The house I grew up in was right in front of the railroad tracks. The train would come chugging along, and our whole house would shake. We grew used to it, even to the point of sleeping through the sound of its horn blaring. The road we lived on was a dead end, leading to a mostly abandoned factory. The house next door was empty, and as I grew older, the families moved out of the homes further down the road. So, despite living within city limits, there was a feeling of isolation. My backyard was plenty big enough. We would ride four wheelers and dirt bikes up the hills leading to the train tracks. Eventually, we built a tree house right next to the tracks, but mom told us to always get down if we heard a train coming. Often times, the whistle would blow and my brother and I would scrambled down the ladder, running across the little alley into our yard. There, we’d watch the train rush by, admiring the graffiti on the sides of the cars. In the summer time after a particularly heavy rain, the alley would flood and become our own personal swimming pool. Sometimes, there was a group of guys, some of them were the men who picked up our trash, would come and play baseball in our back yard.
My stepdad was a handy man, always working on some sort of project. The first thing I remember him building was a lean-to. Next to it, he put up a shed. The lean-to would be used for storage of our four wheelers and dirt bikes while the shed was more for tools. Behind the two of them, he constructed a fenced in area. Unbeknownst to us kids, the plan was to get a dog. Roxie was a pit bull mix, and as sweet as could be. I remember wishing she could come live inside the house with us, but my stepdad didn’t believe in indoor animals, except on the rare occasion in the winter time when leaving her out would mean death. Those days were the most exciting. There was a house a few doors down that my childhood best friend lived in. She wasn’t often allowed to come play in my yard, but when she was, we were always up to no good. That back yard is where we first smoked cigarettes. It’s where we’d climb onto the roof of the lean-to and watch Roxie run and play. We’d build fake volcanos and fill them with red Kool-Aid mix. When we would come back the next day, ants would have overtaken the little hills. We’d collect flowers and garbage and mix them together to make our witch’s brew. That backyard is where we tried, and failed, to rescue a baby bird that had fallen from its nest. It’s where we buried said bird when it didn’t work out. We’d play magic, tag, and hide and seek. Despite all else about my childhood, I have always been grateful for those little slices of time in that backyard, where nothing else mattered but being a kid.
When I first read the Boxcar Children series, I was enamored with the idea of jumping onto a train with my little brother and becoming one of them. Of course I had no idea what that would actually entail, but it sounded like an adventure, and of course, it was an escape from the reality of the world outside of that backyard. I would devour the books, then tell my brother the stories, convincing him that we could be just like the kids in the book. He was always on board, but we had no idea how to execute the plan. The train passed by way too quickly, most of the time. There were occasions when the train would stop entirely. We’d stop too, wide-eyed. Looking at each other, we knew we were contemplating it, but neither one of us ever was brave enough. When I was in elementary school, it was all over the news that an older boy had run away from home. The rumors going around school were that he had jumped on the train, hitching a ride out of town.
A common way for dirty kids to travel is via train hopping. When you don’t have a car, jumping on a train is often seen as the more desirable option besides hitchhiking. Both methods have pros and cons, but from the hoppers I’ve talked to, they value the personal freedom the train provides them. When trains approach cities, they usually reduce their speed or even stop. It’s during this time that, if you’re brave enough, you can jump onto a car and find a spot to stash yourself. Of course, most train yards have what are called Bulls, the train-specific law enforcement officers. If found, you’ll almost certainly be arrested. For many traveling folks, the risk is worth it. After all, jail would often times be respite from their hard life on the road. “3 hots and a cot,” as Zach would always say. So, either they’d successfully make it on the train and reach their desired destination, or they’d be caught, and sent to a place where they’re guaranteed food, a place to sleep, and relative safety.
Train hopping always scared the shit out of me, even before I’d heard the horror stories. It just seemed such a crazy thing to do, despite my childhood wishes of becoming a Box Car Kid. It was much too dangerous for my liking, and of course, I had a car. There was no need to use trains for transportation. Zach was completely fascinated though, and I knew that one day, he would begin hopping trains. The first place I stayed when I was traveling was in Indianapolis. Behind the Indy Zoo are some train tracks. Behind the train tracks, there was a little village of homeless camps. On the tracks, there was one train that was left there all the time. On the other track, trains would come and go infrequently. When getting to camp, we would have to hop over the stationary train. One day, though, the operating train was making it’s way through the lot. We could have waited, but it was going slow enough that Zach wanted to try hopping on it, then right back off on the other side. I guess I was feeling a bit braver that day, because I agreed. Getting on was easy enough. I felt high from the adrenaline. I had never learned the tips and tricks of getting off the train though, and when I jumped it became clear that I should have asked. I didn’t tuck and roll. I just jumped and fell, directly on my face, into the large gravel train lot. I jumped right up, hoping Zach was too distracted to have seen me, and thankfully he was. I couldn’t hide the scrapes on my face, though. He laughed at me when I explained what happened.
Hopper was a dirty kid who lost his leg to the rail. It’s recommended not to drink or do drugs if you’re planning on hopping a train, but then again, the idea of jumping onto a train doesn’t sound quite good enough until you’ve got a few drinks in you. Hopper got on just fine, and kept drinking the fifth he’d stashed in his backpack. When he got close enough to his destination, he prepared to disembark. He doesn’t remember the details, but he does remember jumping, then waking up a few days later in a hospital, one leg less. He got a prosthetic and continued train hopping. When I met him, he had become quite the dirty kid legend. Everyone admired the fact that he kept hopping despite missing a leg. I was impressed for another reason: he remained sober ever since.
The life of a dirty kid is just that: dirty. Zach and I had a way of romanticizing it, especially in conversations to outsiders. We’d use terms like “freedom” and “happiness” as if we knew what those things were. I had a habit of telling people that I was happier than I’d ever been. The reality is that I was nowhere near less depressed, my surroundings just became a bit more exciting. My real feelings on the matter weren’t apparent even to me back in those days. I was good at hiding from myself, kidding myself. I was good at telling myself that my feelings weren’t important enough to actually give credit to. Instead, I’d squirrel them away. “That’s a problem for future B,” seemed to be my life’s motto. As the miles on my car added up, I dreaded the day when it would finally die. I knew that Zach would want to be a train hopper. I also knew that I could not, even slightly, imagine myself in that position. I’d probably rather return home than live a life of train hopping, and that was saying a lot considering everything else I let myself endure in an effort to avoid going home.
I thought I was going to be on the road forever. I had no intentions of ever going home. I also thought that Zach and I would be together forever. Sure, we weren’t the most traditional couple. Sure, we’d probably never get married. Sure, there were countless red flags and warnings that I should’ve paid attention to. I figured we got along well enough that we could endure years together. The truth was more that we got along so well because I didn’t put up any boundaries. When things made me uncomfortable, I trudged on, ignoring them. One day, the voice inside my head became as loud as a train’s horn, and I couldn’t ignore it any longer.
Now, when I find myself stuck at a train track, waiting for it to pass, I stare intently. I secretly hope I’ll see a dirty kid someday. I’ll cheer them on from afar, wishing them safety and peace. On bad days I imagine the train slowing enough for me to hop on. A totally different life is just one decision away. The train has and will always be there.
photo source: “Trains” by TBoard is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0
