The Santa Fe

Skeeze Whitlow

October 2005

Never was any collection of rag-tag freeloaders so happy as when that ol’ Santa Fe came pluggin’ into Flagstaff. Happy to revel in all life’s spunk. Happy to rise above the scorching desert. Excited about what might await us. As we made our ascent, the cloud ceiling dropped; vegetation increased; the atmosphere became dense, muggy. Our freight pulled into the railyard and the day’s heat subsided. Anxiety over our destination eased. Great silvery wheels locked; the screech of breaks deafened; the world stood still. We stretched our legs.

The Borden chemical car we rode was equipped with welded platforms, forward and aft ‘ valued perches from which to view the most spectacular scenery offered on this continent. All that scenery had passed previous to approaching the Arizona border, where the great behemoth made a stop, allowing Joe an opportunity to rip off a pack of bologna. Much to our surprise, we discovered, then, how many other freeloaders shared this Santa Fe with us.

Now, here in Flagstaff, me and Joe were anxious to howdy-do. We climbed down, clomping over the yard’s crushed stone rock, eager to get acquainted; to find out who it was that’d been cheering, back when Joe was runnin’ like hell to catch ‘er on the fly. This Santa Fe was a humongus feat to industrial commerce; about a quarter mile long, carrying everything from food staples to occupational necessities ‘ not to mention our little party. Throughout scenic miles left behind, we beheld those towering sandstone formations which make New Mexico the land of enchantment. Between Albuquerque and Flagstaff stand an astounding array of huge rock towers, carved by wind and rain, absorbing rays of a sun bursting to humble all. Words can hardly describe! To get my gist, you’ll just have to quit school, leave home and hop a Santa Fe for your own damn self. Then you’ll understand the wonderment of life. Then you’ll grasp the requirements of good quality people and quality dope and a prompt rail line zooming across land before time. A land full of baffling terra cotta formations reaching toward Heaven like great sun dials. For all along the way magic glistens. Down under the ties ‘ inches below the spinning sets of flawless chrome-like wheels ‘ glittering little stones form the mound of track-bed, reaching up, kissing our eyes like jewels. Bright sun bounces off these gemstones in flickering rhythm ‘ tch, tch, tch, -- as each railroad tie breaks monotony like links in a serpentine chain.

Once past these monuments, nose to nose with the Arizona border, our train stopped. And spotting the store, Joe decided to go pick up a snack. Next thing I knew, he was off the train, breaking into a slow trot, kicking up little clouds of dusty haze. I bit my lip: the store stood a couple football field’s distance away, and the engineer wasn’t exactly gauging this trip to suit our whims. Resting on a great curve of track, the Santa Fe was busy unloading cars up into a switchback. The afternoon’s heat seemed unbearable. Joe was taking too long. I began to fret. Why the hell couldn’t he just stay put?

Suddenly, the transport machine jolted; and it wasn’t just a few cars being unloaded ‘ we were moving! A shot of fear seared through me ‘ what if the train started and Joe was too slow and he couldn’t catch it and we got separated ‘ out here ‘ two thousand miles from home and all his belongings were with me. I realized what a good friend he was, that our dependence upon each other was mutual. How badly I wanted him to hurry the fuck up and get out of that goddamned store and run.

Run he did! The store owner came running out after him! And there was this little fence he had to hurdle and wow, he tore ass like nothin’ you ever saw ‘cause he was scared he was going to get nabbed for shopliftin’ and get wrapped up in a lot of red tape. Afraid the Santa Fe might leave him behind. Afraid he be stranded. Afraid of missing the ride of a lifetime! Lifing his knees, throwing his feet, straightening his back, arching his shoulders, pumping his arms like windmills ‘ he ran and ran. Then, double timing it, his great strides leaped and lurched across the dry caked earth, heels kicking to the tune of a frightened gazelle.

I started yelling and cheering him on, and the store man was right behind him screaming bloody murder, and the other freeloaders on the train started a ruckus of shrieks and the train was in motion and there didn’t seem like time enough and the steel wheels were screeching like electrical feedback, picking up speed with every turn, and Joe was running out of breath and he tripped over a rock or something, so that the store man was able to gain on him. But then he got up and his second wind kicked in and he just bolted over the parched earth. Everything stood still for a sec, and the grocery store man bit the dust. Joe’s feet raced across that blistered plain with all the effort of someone who deserves to win; someone who’s desperation keeps his testy feet out of the bight. He was happy as hell to be young and free and have a whole squad of hoboes cheering him on, making him want to catch up. A moving freight full of bums, destination: Bum’s Paradise! Whoa! Joe wasn’t going to miss it for the world ‘ he had his ticket! His seat was reserved. And we were all jumping up and down on platforms, on flat cars, through open box car doors; hanging over the tops of gondolas. We wanted him to be with us; wanted him to be like us ‘ with the wind in our hair and tomorrow in the wings. We were giddy-glad for the spunk of a higher power in the bottoms of his shoes. We needed him! Needed all the high-spirited son’s-o-bitches life has to offer.

Next thing I saw was his smilin’, sweaty face right beside me, the veins of his forehead protruding, pulsating, ready to burst, pert’ near poppin’ through the skin. The fierce effort of body and soul, straining; yet he was holding on, holding strong, carrying his weight. Making time. Nailin’ ‘er on the fly. Every second counted and he wasn’t about to let ‘er get away. ‘Cause this was his only chance. This was the chance of a lifetime and he wasn’t gonna blow it ‘cause life had always done him right and he was gonna do it right ‘ by making it right on time!

Right beside me, keeping stride with this giant of commerce; my best friend ‘ my only friend! The wind wheezed in and out of his youthful lungs with great strain. He was gonna make it. Because trial and error and desperation and indulging need all conspired to make him want to make it. I lay down on the platform and reached out my arm; he grabbed my hand and I didn’t think I had the strength to pull him up and, while it had seemed that Joe might actually out-run this machine, the monster’s velocity surpassed and the pressure of speed made my fingers slip and he must’ve seen terror in my eyes ‘cause I saw terror in his and I would’ve hated to loose touch and my fingers inched down around his wrist and his fingers locked around my lower arm and I thought oh shit, but then he jumped and swung his legs and feet out and I yanked with all my might and the momentum of his own movement caused him to land with a plop right beside me ‘ half on top of me, yet firmly on the platform. And safe. Not dead! So everything was kosher. And we should’ve thanked Heaven for all the help, but we were childish and self-centered. And God must’ve felt compelled to turn a blind eye, thinking He’d lost that boy for sure; hey, nobody wants to witness a hundred and fifty pounds of dead meat shining crimson in the afternoon sun. Only what might-have-been, wasn’t. So we still had a lot of miles to put behind us.

Rolling over, Joe was out of breath and exhausted. But he couldn’t stop laughin’ ‘cause he was half goofy with his own charmed life. All throughout the freight train, scattered groups of fellow hoboes cheered, their ringing, rip-roaring, obliging voices testament to a good life. A life on that road which carries you hither and yon so long as you maintain strength enough to ride it! They were going wild with happiness ‘cause Joe was still kickin’ and he wasn’t gonna slow down for nothin’. ‘Cause there ain’t nothin’ worth slowin’ down for.

I looked at him, at what an agonizing dirt-streaked mess he’d become, and what a tragedy it would’ve been if he’d made one false move when he took that leap of faith back there. Boy, was I ever glad it was done and over, I thought of suggesting that we not take any more chances. What a dumb suggestion ‘ we’d never get anyplace! Inhaling deep the dry air, I rolled my eyes and patted him on the shoulder. The heartbeat surviving from this moment to the next is one fine-tuned accomplishment. He, of course, wore this big ol’ shit-eatin’ grin and reached deep into his shirt. He pulled out a pinkish-clear plastic container, handing me a pack of Oscar-Meyer bologna.

‘Here! I didn’t pay for it ‘ I was in too much of a hurry.’ The bologna being the triumphant prize he’d risked his stupid life for.

‘Well, did you get anything to go with it?’

‘No I saw the fuckin’ train start rollin’’’ He was all out of breath. He didn’t say anything else for a goodly stretch. Then he looked me dead in the eye, asking, ‘Hey, if I woulda missed this train would you’ve jumped off?’

‘I don’t know.’

He should’ve figured as much. On a ride like this, I wasn’t at liberty to entertain any such possibility.

Skeeze Whitlow was born in Buffalo, sailed in the Merchant Marine, settled down to write and graduated from Marymount. He believes life to be a good thing.