I’ve never seen a train run through town. I’ve never
heard the distant whistle of a locomotive or the roaring thunder of boxcars
being dragged behind. For the longest time the tracks sat alone, forgotten,
except for us kids who would play around them, walking on the steel strips, one
foot after the other, seeing who could keep their balance the longest. Then the
men from the railroad showed up with their machines and stripped the heavy
lengths from their ties and trucked them to the scrap yard. The price of steel
was just too high, they said, to let them sit there, doing nothing. Soon enough
the ties disappeared too, one by one, stolen by scavengers, torn from the
ground and used for who knows what. Now all that remains is the old-timers’
memories of the Western Atlantic Railroad and a narrow embankment that runs
through the heart of town.
I
skipped school today. I skip school almost every Friday, but this Friday in
particular, I wouldn’t be caught dead inside those brick walls. It’s Homecoming
weekend. You know, that once-a-year celebration when everyone parades through
the halls like they give two shits about the school, as if they take some sort
of pride in being a Maple Lake Indian. They paint their faces. They dress in
the school colors. And at the end of the day there’s a giant pep rally in the
gym, where all the members of the football team are treated like heroes, called
down to the floor one by one, their arms high in the air, grunting and yelling
and giving each other high-fives as if they just won the National Championship
or something. And the rest of the school cheers them on, ignoring the fact that
they haven’t won a game in years. And what’s even worse is that the rest of the
student athletes go along with the whole charade, sitting in the bleachers,
cheering them on, without receiving a single bit of recognition themselves. I
sat through that garbage three years in a row. I won’t do it again.
So I
slept in this morning. Then I drove about an hour, out into the country to have
lunch at an old diner that serves their drinks out of mason jars. They claim to
be the first place ever to do that, but I don’t know if that’s true or just
something they advertise. It must work, because their food is lousy but the
place is always crowded. I just need an excuse to get out of town every once in
a while and I find a long drive out that way is much more relaxing than heading
the other direction, towards the suburbs and the city.
After lunch I headed back
here, not too far behind the school, close enough in fact that I can just make
out the building, sitting in the distance like a piece from a board game. I
come here to collect the railroad spikes that lay scattered off the sides of
the embankment. I sell them to a local antique shop for five dollars a dozen.
They turn around and sell them for two dollars apiece. It’s not a very
effective way to make money, but it sure beats sitting in school. Plus I like
the walk. I like to think that when the wind blows, it’s the ghost of an
ancient train.
“Hey!
You! Don’t move!” A deep voice booms from over my shoulder. “You’re trespassing
on government property. Drop the spikes and put your hands in the air.”
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