Читать книгу The Last Narrow Gauge Train Robbery - Robert K. Swisher Jr. - Страница 6

CHAPTER 1

With each passing mile, Bill Masterson felt the tension drain from his body. Another thirty minutes and he would be on the edge of the mountains; another year, another yearly trip. God, the time flew anymore. He wondered if they would make it. He prayed they would. This would make the tenth year and nobody had missed yet; but, the apprehension was always there. Although they were all in their mid-thirties, one day somebody would be the first to die. What shit life is, Bill decided. He rummaged around in his shirt pocket and dug out the inch-long roach of Afghani weed. As the smoke curled around his head, Bill once again fell back into the joy of not thinking about responsibilities, and picturing the mountain trail that would lead his friends and him high into the San Juan Wilderness to Green Lake.

At the edge of the mountains, Bill drove toward Chama. Surrounded by the Santa Fe Forest and the San Juan Wilderness, the New Mexico town is the kickoff point for many different people wishing to see a glimpse of an America that is rapidly shrinking. During the summer, an endless line of bird watchers, fishermen, and campers make their way through the town. During the fall, grouse, elk, deer, and big horn sheep hunters fill the woods.

Chama consists of people who don’t want to ask questions and don’t want to answer any. Six bars line the main street, scratching out a living from truck drivers trying to dodge scales and out-doorsmen. The only establishment that makes a good living year round is the Wagon Wheel Bar because the owner, a Mr. Saavedra, loves girls with big tits, dreams of girls with big tits, only hires girls with big tits. With big tits ingrained in modern society, the Wagon Wheel always has enough men in it to pay the bills.

Years earlier, Bill Masterson had heard about the bar on the C.B. as he was driving north of Albuquerque.

“Lord,” the trucker had said, “her tits were the best I’ve seen in years. Big enough to get your tongue hard.”

After that, the yearly meeting place before the onslaught into the wilderness was changed to the Wagon Wheel. After all, the thinking was, if a group of has-been hippies was going to meet once a year from all corners of the country to go fishing, they might as well meet at a place where the barmaids have big tits.

Scattered behind the bar are several hundred small wooden homes which look like they belong more in the midwest than New Mexico. At this elevation, there are no quaint adobe homes selling for ridiculous prices. Instead, wood frame homes sell for ridiculous prices.

At one time, the staff of life to the town was the lumber mill. One either worked at the mill, cut the trees in the forest, or drove the trucks that hauled the trees. But, when the mill played out, it was the narrow gauge railroad that came to the rescue. Now, the small town is mostly known for its potatoes and the hookers who come from nowhere during the hunting season.

Before the fall of the wood mill, the narrow gauge had consisted of nothing but rotting passenger cars and two old broken steam engines. The old tracks were torn and twisted. Two men from Texas, just out of the woods from hunting elk, were sitting in the Wagon Wheel enjoying the tits and getting drunk when one turned to the other.

“I bet I can take that old railroad and make it into a money maker.”

The other Texan took a big pull on his beer and laughed. “You’re nuts, five thousand dollars says you’ll loose your ass.”

People laughed when the word got around … at first. But when crews came in and fixed the forty-some miles of track, rebuilt the tiny steam-powered engine, and refurbished the wooden open-air passenger cars, people didn’t snicker as much. Then, the first year when a lot of people came to ride the train, many people began to say, “Maybe it will make some money.” But the following year when Willie Nelson rode the train, everybody knew that money was coming to town. Everybody was in a rush to come out with the first Narrow Gauge T-shirts and other assorted gear that comes with success.

And money did come. Texas money, Iowa money, everybody with their sweaters and cameras and walking shorts and squeaking leather boots came. Came to sit for five hours and watch the mountains roll by while being banged and bounced along the tiny narrow gauge tracks.

It is a beautiful ride, a fantasy for the overworked and misplaced people of our country. It is a culture shock. There are no buildings, no coke stands along the way, no cops, no stop signs. Only the wind and trees, grouse and jays, wild canaries, deer and elk, a few disgruntled bear holding tenaciously to a last small primitive area of the state, and the small, coal-powered engine, the last of its kind, taking remnants of humanoids over the mountains.

On some days the sun shines, and the mountains simmer in the sun. On most days during the summer, the mountains rest with the clouds, and the trees and canyons peek at you as if trying to hide as you clink by. All in all, most people like the ride. Taking two to three rolls of film, oohing and ahhing at the scenery around them, engrossed but a little afraid. What if the train breaks, what if they have to sleep in the woods? But there was never a what if, only the chug, chug of the little train. The train brought back life, filled with tourists. No great hulks of miners, no Indians, no gunfighters or outlaws filling the cars. No men looking for a new life, gold or silver. No men out to settle a country. Just men and women, trapped men and women, pulling little kids with suckers while their cameras bounce around their necks.

To Bill Masterson and his friends, Chama was a place; a collection of years and laughter, or telling old jokes and laughing at each other. Of getting drunk in the Wagon Wheel and looking at the tits. It was a fantasy lived out each year. A meeting of old anti-establishment hippies, too old, too tired, too filled with families and responsibilities to fight on; but, still brave enough for a week once a year to dream and laugh with old crazy friends and talk about things they would never do but always wanted to. They would meet and laugh and go to the mountains for their week, and then they would part and go back to their world away from the mountains and Chama. Leave to remember the trout they caught and the elk they saw and the puff of smoke the Narrow Gauge left as it pulled out of town. And each in his truck would feel sad, each alone, each going a different direction. But there would be another year. For a year they would dream of the next fishing trip. It was a staff, a caring bond with a part of mankind. It was like rock and fire and the wind, solid, life-giving. It was a reason in this life- shattering, demoralizing, rat race world, to be alive.

Bill Masterson stopped the pickup on the outskirts of town and got out. The yellow Ford was spotless. The green two-horse trailer stood out from the truck. Bill walked back and looked into the trailer. The two horses pawed and snorted while pee flowed onto the highway. The truck cost nothing sitting next to the car all year. Washed and vacuumed, its only function was to remain washed and vacuumed for this one ride to the mountains. About the truck he heard very little from his wife. But the horses, eighty bucks a month for each one to eat and shit. “Jesus,” his wife would say when the kids were in bed, “all they do is eat and shit, eat and shit, and once a year carry your camping gear up into the mountains to see your old hippie friends.” Bill had heard it so many times that he said nothing, until one day. One winter, while patting Slick’s head, she said it. He turned calmly, looked at her squinted eyes, and spoke, “If you don’t like it, get a job.” From that day on, nothing was said about the yellow truck, the green horse trailer, or the two glue bags he loved so dearly.

Bill breathed deep the clean mountain air. Down the street he could see the Wagon Wheel bar. His heart thumped loudly in his chest as he walked towards the bar. Dear God, he thought, let everybody be here.

Standing at the door, he noticed immediately that Saavedra must still own the bar. Two women with huge tits lazed behind the counter. They smiled at him as he sat down. He ordered a draft and wondered how he could possibly get the barmaids to take off their blouses. Watching the girl walk away from the bar, he chuckled to himself. There were a lot of years between hippie and father of four, between freedom and working for the Fire Department. He gazed into his beer. He felt good. For a period of time, there would be nothing to bother his mind.

He looked at the waitress and raised his glass for another one. He had made it. The other barmaid started toward him with his beer. Bill studied closely the outline of her nipples, an old adage he always remembered, women with big nipples get turned on more than girls with small ones. The girl smiled without inhibition, she knew her tits kept her employed. Resting her tits on the bar, she grinned once more before walking back to talk to her friend. Bill rubbed his face, took several deep breaths, and thought of his wife. The more he thought, the more he wanted to sleep with the barmaid. She was, indeed, the hottest thing he had seen in months or at least since the cute young blonde he had pulled out of the burning apartment wearing nothing but a dark nightgown and crotchless panties. Even during a fire one could appreciate good pussy.

Bill sipped his beer and waited for the others. He turned in the chair and looked out the window. It was dark now, and the gold Miller sign made his reflection bounce back from the window. What he saw didn’t make him unhappy. With his square shoulders, dark hair, and neatly trimmed mustache, he was still good-looking. His hair didn’t recede and he still pissed with vigor. But inside he was tired. Lord, here he was, grabbing his time like his father — raising kids, playing it so straight, smiling and talking when talked to — wanting to do anything besides be a fireman in Albuquerque. All in all, there were worse things in life than having been unable to beat the system. He knew one thing. The longer one fucked with the man, the better his chances were of going to jail. It was a lot easier to be bored than brave. He turned from the window and sipped his beer. Down the street the Narrow Gauge engine blew off excess steam before shutting down for the night. The shrill sound echoed through the town, sounding alone and lost.