Runaway Train

Huck woke up in a train car filled with thick smoke.

Passengers coughed, and he panicked.

A man in a soldier’s uniform said, “Can I help you, son?”

The man, in his impressive, pressed uniform, covered Huck’s nose and mouth with a handkerchief.

“My honor, son,” he said, tilting his military cap.

Tears blurred Huck’s vision, as a thickening smoke burned his eyes, and he heard shouting about the brakes.

He felt terrified, having thoughts that the train would fly off its tracks into the dark of night.

Huck was fascinated with railroads.

He would walk the rails, balance himself on one rail, or place a penny on a rail to watch a train flatten it to twice its size.

He studied the graffiti on the passing train cars. Names in strange languages in colorful red, white and blue designs like Zapata Lives! Who wrote their names?

The rails seemed to go on forever. There was great delight in the feeling of looking down the tracks — the throat of eternity.

Nowhere was far enough.

To afford the ticket he sold his sky blue Schwinn Country Roamer bicycle — complete with its muscle handlebars and fabulous silver-ribbed stingray fastback seat. He also swapped bottle-refund pennies, washed cars, and mowed lawns.

He had been sleeping and dreamt about a year-round fort he built in the rafters of his parent’s garage.

From that vantage point, he could spy on his dad. He watched him leave and return at all odd times of the night.

He also dreamt if things didn’t work out he would dig an end-of-the-world pod and furnish it with a sleeping bag, snickers bars, soda pop, a canteen, a compass, and a bow; whereby he shot arrows at the moon.

Before he got on the train Mom packed the house for the big move and he planned to run away.

His best friend moved to a different city and offered a home. He thought his parents would adopt him.

It was against the rules of the adventure to ask too many questions.

“Where you headed, son?” The Army man asked.

As he rode the train, his old stomping grounds disappeared behind him, along with his translucent wide-eyed expression reflecting through a big window.

His seat clacked above the rail spikes.

In a train or on a river raft — no matter — it was his movement toward freedom, and his freedom was where he saw fit.

When he arrived with his raggedy bag of clothes, the story was spinning.

“He’s a friend from school and we’re doing a sleepover,” his friend Tom explained to his frowning parents.

The next thing he knew they were camping out in the backyard and Tom asked him to pull his pants down.

He saw he had done so, and he followed.

They laid there outside in the tent, side by side, glowing eyes in the dark.

“Let’s rub ourselves,” Tom suggested.

The next thing he knew Tom was bobber hopper on his fishing tackle. He asked him to return the pleasure, and with hesitation, he complied. Having done nothing like that before, he didn’t know what to think.

“Tom, don’t take this the wrong way. I like you and everything. I mean consider me your wingman for life. I’m confused by what we’re doing,” he explained. “Why are we touching each other like this?”

“It’s no big deal. Forget it. We’re friends, forever, okay?”

“Let’s keep this our little secret.”

Tom’s parents caught on when the sleepover lasted a week, they asked where he lived.

He found himself in the back seat of a police car.

Fingerprinted, photographed, and before a judge, they connected him to a rash of crimes he didn’t commit. The judge found him guilty. His syndicate was so vast they dubbed him the “Cracker Jack King.”

“Let the trial of nobody’s son begin,” the Judge hit his gavel on a woodblock.

His parents stood next to him at first and left.

“The State versus YOU,” the judge read from a paper. “Do you understand the charges brought before you?”

“No.”

“How do you wish to plead?” The judge asked.

“Not guilty.”

There was whispering back and forth between the probation officer and the judge. He overheard the word, “Boy’s Town” and a shockwave shot up his spine.

For his crimes, he received several years on probation.

The court assigned Probation officer Mr. Booty. He was a tall, ancient man, who wore skinny black ties, and pin-striped suits.

He looked down at him through his wire-rimmed bifocals.

Mr. Booty questioned him about his whereabouts between 3 and 4 p.m. on a particular Thursday.

“I was walking around the neighborhood.”

He held a pen to his lips. “Are there any witnesses?”

“Mrs. Johnson was watering her flowers, and she saw me.”

Whether he followed up with Mrs. Johnson, he did not know — but thanks to her gardening, he had a tight alibi.

The train whistle blew like an exploding tea kettle.

The cars gave each other a hard tug.

Down the mountain pass, a young man escaped, curled up into his seat, and dreamt about a place called home.