Ropes+of+the+Rails

The Ropes of the Rails

I never meant to get myself into as much trouble as I did. My name is Oscar O’Connor Jr., and I am seventeen years old. I grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, as the only child of Nancy and Oscar, Sr. My school had shut down and many of my friends had gone off in search of jobs to support their struggling families. A good pal of mine, Felix, ran off when his old man started beating him. I heard of many stories similar to that, families taking out anger and loss out on their own kids. There were a lotta broken families around where I lived. I was fortunate enough to be raised by decent folk, and that’s why I decided to leave. My father was a proud man; even though he didn’t have a fancy job like some of the neighbors did, he lived well knowing that he supported his family. When Pa lost his job, I couldn’t stand seeing him so broken. The last thing I wanted was to burden the people that had given me so much. It was my time to give back to them. Sharing my father’s name brought a sense of responsibility for me to provide for my folks, so I set off to find a job. Foolishly, I brought along nothing but the clothes on my back. I had heard about these places called “hobo jungles” placed on the outskirts of the city near the railroads. From what I heard about them, they sort of sounded like school, except they replaced the teacher and chalkboard with a hobo and fire pit. They were places for bums and teenagers to discuss trains, good shelters, and weather conditions. It was also a place to wash up clothes and eat scavenged food. I had never been to camp or away from home for any extended amount of time, so I was very afraid. I knew I couldn’t make it on my own, so I wanted to make my way to the jungle that I had last heard Felix was living in. The camp was a lean-to, mostly made from tree branches. The folks there were scary, old, and dirty as the streets of Pittsburgh. Many of them had knives on their person. One fella was covered in poorly done tattoos. The smell of rotting food and sweat wafted from them, caused by their unsanitary living conditions. I barely even recognized my lifelong friend, Felix. To be fair it had been a few weeks since I had seen him last, but his hair was matted and he looked like he had to have lost at least thirty pounds. He didn’t look at all healthy, yet he assured me that any life was better than how he was treated back at home. I asked him if he could show me the ropes of train-hopping, to which he enthusiastically agreed. His gung-ho response frightened me; he responded like a heroin junkie does when offered a shot. Felix started me off agonizingly simple. “These are the train tracks,” he said with a gleam in his eye. “I don’t suggest walkin’ on them. Trains tend to catch up to ya real quick.” Then, he taught me the harder part of the lesson. “The big thing is to watch out for bulls. If there ain’t none around, the most important thing on yer mind has to be getting yer timing down. Them trains move real fast like I told ya before, so you need to start runnin’ as soon as the front passes ya. Then you hafta hop into an open boxcar down by the caboose. If yer lucky, there’ll already be others in there to grab a hold of ya and drag ya in. If you miss yer jump...well, let’s not think about that,” he warned. At that moment, a low rumbling sound was heard off in the distance. “Here comes the beast now!” Felix smiled. “Think yer ready?” I simply nodded my head and focused at the task at hand. As I heard the train whistle blowing behind me, I got low to the ground like the beginning stance of a marathon runner. Felix and I began sprinting, laughing at the rush of adrenaline the danger gave us. Looking behind my shoulder, I spotted an open boxcar and shouted at Felix to get ready. With grace and precision, I leaped into the car and scrambled to hold on to something sturdy, as to not be violently thrown out. At that moment, I heard a shriek coming from underneath the train. Felix didn’t make the jump. I was on my own.

By Emmeline McCarron