Best Laid Plans

A Rail Adventure by Tony Cox

Make it to New Orleans in time for Halloween. 

A simple enough goal and nearly five months to get there. Me and Filthy Erek had it all planned out. We both started out as homeless teens around the same time, and were always looking for an adventure. We worked day labor together almost everyday, and even shared a tent together, saving what money we could for the trip. Our hidden campsite really was quite enviable. You had to crawl through thick blackberry bushes for fifty feet before you came to a nice flat, grassy clearing. We built a fire pit, had camp chairs, and kept our little sanctuary clean. The only rule we had was keeping the place secret. We learned the hard way that when you don't keep your place secret, it soon gets overrun with masturbating tweakers and other freeloading scum.

Portland was the best place to hop a train out of. We heard rumors that you could ride public transit all the way from Seattle to Portland, so we gave it a shot, mostly just to see if it could be done. Seattle to Tacoma to Olympia to Centralia to Longview to Vancouver, and finally the last bus over the state line from the 'Couve to Portland, Oregon. We made the trip for around $5 each, if I remember right.

Portland, Oregon

Memorial Day in Portland means the Rose Festival. I'd never seen anything like it. It was as if every bum, misfit, gutterpunk, and freak all converged on downtown and declared it their own sovereign nation. These days the annual Rose Fest has become quite tame by comparison.

It's not hard to spot who the train hopping kids are. They are downtown in every big city, dressed mostly in black, usually wearing dirty, patched Carhartt work clothes. They have large packs, and sit on sidewalks and harass people for spare change to support their drinking habits. I never wore that uniform, or asked anyone for shit. We met a group of them to gather intel about the do's and don'ts of New Orleans.

A short, slim fellow by the name of Eyeball said that anyone looking like a vagrant during Halloween or Mardi Gras would be arrested on sight and kept locked up until the festivities were over, whereupon they are made to clean up the streets. He recommended we find a friendly local willing to store our packs in their house to avoid arrest. "I was wearing my pack, and eating a McDonald's cheeseburger. When the cop saw me throw the pickles in a trash can. I was arrested for 'molesting a pickle', and sent to the parish prison. Down there, they got lifers doing time in the parish prison, basically their version of a county jail. You get arrested and then thrown in a cell with lifers and guys doing hard time. You wear your own shoes, too. If you're white and weak, they'll take your shoes and all your meals. It's hardcore. I picked up trash for two weeks before they let me go," Eyeball said.

Stockton, California

We left Portland and rode the rails to Stockton. The train was moving through town when we jumped off that night; we were out of water. A man in a new looking BMW saw us jumping off, and stops to ask us if we need anything. I was thinking he was a faggot at first, but soon changed my mind. We told him we're ok, but he insists. He peels off $200, gives us each a bill, then tells us he'll drive us to the other side of town, as downtown Stockton is a dangerous place after dark, full of violent gangs.

He introduced himself and tells us his name is Springfield. He was a large black man with a shaved head and friendly demeanor. He told us his father was a preacher, and full on hustler. In fact, the BMW was a result of one his own side hustles he learned from Dad. "I just call folks up from the phone book, tell them I'm with the church, and ask if they have any old vehicles they'd like to donate for charity. It's like taking candy from a baby." We thanked him, and on our way out of the car, he handed us a small bag of crystal meth. "Remember what I said about downtown. Stay away, and peace, brothers!" What a guy!

Oakland, California

Next stop was Oakland. As soon as we were out of the rail yard, I immediately thought of filling up on water again. I saw an old lady, maybe 70, and politely asked if she knew where a drinking fountain was. "Don't be asking me for shit! We ain't got no motherfuckin' water for your white ass!" she replied. Welcome to Oakland.

We rode the BART train to San Francisco, just to have a look around. While there, some gutterpunks invite us to stay the night in their squat. When we arrived at the house, we were surprised to see it is painted black. We soon learned that this place is called the "Church of Satan" squat for a reason. Trap doors, hidden rooms, and old lion shit in the basement. Everyone else claimed to feel evil, forbidding energy in the basement, but I found the place to be warm and inviting, besides the lion shit. We only stayed for one night. I am sure that Anton LaVey was rolling in his grave, cursing all the kids who defiled his home.

Erek and I decided to work for a few days, and found a day labor spot out of town. On our way to the day labor place, we were both quite amused to walk past a store advertising 'Liquor and Guns.' They even had a drive thru window. We worked a few days, then headed back to Oakland to catch another train.

End of the Line

That satanic curse must have worked, because I never made it past San Antonio. While buying some beer and snacks at a convenience store, I was asked by a drunk Mexican if I liked the pink hat he was wearing. Next thing you know, we were duking it out in the parking lot, and I noticed he had four other guys with him. There was no doubt Erek would have my back, he had been an all-state wrestler before he left school, always ready for a scrap, but we were outnumbered. It stayed one on one, but I knew that I had to keep it a stalemate. This fight went on FOREVER. The guys behind the counter at the store even locked the doors so they could come outside to watch, and place bets on who would win. After a very long and tiring fight, my opponent's woman started yelling, "Come on Chuy! We got dope and guns in the fucking car! Let's go before the cops show up!" He retreated with a warning, "Don't EVER let me see you here AGAIN!" Yeah, whatever. We still had our beer and snacks, and no sooner had he left, did the police show up and put the bracelets on me. I got out a week later, but Erek was already gone. He ended up staying on the road for three more years. He saw the whole damn country from a boxcar. For a year after that, he lived as an illegal immigrant in Toronto, working under the table as a roofer.

Our simple plan never came to be. Like Mike Tyson said, everyone has a plan 'til they get punched in the mouth.

(c) 2017 Tony Cox