Call of the Sleepers (Part Two). by Brian Knippers
By: Plod - Poetry Life Or Death
Tags: Alcoholism, Fiction, Addiction, Short Story

Call of the Sleepers

(Part Two)

by Brian Knippers

I wasn’t able to finish this short story before I handed in my 5" tablet for a 7" tablet. I couldn’t decide whether, or not, the protagonist should be an alcoholic, a heroine addict, or both. I eventually decided alcoholism alone fit the character’s character the best. How many heroine addicts would run away from there supply line of heroine? Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to finish my edits. Eventually, I’ll write this as a full length, 8–9 page, short story.

Begin Part II

At the end of a tunnel I see light. Before I open my eyes I feel the dull throb in the back of my head. I knew this was coming. You can’t drop off the wagon before you jump the train. Day two on the rails and my head’s kickin’. I was lucky to get a few hours of sleep. The alcohol in my system when I jumped the boxcar has eased my transition to sobriety. Now I’m in for a world of hurt. My mouth’s full of muck, my tongue feels like sandpaper and we don’t have any water. There’s a sandpaper tongue lapping my face right now too. Judging by the pleading sounds of the dog doing he licking, I’m being summoned into the world of the living.

I open my eyes slowly…ever so slowly. There’s some kind of crust on my eyelids that makes it difficult. The light flooding into the boxcar’s dull grey. I’m hesitant to push aside this thick, wool blanket wrapped around me. The feeling of warmth is the only thing besides a dog’s affection that’s comforting. Pudge’s standing in front of me with a big smile on his hairy face and his stub tail wagging a thousand miles an hour. I feel like ass and I hate myself for putting Pudge in this position. Even in the depths of this temporary despair I can’t help it, I just love this damn dog so much. I swear I’m going to quit the drink. For Pudge, I’ll quit the sauce. Even though my head’s ringing, my stomach’s sour and I feel awful, looking at Pudge I have to smile. God should’ve made less people and more dogs. The world would be a better place.

“God morning buddy! Who loves ya’?”

I stick my hand out and scratch Pudge behind his ears. His rear leg immediately starts to whack the floorboards.

“You like that, huh? Does that feel good? “

Whack! Whack! Whack! His leg’s hitting the wooden planks beneath us audibly.

“I bet it does! I wish I had someone to scratch behind my ears. You’ll have to do though, won’t ya’, you funny bugger. You got any booze stashed around here dog? Maybe a 5th of brown liquor?”

In trying to play off my addiction as humorous, I feel the chills running up my skin. I need to get a few things done before I got lost in the tremors. I don’t know how much longer we’re going to be in this box. If we’re headed to Spokane, as I suspect we are, we’ve still got a ways to go.

If you’ve ever been through alcohol withdrawal you know it’s serious business. My habit wasn’t that bad because I couldn’t afford to drink more than a bottle and a twelve pack a day. If I was one of those hard working types who had lots of money my addiction would be a lot worse. I’d probably be howling with Pudge and bleeding from my eyes right now. No one even talks about alcoholism anymore. Nowadays it’s all about fentanyl, dope and opioids.

I stand up and throw my blanket in the corner. Last thing I need is for my only source of warmth to fly out the door. It’s cold today, real cold. It makes me wonder why I left the cargo door open all night. I must’ve still been half drunk.

The first thing on the agenda was getting some water for me and Pudge. I had an idea how to do that. A lot of trains have water catch barrels for livestock. I’d seen some animal pens about ten cars down the line. I took out some thin parachute rope I carry in my pocket and tied one end around a bolt sticking out of a corner post. I tied the other end to a link on Pudge’s collar. “Stay put old boy, I’ll be right back.”

I always carry plastic bags on me. When your transient, plastic bags come in handy. You never know what goodies you’ll need to preserve when you’re dumpster diving. I also grabbed the handle I’d polished off the night we caught this ride. It was also all I could do not to unscrew the cap and squeeze the bottle to try and get a few drops out. I leaned out of the cargo door and grabbed onto the wooden ladder that led to the roof. I climbed up and eased on out on my hands and knees. Unlike those action sequences you see in movies, moving from boxcar to boxcar on top of a moving train requires great care and a lot of patience. The distance between the cars isn’t crazy, but you have to be careful when you jump. If the train shifts at an awkward angle you could fall over the side. That’s why I jump and go to ground, jump and go to ground. It’s easier than trying to James Bond your way over a dozen boxcars. It might not look as lit — I think that’s what the kids are saying — but I’d rather be alive than look lit.

Finally I here the snort of some kind of farm animal. Sure ‘nough, there’s a gutter that leads to a drain pipe that empties into a big, plastic drum. The drum’s still pretty full from the previous day’s rain. I tuck the bottle into my waist and hang down from he boxcar until I’m a couple feet over a small platform. I let go and drop to the platform without incident. As I’m filling up the bottle and bags with water I decide it would be easier to crawl into the boxcar, slide open the cargo door and use the ladder just outside to climb back to the roof. I’m not in the mood to stand on a little hand rail, jump and try to swing a leg to pull myself back up. That idea just reeks of disaster.

The little window where the farm animals access the water drum is just big enough for me to fit through. I look in and a bunch of dirty pigs are staring at me. Swine, figures. I crawl through the little window and the amount of squeaking that ensues is deafening.

I crawl through the little window where

I definitely planned to cut out the pig cart and James Bond jumping from train to train. It just doesn’t fit the mold of a middle aged alcoholic. I probably would’ve put some means of water collection, etc…on the boxcar. The story is meant to be centered around the feelings of the protagonist, what he’s dealing with, how difficult life can become when you’re an erratic, impulsive alcoholic. Unfortunately, I’m an erratic, impulsive writer too!! And, I have a tendency to let my pen wander (metaphor for imagination) and go wherever the hell it wants. 99 times out of 100 I’ll end up erasing those feeble attempts at continuity through creativity, but once, once in a great while, I’ll write something mom might be proud of — haha!!