My Traveling Companions Are Ghosts

The further East Tommy and I ventured, the more bugs we encountered.  Very small, annoying bugs, and their strength lay in numbers, in the enormous black clouds of them.  I mean, bugs littered the trees, making loud and ridiculous noises. Bugs, voracious as lice, frolicked in my hair like biting dandruff. So many bugs, they lived in the green grass by the herd.  And all of them—Biters.

Along with bugs came the ever increasing humidity.  From Kansas City on, my sweat soaked through my shirt and left it damp.  Day and night, night or day, it didn’t matter.  Breathing bug-clouded air, thick as water, and always the itching, the sweating, the constant need to take a shower.

In Springfield, we quickly found Tommy’s friends.  They were a group of five or so drunken bums.  I had sympathy for their alcoholism; who wouldn’t seek an escape in such a horrible environment.  It could help, I guess, but it definitely required a fee from the user.  One of Tommy’s friends had recently passed out on the tracks and lost half a leg when the train ran it over.  I don’t know what happened to the discarded half….it probably wound up in the mouth of a German shepherd that gnawed at the marrow and ripped chunks of flesh from the calf.  The attached half, received a boy scout type wrapping in gauze, but it still leaked at the stumped end, and required more care than what a few inebriated men could offer.

We ended up camping on the front lawn of an abandoned house.  I had a tarp to lay down under me, so I had less bugs to deal with than the others.  The one-legged bum decided to help himself to some of my tarp.  I am not, and never have been, a fan of stumps.  I used my two good and stump free legs to kick him off my tarp and away from me.  He was somewhat surprised and put out by my harsh treatment, and he complained to his companions about the abuse, but they were too drunk to pay attention.

In the morning, I heard everyone get up and leave as a group.  I acted like I was still asleep, so I wouldn’t feel compelled to go with them. It was time to go my own way. I liked Tommy, but not when he was with his friends. Besides, I needed to get going towards Memphis; it was the Fourth of July, and Graceland beckoned.

Wandering around Springfield, I found a Laundromat.  I washed all my clothes, and sat naked underneath my tarp while my clothes spun in stupid circles.  I explained my dire situation to the attendant; I needed to find the train to Memphis.  He knew of a shelter by the tracks, and he was sure I could find someone there to point me in the right direction.

It took a while, but I made my way to the tracks and found the shelter.  I walked in and asked the guy at the front desk if he knew any experienced hobos.  He led me back into the day-room and introduced me to a man who gave a new meaning to the “dust bowl” and whose breath made throw up smell refreshing.  Experience? The hobo probably invented wandering.  I told the guy I was looking for a train to Memphis.  He pointed out the large window to the tracks.  A train sat on the tracks, the whistle blowing a final farewell.  “That train is going to Memphis or Indiana…..best hurry though, cause its a leav’n.”

The train was already moving by the time I got up to the locomotive. As I walked in step with the train, I hollered up to the engineer :”Where you going?”

“Memphis!” he yelled back. Music to my ears….was I really that close?

I jumped in an open boxcar, feeling amazed in my clean underwear and somewhat lonely for having left my traveling buddy in Springfield.  Soon the train carried me into the forested hills; drooping trees, creeks and ponds. It reminded me of so many scary movies. Huge trees with moss hanging, almost made me feel that the ride took me back in time. I felt unconquerable: Being alone in a boxcar, one last hop from my destination, countryside like I have never seen rolling past me at a leisurely clip.  Evening came, and with it, thoughts of my friends back home.  I knew they were at the parks, talking to the girls.  I wished they could see me, how far I had journeyed.  Everything I had experienced was worth its weight in gold, but I would love to be there, back home, with them also.  I loved my friends and the brilliant firework shows that would be watched as the sun set over the Great Salt Lake.

Just before dark, the train stopped.  We were somewhere out in the hills.  There was nothing unusual about it, except not far off  a gathering started to happen.  Locals in pickup trucks were converging on a field.  I could hear talk, but hillbilly-southern, some sort of gibberish.  I wondered if lynch mobs still existed.  At dark, the fireworks started.  Different place, same customs.  I had the best seat in the world.  The show lasted about an hour, and so did my goose-bumps.  My train started moving soon after the show ended.  I could see the people leaving in their trucks and returning to homes that I imagined as shacks on hillsides, while I rode my magic carpet towards a palace of the King.  But I no longer felt alone.  Whoever those people were, I had experienced something with them, and for that, we were connected.  The train had stopped in the perfect spot.  Who knew the middle of the Ozarks held such mystery, and yet people that would unknowingly give me a gift of the greatest firework show of my life.  That was no mere accident.

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