I+Had+No+Choice+but+to+Leave

I Had No Choice But To Leave
I grew up in St. Louis with my younger brother, Sam and my younger little twin sisters, Diane and Judy. My name is Henry Pike and I am 17 years old, the oldest of my three siblings. I ran away two days ago when I came home from school in the early afternoon to find my Dad sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands. My mother paced around the room endlessly. I knew something was wrong because Dad never came home before dusk and yet there he was, mid day. He announced to the family that he lost his job at the steel factory and that it was going to be a rough year. I knew there wouldn’t be enough money for food and warm clothes for Sam, Diane and Judy so I was left with only one thing to do. As the oldest son in the house, I could not bear to live every day watching my family starve and suffer. I had to ride the rails and find a job so I could provide for my family. Early the next morning, I slipped out of the house with only a burlack sack tied with rope that I swung over my shoulder. I brought my three warmest pairs of wool socks, a change of pants, the winter hat Ma made me last Christmas and the three chicken salad sandwiches that I found in the kitchen. made last night while I pondered whether or not I should leave everything behind. It was only October and traveling alone in the windy, bone chilling weather haunted my mind. Although I was not even half way through eleventh grade, I knew that if I did not do anything now, life would just get worse. "It was time to grow up and become a man," my father’s words echoed in my head. I could not be afraid of this lonely foreign world. It was my job to make up for what my dad could not provide. Before I closed the screen door to our green, paint-chipped two family house, I promised myself that I would not cry. Off I went, with my arms wrapped around me trying to fend off the cold from taking over my body. The town seemed abandoned in the frigid dawn air. As I walked alone, I imagined Niland, California, where I was headed. I overheard the men in the diner last week talking about the plentiful jobs and the warm weather. The sun just started to peak out from the mountains when I made it to the railroad tracks. I scanned the tracks to find numerous men, boys and the occasional girl sitting on top of the boxcars. It looked as if they had all been living on the road for months, ragged clothes and dirty faces. I tightened my grip around the burlack sack and started to run as the train started. After school I used to watch the hobos grab onto the handles of moving trains and scramble up to safety. Just as the hobos had, I gained speed trying to catch the moving train. My heart starting racing. What if I lose my grip and fall to my death? There was no time to stop what I had started. I reached out my hand and held on, trying to get my feet high enough to get hold of the ladder. It seemed like hours before I was sitting among the population of hobos holding on for dear life to the bumping train. I spent the whole day riding along the Southern Pacific Railroad. I could barely think straight I was so scared to be alone out in the world. But I stayed strong because I knew that is what my father would expectfrom me. After the sun set, I followed a group of approximately ten to twelve men off the railroad tracks to a little alcove in the woods. We stayed quiet and slipped behind boxcars to make sure the railroad detectives did not catch us. A man in his mid twenties with a scratchy auburn beard warned me about the dangers of railroad detectives. He told me stories of hobos getting shot by armed detectives or taken straight to jail. Although I tried my best not to show it, the one thing that I wanted most in the world was to be safe in my bed under my own roof. But that was no longer an option. I shook the fantasy away and gathered around the fire. The grove of trees I was in, apparently was called a hobo jungle. Mirrors hung from tree branches and hobo’s belongings scattered the floor. I smelled the mulligan stew the old men in the jungle were cooking above the fire but there was not enough to go around, especially to a young new comer like me. I inched away from the fire and curled up under a tree. The warmth I had felt from the fire quickly seeped from my bones leaving me frigid on the ground. The complaints of life and work from the men were ringing in my ears. I fell into a light sleep. Tossing and turning, I dreamt about my family starving and freezing out in the snow. I woke abruptly to a low, scratchy voice saying, "Geddup and gimme those shoes and jacket. Hurry up boy!" The point of the knife against my back made the hairs on my neck stand straight up. Slowly, I lifted my body from the rocky hard soil. The man growled in my ear as I unlaced my boots and laid my jacket and shoes in a pile in front of me. He snatched my belongings and ran. I let out a breathe, unaware that I had been holding it. In shock I sat down and looked around me at the broken glass, and dirty men scattered all over the jungle. I tried so hard to be a man, but there was nothing I could do to keep the tears from rolling down my face.