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

by Brian Knippers

I listen intently to the rain’s steady rhythm outside. It’s coming down cats & dogs, pounding away at the boxcar’s wooden panels. It’s hard to hear anything over this howling wind. Every so often a wind gust picks up and the rain flies into the boxcar horizontally. This storm’s nothing nice, that’s for sure.

Lengthening shadows dance violently as silhouette swept trees become visible through the open cargo door. I stand up, stretch and let out a big yawn. Walking over to the open door, I glance up towards a full Montana moon. I’m greeted by a majestic site. A massive white oval hangs over a distant mountain range. It’s a picture that should be painted and framed. The kind of picture country music singer’s write songs about. Montana’s wild country man, wild and beautiful.

The sting of cold rain falling on my face feels refreshing. I open my mouth and wet my tongue. My mouth’s dry and I feel some grit loosening up at the back of my throat. One of the runnels on the roof is dripping a steady stream of water. I hang just outside the boxcar and drink my fill. After a moment’s contemplation, I decide Pudge must be thirsty too. I cup my hands, collect some water and carefully bring it to Pudge. He’s asleep, so I dump the first handful over his head. That earns me a short growl and a few barks. He wakes up though. By the time I shove another handful of water under his nose he’s ready to drink. He doesn’t hesitate to lap up all the water in my hands. He hasn’t been feeling well lately. It’s probably cause we haven’t been eating regularly. I make a few trips back and forth until he refuses my offerings.

I always carry a few trash bags on me. Trash bags and ziplock bags come in handy and take up virtually no space. And, being transient, I never know what sweet little delicacies me and Pudge will come across on a dedicated dumpster divin’ expedition.

It only takes a few minutes to fill a couple trash bags to capacity. I’m worried the bags are gonna’ break, so I only fill ’em up halfway. Even if we’re stuck on this train for four, or five days, we’ll have enough freshwater to survive. I put both bags in the corner and throw my jacket over ’em. If Pudge gets thirsty, he might decide to chew through a bag while I’m asleep. Damn dog, he’s done weirder things.

After a few minutes Pudge stands up on shaky legs. His fur stands on end before he shakes the rain from his silky, black coat. Pudge is a black lab. His previous owner had him spayed. I came across Pudge wandering through alleyways downtown Portland. I fed him a few scraps, we hung out for a while and we parted ways. A couple days later we bumped into each other again. I’d found half a pizza in the garbage and every time I finished a slice I threw Pudge the crust. We made a game of it. While Pudge and I were having fun. another homeless guy came stumbling down the alley. He pulled a knife on me and tried to take my bottle. I was drinking a pint of rye. Pudge bit him. We’ve been inseparable ever since.

I watch as Pudge walks over to a corner of the boxcar, lifts a leg and relieves himself. He’s smarter than most dogs. He always uses the same corner I do. Black eyed dogs are naturally intelligent. Labs even more so. Humans don’t give dogs nearly enough credit.

I’m sitting beside Pudge, staring out at green countryside, trying to remember how I boarded the train. Hell, I don’t even remember what town we made the jump in. To much brown liquor has that effect on me. Last thing I remember is panhandling. A woman walked by and handed me a hundred dollar bill. She told me to take care of my dog. I did too. I bought Pudge a Subway sandwich. Then I spent $50 on booze. I still got some money on me though. Man, this rain’s a fortunate occurrence. I hate to think what would’ve happened if we got stuck on this train with no water. We’d have had to jump. Pudge might’ve got hurt. I gotta’ quit drinkin’. Man, I gotta’ quit drinkin’.

Pudge keeps an eye open while I rub his back. The wet wood smells like sap. These planks weren’t cured correctly before this crate was built. That explains the water leaking through the roof.

The train pulses beneath us. It pushes and pulls as the wheels roll along the tracks, “click-clack-click-clack-click-clack.” The sound’s musical, it’s a cross between a snare drum, a doorknocker and a bass tube. The noise settles into the regularity of life on the rails. And, after a few hours, the rhythm no longer registers in your mind, it exists. The sound makes this train we’re riding on feel alive. This wild, uncaged beast that’s rolling across Montana at a furious pace. The momentum builds until we go faster, and faster and faster. This tireless chunk of steel and wood pushing forward as massive engines burn fuel to generate energy. The energy is stored in increments until the conductor decides it’s time to make a quantum leap across the space-time continuum. Bang! We were here, now we’re here, get the hell off! This is how I used to think of jumping trains back when I’d stay drunk the entire trip. Days float by in the bottle and sometimes you don’t want to get off.

Once you get your, “train legs,” that feeling of riding a massive wave across a rocking ocean quickly fades away. You become a master of pitch and yaw. Ultimately adept at riding the rails without so much as a stubbed toe. Look ma’, no hands! Actually, bye and bye, the movement becomes so soothing it’s hard not to be lulled asleep. A giant’s hand rocking an adult’s cradle. Fresh air, forest, mountains and an endless stretch of tracks. Those tracks seemingly slide on forever.

The moon seems brighter now that darkness is complete. All I’m able to see — from where I sit — are a few lonely moon rays flooding the open door. The smell of wet grass, sawdust, fresh manure, and burning coal fill the air. These odors are a welcome reminder that we’re traveling across remote country. The various scents pervade my sense of smell. As long as the smells keep changing, I know we’re moving forward. You have to keep moving forward in life. You start looking back, you get left behind.

Pudge is snoring. He picks up his foreleg and paws the ground in front of him. I figure he’s dreaming about burying a big old soup bone. I didn’t know dogs had dreams til’ I started riding he rails with Pudge. One night he woke up and damn near jumped out the car. He must’ve had a nightmare because he was howling so loud I thought old Casey Jones was gonna’ hear us. He’s sleeping peaceful again. He has that little smile on his mutt face, I can only imagine what that old dog’s thinking about. Hah.

Every shriek and squeal of the steel reminds me of how many trains we’ve jumped over the years. I couldn’t begin to count every bend in the tracks we’ve seen. Pudge and I been hitching rides on these cars long as I can remember. Each stretch of open prairie we pass holds me close as the puke green blanket I’m wrapped in. Each copse of trees, elevated bridge, tunnel, or mountain pass puts a crease on my forehead. One of those, “I’m sure I’ve seen that before,” creases. It’s hard not to consider the thousands and thousands of miles we’ve logged chugging through empty backwoods. As I’ve often said to Pudge, “Better than the goddamn bus!”

At the same time, riding a boxcar lends a feeling of loneliness to a man’s journey. You come to feel hollow when you’re stuffed into one of these boxcars with your dog for days. Like part of your being has been scooped out — of its husk — and left behind. There’s not much left of me anymore. Just this beaten up shell that’s a wisp of my former self. It’s as if I’m living a lie in my own body. I want to be doing anything else, but this is what my life’s come down too. I love Puge. Pudge is why I’m still here. I’m to scared if I die, he’ll end up all alone. I love him to damn much to me that happen…I really do.

You ever feel like you’re watching a movie you’re the star of? Whatever you’re in the middle of doing, at that moment, is the movie you’re watching. I know it sounds weird. I often wonder if I’m alone in this premise.

In this particular case, me and Pudge are train jumping. I see us jumping on a train as it’s leaving the yard. The train’s barely moving and there’s not a bull to be seen on either side of the tracks. I lift up Pudge and throw him in the car, then I jump in. I stumble climbing on and almost fall. I don’t need to smell my own breath to know I’m hammered. I roll over a couple times to put a little distance between myself and the door. Then I pass out. Pudge is licking my face and I’m schooling him away, slurring something indecipherable to Pudge. Eventually Pudge gives up trying to wake me and lays down himself. He’s so friggin’ cute. He cuddles up right beside me and then, as if he’s not close enough, throws a paw on top of my chest. I love that black eyed dog.

Anyway, it’s a lot like you’re in a trance when you’re watching yourself like this. You’re watching yourself from above. Looking down on that dumb grin on your face wondering, “What in the hell am I doing right now?”. That’s exactly what I’m doing right now. The rain’s turned to light snow and it’s real pretty outside. A full moon and big flakes of softly falling snow. The native americans would say this is a spiritual experience. I’d like to get up and go take a look but I’m slipping off to a distant place. My eyes are heavy, my breathing’s slowed, and I’m going, going, gone. The warmth of this jacket and this heavy blanket are clouding my already exhausted mind. It’s been a couple days since I really slept. I’m slipping further from the moment and now, there’s nothing left but the call of the sleepers. “Click-clack-click-clack-click-clack,” the sleeper’s are calling, the sleeper’s are calling, London Bridge’s probably falling, but I don’t care (big yawn)…the sleeper’s are calling.