Читать книгу Bum Rap - Donald E. Morrow - Страница 2

From my place inside the boxcar, I could feel the slowing of the train. Another dinky town, just one of the many I had passed through.

Ohio was full of them. From large open fields of corn and wheat, in the western part of the state, to the rolling foothills of the Allegheny Mountains. I had seen them all from the open frame of the boxcar’s door. Some from a distance, and some like this town, where we were passing right through the center.

But something was different. We had slowed to nearly a crawl, and then before I could get to the open door, the train shuddered to a sudden halt. End of the line, I thought, but then as I reached the door, I saw it.

Rubbers! Thousands of them, scattered all over the ground. A wreck! A train wreck. An honest to God train wreck. What the... but wait a minute... people... they were everywhere... just casually walking around, now and then stooping, to pick something up from the ground, and then I got it all. Like a flash. It was an old wreck.

Maybe yesterday it happened, or even a week ago. Curiosity got the better of me. I just had to see, but then, after I walked a few steps after jumping out the door, I saw what they were picking up from the ground.

Beautiful little golden disks. Rubbers, for God’s sake. Some in cartons, but most of them just scattered up and down the tracks. Beautiful little golden disks, but they weren’t to spend, because the gold would come off and inside each of those gold disks was a rubber. The same kind you can buy from a vending machine in every truck stop in America. I just had to grin. A train wreck of rubbers.

I just sort of stood there for a moment like I was mesmerized, and then I took note of the surrounding.

First, was the ragged line of twisted boxcars, and a bridge right in front of me which led to a quiet street stretching into the distance. There were six different tracks where I was standing and behind me was a massive cliff, only it wasn’t made up of rocks. It was dirt and covered with many trees.

It was pretty obvious that the railroad people had bulldozed what was once a hill to make a flat place for their tracks. To complete the whole picture, there was an old-timer standing beside a little building not much bigger than a privy holding a stop sign on a long pole. Our roving eyes met for just a second, so I walked over to where he was standing.

“I’ve seen nothing like this before,” I said. “When’d it happen?”

“Yesterday. Damn thing just went off the track and those damn fools, the whole town mind you, are out there picking up rubbers, like they will get a lifetime supply.”

“Kids and adults too,” I added.

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Bet you won’t find a pregnant high school girl in this town for the next ten years.”

That was good for another laugh for us both, and then I asked him the name of the town.

“Cambridge,” he said, “and that freight you just got off, ain’t going any farther. It’s got bags of clay for the pottery, and that special sand they use out at the glasshouse. So, if you’re still going east, you must catch the midnight freight which goes down to Wheeling, and then on to Washington, Pennsylvania.”

“No,” I answered, “I’m heading south from here so I guess I got off at the right place.”

“We ain’t got a line going south.”

“I laughed. I’ll most likely catch a bus, or even ride my thumb.”

“Huh. Well, good luck to you. If you want to, you can pick up a supply of rubbers before you leave,” and the twinkle in his eyes told me what he was thinking. I headed for the bridge.

In the distance, way on up the street where it made a curve around to the left, I could make out the figure of a staggering man.

I couldn’t make out the building he was coming from, because of the many trees planted on both sides of the street, but I could see he was having a hard time staying up on his feet. When he stepped into the street, I felt a quick twinge of alarm, but luckily there were no cars coming around that curve, and he made it to the other side of the street with no trouble. A few seconds later, he sagged down in the grassy strip between the street and the sidewalk.

I glanced at him a couple times, as I made my way along the street, and when I got to where he was lying, I noticed the building he had come out of. It was a saloon. The sign in the window said, “Turner’s,” and I could smell the beer. Across the street, the drunk was sleeping soundly.

Suddenly, I was thirsty, and I knew right away that nothing would quench that thirst except a glass of beer, and I also knew that if someone ever reads this, they might get the idea that I’m a barfly. Nope. Never happen. I might have a beer once, or twice a year, but that’s it. I don’t crave it. At least, not the way I was craving it outside of Turner’s Saloon. Yet, I know darn well that when the urge hits me, I would have to walk a long way to get that glass of beer.