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The Ballad of Billy Bones

memoir concerning life on the road

By Charles TurnerPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
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The Ballad of Billy Bones
Photo by Eddie Bugajewski on Unsplash

He called himself Billy Bones. He said it was after a character in a movie. Because he felt like a marooned pirate in the jungle camps, same as the namesake.

Billy Bones was tall, rail-thin, with a carrotish beard, hung on a long face, with pale blue eyes. His eyebrows grew thick and long, giving him a bit of a wild look.

Bones was bustling. Being more than solicitous. He was teaching Arlen how to cook with discarded tin cans that were easily found throughout the ‘bo jungle. He put burning sticks under a can of water with sprinkled in coffee grounds.

“I picked a can with rust in it because we need iron,” he said.

He went around selecting cans for cups.

Arlen didn’t think rust could be a useful nutrient, but he didn’t see fit to argue. He wanted the coffee, which he hadn’t drunk any of in near a week. Arlen was no professional ’bo like Bones. He was just a young man on the way to Texas. The train he had come in on rested nearby, soon to resume its journey eastward. He planned to reclaim his boxcar at its leaving.

He watched Bones rinse the cans before putting them in the fire to kill off germs.

Bos are mindful of hygiene. Who knew?

Before he filled the can cups Bones pulled a flat bottle from his blue jeans hip pocket and poured in a shot to each. He handed Arlen his. Arlen accepted his can cup, holding it at the top rim to avoid the boiling heat further down. After Bones filled his own can cup they held their coffees a few minutes, allowing it to cool a bit.

Here in the barren stretch of the jungle, the dirt was the one place to sit. For that reason, Bones and Arlen did everything standing, even drink coffee. Arlen liked for Bones to keep talking as it relieved himself of having to think of things to say. Apparently, Bones didn’t mind at all.

Then Bones mentioned it was a good time to eat.

“Come with me and I’ll show you where to get it,” he said.

Reluctant, fearing he would miss his ride, Arlen hung back, until Bones reassured him, saying, “If you miss that one there will be another in a little while.”

Against his better judgment, Arlen followed along. He wouldn’t want to be too late to see his ailing mother.

They left the proximity of the railroad and the jungle, following a path not well-worn. It was almost a climb getting up it. At the last minute, Arlen saw what he judged to be a church or a monastery. Bones went up to a heavy door and swung the knocker. He waited. After a few minutes, a person opened the door enough of a crack to push through a sandwich. After accepting his, Bones stood aside and Arlen received his. The door immediately shut.

Arlen saw that he held a massive butterbean sandwich. By the time they made it down to the hobo jungle, the sandwiches had been consumed. As they approached the site of bones’ campfire, Arlen looked up to see his train rolling away, picking up speed. It was not about to get away from him.

His pounding feet caught up behind the last boxcar. Against the shouted warnings by Bones to let it go, Arlen wrapped his fingers around the grab iron and hoisted himself onto the bottom ladder rung.

“Don’t let go,” Billy Bones hollered, as he drifted into the background.

Arlen knew he would be slammed into railroad ties and rocks should he fall; his body would be shattered. The train rapidly went into the dusk. In a matter of minutes, Arlen was riding in the dark, with the railroad cars shaking more violently than he could have expected. He wondered if he would ride this way all night. His senses were on the highest alert for over an hour. And then the train slowed. It stopped in some dark place for a reason unknown.

He jumped down to run along the line in search of an open door. The train moved. The cars shook into motion, each car, in turn, receiving the shock of renewed tension. The movement became increasingly fast. He hoped to be able to spot a gaping hole in a boxcar before too late.

Arlen found one just in time. He pulled himself up by the bar and scrambled inside. Spent, he made his way to a deep end and lay down on his back, his emotions shouting hallelujahs to the darkness. His weary body pulled him into slumber by degrees. As he slowly surrendered, he ran a salute through his mind to all of the disposed and the hoboes he had been encountering on his adventures in America, both by hitchhiking and jumping on freights. He knew that as soon as his mother got better, he would be off again. For his itchy feet could not allow him to settle. Only his older days could slow him. All his journeys would honor the like of Billy Bones, generous to a fault while having virtually nothing for himself. For Billy was not special among the breed. He was the norm.

Short Story
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About the Creator

Charles Turner

My work is based on who I am now and have been in the past. It is based on a lifetime of reading. Autobiography, standard fiction, sci/fi, fantasy, westerns. I plan to put together a collection of short stories to publish via Amazon.

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