, right hand automatically going to his gun.

  Eddie tried to straighten the wheel, but the kid had the straight arm advantage. He had no time to brake and just missed the trooper hitting the back end of the old man’s car. They all felt the Ford tilt to the right and roll over once and land upright. Ronnie’s thumb went into his eye and his head banged into the upper door knocking him cold. Eddie did the same thing on the left side but managed to keep his thumb out of his eye. Michael was protected on both sides and was looking for a way out right away.

  The old man had fallen and failed to get up. Michael crawled over Ronnie, as the trooper hollered into his microphone for help, heaved out the open front window and dropped to the ground. He scooted around to the front, the trooper’s back to him, and into the high grass field. About a hundred yards in he stopped to rest, and to think.

  • • •

  Michael crawled and walked hunched over through the high grass until he came out and to a farm. Actually, the farm was way back and a fruit and vegetable stand was near the road. His heart stopped pounding and he started breathing normally again.

  Two kids younger than Michael were watching the stand, and it was easy to bum an apple and a peach off them. He didn’t want to flash any money on them. He was all casual, like he visited every day and sat and chewed the fat with them, telling them all kinds of lies till their eyes lit up. When he could see the road was clear of wreckage and people, he got ready to clear out. The kids didn’t even see what was going on.

  When he saw a truck coming back down the road, he ran out and stuck out his thumb. He got a ride all the way into Newark, but got dropped him off downtown and had to walk all the way to the edge of town to start thumbing again.

  • • •

  He caught a ride in an eighteen-wheeler outside Newark, his ride of choice, and struck up a conversation with the driver. This was unusual as Michael was not talkative and private with his thoughts and especially with his deeds. But this guy, Tom was his name, was slow and friendly, not pushy with questions, just easy to talk with.

  They discussed sports, Willie Mays being a colored man, National League rookie of the year. Michael liked the Boston Red Sox, knew all the players names and had watched all the games on TV when he lived on his Uncle and Aunt’s farm in Massachusetts. That was the ‘49 team with Ted Williams, Johnny Pesky, Birdie Tebbetts, Vern Stevens, Bobby Dorr, Dom DiMaggio, Joe’s brother Dom, all stars in their own right, but couldn’t put it together as a team. Greedy bastards, Tom agreed.

  Michael talked about that year, how he fell in love with this girl that looked like Teresa Brewer, gave him extra stuff in the cafeteria line, and then crushed him when she got caught screwing some guys behind the school’s back wall. How he couldn’t understand why the prettiest girl in school let the guy’s line up and screw her in the cloak room. She was popular, though.

  They talked about the war and the atom bomb being tested in the Pacific
Ocean. Michael thought the bomb shelters were a good thing. He had dreams a lot about living in a cave with unlimited bread, peanut butter and jellies hanging from the ceiling. Probably because he was hungry a lot when he went to sleep.

  When they talked about movies, Michael was way up on Tom. He spent half his time at the movies, could sneak into any movie house, and usually saw every movie several times. He loved African Queen and saw it six times. Tom said Bogart won an Oscar for that. Michael hadn’t known. Tom liked westerns but didn’t like Randolph Scott, said he was a fag and blew guys on the set.

  Tom asked Michael what he had plans for, where he was going, what was his goals. Of course Michael had none and just said, “Well, all I want to do is get from point A to point B and be in the same or better condition as point A.”

  Tom just looked at him for a bit, him and the road, and finally said, “Yeah, well I guess that’s as good a goal as any these days.”

  Tom was turning North at Trenton and Michael was going south or west so he climbed down and waved good-by. He felt good about the ride.

  • • •

  Michael remembered he had the rest of the seventy-five dollars in his pocket and decided to treat himself to a bath and a meal. Trenton was a factory city or so it looked like, with all the smoke-stacks and brick buildings. When you’re on the road, you always seem to be in the worse parts of town. That’s because when you go from one city to another the road doesn’t go by the Mayor’s house or anybody else’s that is substantial. And of course, if you’re bumming on the road, what’s the sense of showing up in some fancy residential area? A good way to get picked up by the cops and the roads just peter out, going nowhere.

  He found by walking off the highway track a little, he came to an area of boarding houses and cafes, book stores and laundries, deli’s and pool halls. Perfect. He found a sign that said Night, Week or Month and rang the bell. After he made the deal for a bath and a room for the night, a dollar-fifty, he left to find a used clothing store or Salvation Army store. He found a Thrift store and went in and bought some good traveling clothes. After a bath and a good meal at a Polish restaurant, he snuggled in for a good nights sleep.

  He was awakened when the woman slipped under the blankets, naked and warm, and put her arms around Michael. She ran her hand down to his cock, stiff already in his half-sleep, and he ejaculated immediately. She stroked him until he was hard again and slid down to take him in her mouth. He came again and was falling asleep again as she slid out of the cot. He saw her take his money from his pants and slip out the door.

  In the morning he was on the road again.

  Chapter 4 – Baltimore

  Michael walked into the city from the east. The downtown area seemed clean and new compared to New York or New Jersey, but he had to push on. Even though nobody had looked at him like he was unwelcome, he didn’t feel the warmth. People just rushed by with purpose, ignoring him.

  He continued across town to a shabby area – part industrial, part commercial – with an old house or apartment building here and there. This part of the outskirts was different. Everything, from the windows of the buildings to the windows of the wrecked cars against the curb seemed to have a gray pallor of grit – like a smokestack had spewed on them for decades. There were plenty of cafes, bars and pool halls and an occasional painted-out storefront with guys going in and out. Probably bookie-joints like on Broad Street, or social clubs like on Federal Hill in Providence, thought Michael. Filled with guys who didn’t seem to have a job but had plenty of cash to throw around – gathering to shoot the shit.

  Little kids in dirty clothes ran around the streets playing with sticks and balls, throwing rocks at vacant buildings and laughing. Negro men loitered against buildings, smoking, sipping from brown bags, looking droopy-eyed and mumbling to each other, passing the butts and bags. There didn’t seem to be a feel of violence in the air, just despair and a what’s-the-use attitude.

  The wise-guys with their pompadour hair and tight slacks lounged around the club doors, smoking and telling their lies. Every so often a fancy car would pull up to the curb in front of a restaurant or a club and hands would exchange secrets and lives would seem better. Girls could be seen from upstairs windows, not plying their trade but looking out, hopelessly trying to see something or someone different. The same tired worker went by, stopping off for a little loving before going home to the slovenly wife, only to find himself trotting down the stairs a little more unhappy and a little less rich.

  Michael liked it here and looked around for something to do. On this block, there were a few greasy spoon cafes and bars with doors hanging open. What caught his eye was the big, shiny Pool Hall sign coming up on his side of the street. Someone had spent some time on a ladder keeping that sign clean and it was lit even though it was not dark. Michael was drawn in by the thick glass and wood door, into a small lobby with a cage at the end. A half door was to the right of the cage, making it look like you needed an invitation to get in.

  A fat, bald man wearing a mustache and chewing a cigar was sitting up on a stool reading a racing form, pencil in hand and telephone by his side. Michael stood there for a moment trying to decide what to do when the man called to him, “Hey kid, c’mere.”

  Michael walked over to the small opening in the cage and just looked at the man. The man took the cigar from his mouth and set it on the counter.

  “Whadyawant, kid?” Michael swallowed. It wasn’t an unfriendly demand, just unexpected.

  “Looking for a little work so I can get something to eat.”

  A long stare, up and down. “On the road, huh? You ever rack balls, kid? These niggras around here are too lazy to work and too stupid if they do. White boy like you can rack balls, I can use you for awhile. If you can, that is.” A little trickle of drool ran down the side of his mouth with all that talk.

  Michael wasn’t sure what racking balls was, but knew he was quick to learn and deft with his hands. “You show me once and I can do it, sir.”

  The man laughed, deep and hearty from his fat stomach. “I tell you what, kid,” he began as he reached for a button under the counter. A buzzer sounded and the little half door opened with a click, “you come on in and we’ll see.”

  The place was quite large with pool tables lined up in four rows – except for one table which sat covered in the corner opposite the cage. It was surrounded by bleacher-type seating with four rows of wooden seats. The light over the table was different from the others. This one was real elaborate with silver trimming and short tassels. Michael thought it beautiful as he was walked by it to another table. The man produced a triangle from a slot at the end of the table and slapped in on the green felt.

  “Now some of these newer tables have a ball return and you just pull the balls from here.” He reached below where the triangle was and pulled out some balls. “This is the rack,” he said, waving the triangle, “and these are the balls. You just put the balls in the rack a certain way and set the rack over here, the front ball on that black spot. That look too tough for you, what’s-your-name?”

  He did what the man showed him but the balls were loose in the rack. So the man demonstrated how to roll the rack forward and snap back lightly to keep the balls tight. Then he gently lifted the triangle forward a little, while at the same time swishing it up and away. After four tries, Michael had it down cold. The man was impressed and started to show him the different ways to arrange the balls.

  “Most of these guys come in here and play eight ball for a nickel, or nine ball for a quarter on the five and nine if they’re loaded. I’ll show you those games first and we’ll go from there, OK?”

  First he showed Michael the game board. If a table’s empty and some guys show up to play, he’s to ask, “Game, Gents?” and put that board in a little slot on the side rail of the table. Then everyone knows what’s being played. If anyone wants to challenge the winner, he puts his nickel under the table bumper. When play starts, he puts another nickel in the box for
the house and the use of the table.

  The man showed Michael how to rack for eight ball, “The one through seven are the low balls and solid colored. The nine through fifteen are the high balls with the stripes,” he said as he deftly arranged the balls in the rack.

  He held up the eight ball for Michael to see. It was solid black, “the money ball,” he said then dropped it into the center of the rack.

  “The one ball goes on the spot and the rest get staggered – high, low, high, low,” the bald man finished arranging the balls, snapped the rack to the spot on the table and gently flipped the rack away.

  Michael was to start with one table and keep his eye on the play. When a rack is called for, he’s Johnny-on-the-spot racking the balls. No non-paying down time. “If a guy gets a bad break, he always blames it on the rack. Not to worry, though, once they break, they accept the rack. If they don’t like it, they should say so before they break,” the man continued.

  “Oh yeah, and you can call me Molly,” he said to Michael as an after thought.

  All the tables had numbers. Molly, assigned him the worst table in the house to learn on. He explained, “They only use this table if they don’t know what they’re doing, since it’s in the back and they don’t want to get embarrassed at their lousy play. It’s in bad shape and you gotta run around to pull the balls out of the pockets. They usually don’t know much and you gotta prompt them into eight ball.”