Where+the+Rails+End?

By: HELF
 * Where will these rails end? **

Someone asked me a little while back, “Jimmy, ain’t you tired of livin’ like this?” All I could do was smile at the man and look out the door of the box cart. I’m sixteen years old and I done been on these rails since I was twelve. Now I sure as hell ain’t no mathematician or nothin’, but that’s a good chunk of time. I wish on the same star every night: that one day, I’ll return home to North Carolina and hold my lil’ sister again, and play in the front yard with my three younger brothers. And to see my parents, without the godforsaken look they gave me on that chill Tuesday night of December—the look that told me it was time to get up and go. My pop got laid off from the factory and my momma had been sick for years, hardly ever leavin’ her bed. We didn’t have enough money to feed all the mouths in that house, but pop would never come out and say it. I could see myself burdenin’ my parents and keepin’ food from my siblings. I hopped on that train headin’ west and haven’t looked back. I promised myself I would get some money and send it home, but luck sure hasn’t struck me yet. It’s hard to find any work seein’ that no one wants to hire a runaway that’s missin’ a few fingers. All I got is a handful of change and this compass my pop gave me right before I walked outta the door. “Find your way home, son,” he said. It’s lonely out here. I must be somewhere near Iowa, but I haven’t known in months. People come and go all the time. Some go runnin’ home, some find work in a town, and some die. I had a friend named Tom but he got off the train one day and said he wouldn’t be comin’ back. I didn’t ask where he was headin’. Tom’s pop kicked him outta the house at fourteen. After ‘bout a year on the rails, Tom tried goin’ back home and begged his pop to let him stay. His pop beat him pretty good and Tom told me he’d be dead before he went back to that place again. Right now, I’m just ridin’ and hopin’ for a better tomorrow. Tom told me that people in Montana were as kind as anyone and I might be able to find work there. If I could find a place to stay and get a job doin’ anythin’, I could save enough money to help out my family, but I figure I’m already helpin’em by being out here. I’m scared that these fingers won’t be able to make a buck or two, and I won’t be able to face my family. How would I look, bein’ out here this long, and comin’ back with nothin’? I try not to think of my family but it’s hard. Yesterday was my sixteenth birthday and I cried for the first time since I can remember. I miss’em like hell—I wonder if they even think about me. I’m tired. The rails can take their toll on ya—that’s for damn sure. I wish I could go back to that day and pick another cart to hop on. It was a mad house, everyone runnin’ from the bulls. I was fourteen at the time and scared as ever. All of us were runnin’ right beside the train as it was pickin’ up speed. I got pushed by the person behind me and fell forward. My right hand fell on the track and the wheels cut off my pinky, ring, and middle finger. I try to be positive and think that ain’t nothin’ worse gonna happen to me now because God can’t be that cruel. A lot of folks been talkin’ ‘bout the CCC lately. Roosevelt started some military group that would help out kids like me. I figure it’s not even worth signin’ up for—I probably can’t even sign my own name. They say hopes a dangerous thing in these parts, but I think it’ll get better. Sooner or later, this compass will lead me home.