And No Caboose

With the morning sun screaming into his face, he labored slowly along the tracks, staring at the bend in front of him. He walked between the two rails, with his hands in his pockets to fight off the night chill.

Winter’s here. Soon the rains will come.

He came to a crossing where a school bus waited while the driver ensured no trains approached. He looked in the windows and saw the faces of children smiling, pointing, laughing. At his torn army jacket. At his worn boots. At his awkward pack. At him. As the bus drove away, he followed it with is eye until it turned a nearby corner.

I had a son… once.

He continued walking along the tracks, passing a group of three men huddled around a bottle of Ripple. They were all speaking Spanish. He didn’t speak Spanish. One of the men nodded as he walked by.

Can’t remember when my last drink was. He scratched his face and its graying whiskers. Can’t really remember my last real meal. Two, maybe three days ago. That lady… and the girl… in the hat. They gave me… But the thought of food brought back the pains in his gut. He shook them away and stared at the curved tracks ahead of him.

How long have I been walking? An hour? Two? He looked at his boots as they crunched the rocks and gravel beneath them. Years.

He noticed the small, dirty houses just on the other side of a small, dirty fence to his right. To his left, he saw a gas station and a lumber yard.

Wood? Fire? Too heavy. He hefted his pack higher on his shoulders, adjusting the straps and looked back at the houses. Wonder what town this is. He raised his eyes to the sun slowly rising higher in the cloudless sky. Wonder what time it is. He returned his gaze to the bend in front of him. Wonder what year…

The bend was not far off. It disappeared between two hills covered with a thick forest of trees he did not know the name of. They had gray bark and bright, green leaves. He thought they were sort of pretty and…

He wasn’t sure where the tracks led. He wasn’t sure he cared.

A large, black dog emerged from some bushes. He was carrying a dead swallow in its mouth. Judging from the stiffness of the bird, the swallow had been dead a long time. He looked at the dog and the dog returned the stare, unmoving. Finally, the dog dropped the swallow and began to paw and gnaw it, taking no more notice at the man walking on the tracks.
Leaving the dog to his business, he continued walking.

After a few minutes, he stopped. Rest. He set his large pack down in between the rails and sat on it, facing the way he had just come. The dog was gone. The dirty houses and dirty fence were obscured by the thickening trees. The gas station and the lumberyard, lost from view. The three men and the bottle, hidden around the bend. He breathed deep.

He felt a slight shaking. It grew stronger as he remained sitting on his pack. Without turning and looking, he stood and kicked his pack off the tracks as the hidden, oncoming train blew its blaring horn. The low rumble of the engines, the ding-ding-ding-ding of the bell at the crossing, the rattle of the boxcars all pounded his ears as he sat on his pack and counted.

Thirty-nine plus three engines. He slung his pack on his back with a groan. No caboose. He watched the train get smaller as it hurried through the town. He turned and faced the bend again.

Why don’t they have cabooses anymore? Tightening his straps, he continued walking between the rails.