The Bridge Within V

The school year began, my last senior year. Determined, excited, motivated; I hadn’t felt that alive in a long time. The three months of my last 1st quarter flew by. At the beginning of August I had landed a job as a line cook at an archetypal Detroit style fine dining restaurant, The 4th Street Grille in downtown Rochester. It was a flash between French and Italian cuisine with a generic American twist. In the end it was nothing special, but the ambiance and prestige of location coupled with the “e” on the end of Grille gave it a sense of status. It was the first real cook job I had landed, and so, I was put to work on pantry and salad station, preparing desserts, prepping salads and frying calamari and french fries for dinner service. Occasionally I was given the honor and opportunity of learning saute, working the flat top and expo station, preparing entrees for the heat window while orders waited to be picked up, and cooking easier saute dishes like escargot. In spite of being vegan I loved it. Learning to make Bearnaise for Filet Mignon’s and Lobster Rockefeller and discovering Chicken Piccata opened my world to greater cooking techniques and ways to play with ingredients. On condition of me moving back in with my parents I had agreed that if I was to graduate high school it would be on my own accord. In light of the unfolding of the past summer my parents had expressed an absolute dis-involvement in the stake of my schooling and future. This move from them seemed like a culmination of frustration and form of punishment as my mom had resigned to quit giving me rides the 5 miles to school. However it was intended, it felt more like a relinquishment of involvement altogether than punitive action. That summer, after finding a Univega hybrid bicycle in the trash heap at a local apartment complex, having fixed it up, I now had an adequate and reliable form of my own transportation. Every week day I would wake myself up at 6 a.m., jump out of bed, eat a bowl of oatmeal, and, with a thermos of Yogi herbal tea, I’d ride the 5 miles from my parents house to school. It felt freeing, self reliant and liberating; everything I was wanting more of. It couldn't come fast enough. That summer after coming home from Chicago, I had found myself yearning for that freedom again, the freedom of the open road. And, those first few nights after arriving back in Detroit, I had found myself with the bright orange sleeping bag, rolled out in the back yard sleeping under the stars. This dis-involvement then, felt only like more of an extension of that, and I was grateful. I looked forward to my morning rides, and after school I would ride back towards my parents house, only this time with two extra miles tacked on I’d arrive at work. While the learning experience cooking at 4th street provided was great, and I had a blast discovering the ins and outs of kitchen life; like how to drink terrible espresso with a stick of rock candy and learning the Spanish word for homie, ”ese,” Which, with a sort of warped affection, everyone tauntingly called the elderly Guatemalan dishwasher who couldn't speak English wit.

These minor off color infractions were just a greater foreshadowing against the background of many darker shadows that had begun to spring up into my short lived experience working at the restaurant. Few things had prepared me for the overindulgence of sexual harassment that lurked around every corner at 4th Street. Whether it was happening to me or a co staff it was almost always perpetrated by the chef other cooks or a flamboyant gay waiter, who, in spite of being homophobically ridiculed by the rest of the kitchen staff, and, after my expressed solidarity with him, decided it was only appropriate to turn around and sexually assault me numerous times. This coupled with ongoing sexual harassment from my boss, Chef Mike and Saute Cook Lino made the environment at the restaurant ever more hostile. As the fall moved into winter my steam was slipping, it was October, and, in spite of my repugnant threats the harassment had not let up. I was feeling more and more triggered each time I walked into work. Less and less did I give a damn. One evening the waiter walked behind me to grab salads out of the cooler and shoved his thumb through my pants into my butt, I turned around with my knife and told him I would cut his balls off if he touched me again. Backing away he cautiously grabbed his salads. However, a threat wasn't enough and the harassment persisted. By December I had finally had enough. After no call no showing several times I showed up at the back door in the rain, It was pouring. I was soaked but I was at my wits end and feeling broken had come to give my notice. The Chef answered the door. In tears I told him how I could not continue to be treated the way I had been, he put his arms around me in the doorway as I cried. It was disgusting and confusing, “Why was he comforting me?” It felt fake, like an attempt to assuage my anger and coax me into hushing and running along. I left, walking the two miles back home. It had been one of the toughest conversations I’d ever had to have. To be vulnerable to someone in a place of authority who had continuously assaulted me and allowed others to do the same as if it was all one big joke. The decision was not only hard through my own willingness, but was met with much resistance from my father who refused to believe what I was experiencing at work after breaking down crying one Sunday as I told him my plan to quit. In spite of this doubt and opposition, like anything else, I didn't listen to him and went ahead with my plan. The encounter came at a great relief, It felt like an enormous weight had been lifted. My days of singing the song, “Slave” by Amebix, to myself, as I miserably toiled during the dinner rush, “Slave, slave, slave, from the cradle to the grave, you made yourself the systems slave.” or feeling so angry and unable to concentrate, that rushing, I slipped and cut the tip of my thumb requiring stitches, was over. On my cold and wet walk back I stopped by my friend Nick’s house, he was now living with his parents. Telling him what had happened, he was one person I felt I could confide in and get the support and respect I needed in that moment, he comforted me, and leaving we agreed to see each other soon.

The rest of December played out slowly, no longer did I have the obligation of an extra two mile bike ride after school. My father had begun dropping me off on his way into work. New Years eve soon approached. That year my friend Miranda had invited me to a show with her at a spot in Eastern Market in Downtown Detroit, the venue was an old warehouse with several floors as make shift communal living space/lofts. The space was affectionately called “Scrummage”, or “Scrummage University.” Sitting in a desolate corridor of Eastern Market the warehouse had other levels in which people would host different music styles and acts, the floors above however had been locked. Miranda had been, off and on, dating one of the residents and asked me to come with her to help her "be strong" and, not sleep with him again, as she put it. After her mom dropped us off at her dads spot, we waited for another pair of friends to pick us up and venture on south into the city. Arriving at the warehouse it was brisk, the grounds and building around were desolate, pure Detroit I thought. Across the street lay an old vacant warehouse with a barbed wire fence running around its perimeter. There was no one to be seen. We piled out of the car and walking through your typical metal warehouse door entered a cold concrete stairwell. Up a few flights of stairs and we had arrived in the loft. Only the folks living there were present. The show still had some few hours before it started but the sky outside in its cold snow cloud overcast had grown dark. Talking to Miranda’s friend, he had taken a beer order from several folks for a brisk walk down to the liquor store that lay a few blocks away. I told him I’d go with him and help carry if he got me a beer. Back down the stairs and out into the frigid cold we walked through the dark, vacant, alley like street that sat between the Scrummage building and abandoned warehouse. The guy told me the Halal butchers in the area would dump their sheep carcasses in there and that many homeless folks lived there as well. Arriving at the liquor store was a god-send, a sense of safety and warmth in the quiet dark desolate streets, It was the only sign of life we had seen the entire walk. At the cash register, clad with thick bullet proof glass and a bullet proof turnstyle to hand your items to the cashier for scanning through, Miranda’s friend bought me a 24oz of Red Stripe. We slowly walked back in the cold and by the time we arrived back at the space more people had shown up. The music began to crank and slowly the night became a haze. Losing track of Miranda I meandered around out into the warehouse halls where more people were gathered. Making small talk I ran into several friends I hadn't seen in a while. Among them was Laura, my friend who had given me the heads up about her vacant apartment earlier that past summer. Stumbling back into the venue the bathrooms were found through the sleeping area of Miranda’s friend, merely cordoned off by false walls that served as backdrop for the would be stage. Walking through the sleep space there was a line, to the bathroom. There next to the wall of the space was Miranda and her guy friend curled up in his bed. “Well there goes that whole plan,” I thought to myself. After using the restroom I found Laura again, she said she was headed out. I asked her If I could catch a ride and she obilged.

The beginning of Christmas break had marked the ending of my high school career, with all my credits finally logged I was free, graduated. I gave myself the entire rest of the springtime to plan with anticipation my next moves. I had told my parents I would stick around to walk at my graduation in June. In the spring I ventured with my mother down to Kentucky. My cousin Megan was graduating from high school also and my cousin Lauren, her older sister and I had become quite close through our late teens, talking on the phone for long periods of time. In past years I had sent her numerous feminist books like, Feminism is for Everyone by Bell Hooks and The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir. I hadn't seen her, however, in several years and this was my chance to reunite for a brief period. Seeing her again was a trip, having known her in person as a pre teen to having developed a deeper yet remote relationship through the phone was an interesting contrast, nevertheless we picked up where we had been.

On our way back up to Detroit my mother and I drove along a string of trains next to the highway chugging along. My mom, to my surprise, began to entertain my train hopping plans, asking me which cars on the train I would ride. Pointing out several I described how and why they were good rides. Every city we drove through I took the opportunity to ogle the circulating train traffic. Cincinnati was beautiful I thought. With its epic skyline and mountainous elevated approach from the highway that entered the city from the south across the Ohio River I watched the train trackage trestle its way across the adjacent bridges from us. Well cars empty and full, scooting down the line towards a freight yard or some dirty industrial district. It was stuff like this that I relished. I loved the Midwest, in all of its crowded rust belt charm. The adventure and anticipation pulsated through my veins, I had brought my radio scanner and flipped it on intently listening for rail chatter. Finally I had something, something I was good at, something I was passionate about, something that was mine and no one could take it away from me. Moving through Cincinnati we eventually hit Toledo and reading through my Crew Change Guide I found the short entry on the city's freight traffic. The Crew Change Guide was a pamphlet of accumulated freight traffic catch out spots allotting for every state and Canadian province’s freight yards. It was usually circulated by more experienced or savvy riders with a grip on the ins and outs of riding trains and amongst members of more radical communities. A friend of mine whom I had met on a train riding forum around that time had given it to me after we had discovered he previously dated another friend of mine. One afternoon in the winter he had made the drive from his moms house where he was staying in Eastpointe to my parents place to get together and talk trains. Josh had been homeless in Canada prior to living on the couch in his moms basement. His relationship with his stepdad was rocky and so he had also been couch hopping, staying with friends for a time. Things were not great for him and slowly he was feeling pressured to leave, being pushed out by the unwelcoming relationship with his stepdad. In Canada, his girlfriend and him had ridden freight with a gang of several random kids they had met in Toronto. After a drunken fight with his girlfriend, where both ended up hitting each other, according to Josh, the police had been called and Josh was detained for deportation. Josh and I stayed in touch as we both talked with anticipation of leaving Detroit when the weather broke.

As winter had faded into the warmer spring months I found myself enjoying the company of a group of friends I began to align with more and more. Nick had been only one of a group of several friends who I had shared political ideas and loose musical tastes with over my few years of high school. Together, Andrew, Ted, Amy and Rachel with several cameos from others our group of friends became a solidified team of fun and warm get together's. Late nights saw us riding bicycles around town, drinking monsters and beers, playing Grand Theft Auto while listening to the Pocahontas soundtrack on vinyl, picnics, drunken music recordings and hanging outside of bars playing Hackey Sack with random bros on drunken cigarette breaks. Andrew lived in Grand Rapids and was in school at Kendal, an arts college through Ferris State University. He would often drive out to Rochester for periods of time when he didn’t have class, to hangout. Prior to this period we had spent several points in our time as friends getting into trouble for vandalism and sneaking out of our houses in the middle of the night to get naked and run around in the grass and woods at night. We had shared some intimacy, but I had always wanted more and after our first encounter I had been left confused at the casualness with which he had operated around it. Relationships had always been tricky for me, I so often had gotten overly attached, usually earlier than whomever I was with. Often I was left reeling; angry, hurt and feeling betrayed, I would spend weeks or months recovering from another failed attempt at a relationship. Never though, had I been with a man before until him. The summer of my junior year Andrew and I had been out on one of our secret galivants through the neighborhood. Not only did we share a general love for running around naked in the dark, but also one for graffiti. After climbing on a roof to tag the side of an apartment complex pool house we were spotlighted by the cops, handcuffed and taken to the sheriff's office. In the end our punishment was community service which upon completion was promised to expunge the trailing misdemeanors that had been charged against both of us. Finding a quiet spot as a volunteer at a local nature preserve outside of Downtown Rochester Andrew tipped me off to the opportunity and I followed suit. It had been a difficult and somber summer for me. Getting on my bike I would pedal the few miles to the nature preserve with my brothers Ben Harper cd on repeat. It was around that time that we both had decided to meet up. Andrew was on the outs with his parents and had been staying at his friend Kyle’s apartment close to the nature preserve. That night I climbed out my second story window that looked over the backyard. The brick patio laid below, but off to the side sat the roof to the family room just under the span of both of my arms. The house exterior was framed in a cottage style wood and stucco blocked facing. For the past couple of years I had begun to shimmy out my window and straddle the distance to the roof edging across the frame of one of the stucco squares with my feet. Climbing onto the roof safely I scurried across and jumped off the roof at its edge into the grass below. In a flash I was off into the night. Making my way to the nature center we met up at the designated spot we had agreed on and stripping down in the woods I kissed him. Never before had I been with another guy nor anyone for that matter. I had never really thought about men in that light before but it seemed like an opportune time and I was curious. There was a stability about it. There I was negotiating an emotional interaction for the first time not being controlled by it. It was a powerful encounter but still I was left with no follow up and a bucket of confusion. We saw each other shortly after that night; I told him how I was feeling, the difficulty of emotions. Andrew seemed not to be bothered. The whole thing for him appeared to be just a casual sexual experience and nothing more. He told me not to worry about it. In my anxiety I let it go, he had to leave anyway and was off to a friend's birthday party. We saw each other here and there after that but It wasn’t until I had connected with Nick, crashing with my brother in his apartment, that Andrew and I really started hanging out again.

As springtime pressed on, and our new crews’ get-together's became more frequent Andrew began coming out to Rochester to visit more. One evening after a night of hacky sack I had resolved to go back to Grand Rapids with him the next day. That night after getting home around midnight I got onto the computer. My plan was to catch a freight back to Detroit from Grand Rapids. This would be my second train ride. I had researched this route loosely entertaining the idea before but this time the info was pertinent. I scoured the internet for yard information and train routes. Slowly I mapped out my plan. CSX had a yard just down the street from Andrew’s apartment where I could catch a mixed freight, or “general manifest” as some would call it. This was a train full of mixed types of freight cars like the one I rode from Battle Creek into Chicago. From there the train would be routed towards Detroit through a “wye” or train diamond in the western suburb of Plymouth. Train diamonds are a directional trackage pattern that act as a sort of train roundabout redirecting traffic at junction points. The trains slow at a meager pace moving through these and they act as another opportune spot to get off or catch on the fly in lieu of a proper yard. There in Plymouth I would dismount before being ushered through to Toledo, Detroit or north to Saginaw.

The next day we all got together, driving just outside of Rochester on the far reaches of Detroit's northwest suburbs. Our friends and I gathered in a parking lot to play one last game of hacky sack before seeing Andrew and I off. After saying goodbye we departed, driving through Lansing clouds ominously loomed in the sky ahead. Our soundtrack was Explosions In The Sky, I had heard them briefly on another occasion when Andrew had played them but this was too perfect. As the lightning lit up the sky and the warm wind sat still rushing past our cracked windows. The music brought to life the eerie light show in the darkness that we were watching play out in front of us. When we arrived in Grand Rapids, it was drenched. I hadn't been in several years since my brother's robotics competition I had attended with my family. It was always so funny, now in my freedom and independence, visiting places on my own. Before going back to his apartment we found a Bruegger's Bagels, it was closed, perfect. Parking around back by the dumpster we got out. Bruegger's, like many other bakeries, would always throw their un-bought breads and bagels from the day away in a separate bag. Opening the dumpster we found it and pulled it out. A high five and several bagels later and we were back in Andrews studio apartment overlooking the small rain drenched city. It was quiet, Andrew lived with my other friend Ryan and their friend Lena who I hadn’t met. There on the couch something new and alive spoke between us that I hadn’t felt before and through it evoked a rush of attraction I was not planning for. Never before had I been so intimate with someone that I could feel my heart open. There was a sense of safety and temperament that I hadn’t known with anyone else. To my dismay after all of the love I experienced he was not interested in any tenderness, no cuddling, nothing. Saying that his bed was too small, in my disappointment I hugged him, said goodnight and resigned myself to the couch falling asleep. Morning came, the sun cooked the room beating down through the giant loft windows maybe 10 ft tall from waist to ceiling. Andrew was still asleep, I sat in the living room for several hours eating bagels and watching TV, finally around midday Andrew got up. Joining me in the living room he ate a bagel then walking over to the kitchen began to clean up. I was relieved to see him, starving, I was sick of bagels. We decided to make a trip to the grocery store. There I stole a handful of items I could make due with for meals during my stay. Heading back to his apartment, Lena wouldn’t be home at all and Ryan was coming back the next day, having stayed out in Kalamazoo for a motorbike rally.

Back at the loft the evening saw the quiet little city yawning as the sun grew pink against the light blue sky. We decided to go for a bike ride. Andrew had bought a nice Cannondale road bike the summer prior when he had moved down to Asheville North Carolina for a brief period with his friend Kyle. Kyle and him had ridden north through the smokies to Ohio that summer, hitchhiking when they got flats and sleeping in Walmart parking lots. We both had a knack for adventure. I rode Ryan's bike, which Andrew had said, Ryan had stolen out of a nearby apartment complex’s lobby. I had qualms with this personally, as I looked down on thieving from others, especially others bicycles; a hallowed form of transportation I deeply respected and so would not wish to take away from anyone. We made our way across the city up a hill to a small independent market on Grand Rapids’ east side. Buying a few cans of beans we sat out on the curb and watched the sky. It was a Sunday and the city was beautiful in its quiet evening lull. The market was situated in a quaint neighborhood near Kendal overlooking the city. Sitting there with Andrew I was at peace, I realized I loved this man not just in a romantic sense or a friend but as a whole human being. The more I felt this the more unattached to the outcome I was, however distressing or irritating the lack of clarity around his intentions were for me. Arriving back we retired for the evening, Ryan would be back tomorrow and I looked forward to catching up with him too. Monday came, Andrew and I went to run some errands around the area. He had had some items to get for one of his art classes and so we jetted over to Hobby Lobby to see what we could find. Upon arriving back home that afternoon, Ryan was back. Andrew and I busily tinkered with the few things he had gotten from the store earlier. Ryan had invited us to hangout with a friend of his he was collaborating with on a musical project. They were making waterproof guitar amp covers by ironing plastic bags together. I joined but Andrew stayed behind. Ryan’s friend was in a hardcore band and had been on tour earlier that past summer. We talked about music and travel plans. A show was coming up in the next few days which Andrew and I had planned on seeing. More in the vein of punk music than hardcore it was several bands that I really loved at the time. This would be the hallmark of my stay in Grand Rapids and would mark my last evening there. The next two days before the show were a blur of random trips through the city. One evening Andrew and I had gone across town to that same trendy neighborhood I had bought the cans of beans at from that tiny market. There was a cooperatively run vegan cafe there. We had dinner, splashing our food with the tiny bottle of Tapatio we so coveted on the table. The next day driving through the city I decided to stop at Jimmy John’s. Their bread was a steal, and after buying lunch I procured two whole baguettes from them for 10 cents a piece. This would be my food, on top of the beans, to hold me over during my journey back to Detroit. That night Andrew, Ryan and I ventured south of town for dinner to Old Country Buffet, It was one of their favorite eating spots. With Ziplock bags in our pockets, whatever food we could not finish we stuffed in the bags till they were full. This would hold us all over for the next few meals, the whole thing felt like a game but underneath it all a tinge of reality at the lack of security or certainty of food seemed to follow behind me.

The next evening Ryan's friend came over and together, after chugging a few beers, we headed out to the concert. The show was being held in a community space just below the apartment of Andrew and Ryan's friends. These folks ran the space and were our free ticket in. Before the show we hung out in their apartment chatting about the bands and their community space project they had been running. The show was a blast, While none of my friends really knew this music it was still in the realm of heavier hardcore and with its political inclinations it was enough to entice them. Neither Andrew nor Ryan nor any of our friends in our friend group had ever really known my musical inclinations or just how deep they ran but when the show started and the music hit, pulling no punches I launched myself into the crowd as I had done numerous times before in shows past. My quiet, unassuming nature was shattered as the juxtaposition of my loud and aggressive musical tastes came as a surprise to this group of friends. Although we generally knew each other the next few months saw us all growing rapidly more closer in a short period of time. Swinging around in the mosh-pit one right after another the bands played, first Phobia a punk grindcore style band with a heavier more metal tinge followed by the headliner Skarp, a female fronted grindcore band in the vein of crusty punk music. It was epic, running around with kids like myself, a group of punks I hadn’t had the privilege to commune with before. This whole time I had felt like a loner in my beliefs and ideological systems, my music, my identity, the way I even dressed and now in an instant I was transported into a room filled with others like me. It was freeing and for the moment I did not feel alone. In the more freedom I had been tasting, the less alone I felt, the more connection I felt and the safer I felt. Retiring after the show, I had made new friends, connected, and now set my sights and mind to the next morning.

When I awoke the sky was overcast, it was around noon, after I had packed everything. With uncertainty and hesitation I said goodbye to Andrew. Kissing him goodbye my hesitation struck him in a certain light. Walking out of the room with my pack, down the long dark narrow hallway that led to the front door of their studio apartment I doubled back to where he was still sitting in a solitary couch chair against the wall of the living room. Fumbling over my decisiveness, Andrew looked at me and clearly said, “you have to do this.” “Right,” I thought. And he was. So, heading towards the door I left. Walking down the quiet road, a western section just outside of downtown at the outskirts just off the highway and surrounded by the old industrial businesses that lie as a hallmark to most rail yards. Off the main road I turned down a dirt and gravel drive that operated as an entrance road to the trainyard at its east throat, as well as a gravel and concrete production yard. Off the entrance to the train yard I turned west to my right and meandered through the large piles of gravel and chat that spotted the area south of the concrete plant. This rock pile field butted up against a deep wooded gully with an open culvert where rushing water gushed through at the bottom of its steep slopes. On the other side lay the north edge of the freight yard. Climbing through the debris to the bottom of the gulley I followed the torrent of water running past me along its narrow bank up the stream's path. Through the gulley I climbed east towards the heart of the yard. The gully and wooded areas provided ample cover from being seen snaking its way towards what was the engine house where CSX had its diesel mechanics shop. Winding towards the front of this building the gully veered further north cutting in front of the engine house before running up alongside and disappearing behind it several hundred yards away. At this point, in order to keep following the gulley I would have to climb over two sets of old school wooden beam train trestles that spanned the gap over the gulley I was in. The first time I managed to finagle my way under the trestles hanging on to what little scrub was available to clutch as I scrambled against gravity on its barren muddy slopes leaning on the wooden pilings that held it up for support. Once across I got as close to the building as I could. The yard tower, I could see, was on the other side of the yard past several strings of idle tracks and finally the mainline which lay directly in front of it. In no hurry I figured I would give myself all day to feel out the yard and see exactly just how it worked. There in the underbrush I laid at the top of the ravine watching the mechanics shop with my scanner. A half hour went by when I decided I knew where I had to be. Realizing my spot was just a waste of time I meandered back down the ravine to the bottom of the gully and shimmying along its slopes I arrived once again at the train trestles. This time moving back over them was not as easy and the negotiation I had wagered underneath the trestle was now off the table. For one reason or another the route I had taken under the trestle appeared and felt unpassable at this vantage point. I had no choice but to risk being seen and go over the top. Clamoring up the steep slope to the edge of the trestle. I waited underneath as a locomotive fresh out of the mechanics shop passed overhead. When it disappeared out of the yard I made my move. Carefully mounting the trestle I hurried over the trestle from one end to the other. Safe on the other side I checked my scanner for yard chatter hoping nobody saw me. The coast was clear, making my way further through the brush I wound up back close to the entrance road of the yard’s east throat and past where most of the hump and storage tracks of the yard had already merged with the main line. Across the mainline on its other side lay a wooded strip on the edge of a drainage ditch that followed the tracks across the south edge of the yard. Behind this wooded area was some sort of automotive plant with a tiny hill that sloped up to a barbed wire fence. Perfect I thought, crossing over the tracks to the shallow ditch and disappearing into the wooded strip, I made my way deeper down the main line into the yard edging as close as I could to the yard office while still keeping a comfortable distance. Here I could wait for my train and not be seen. My times table for the day read that the next train leaving towards Plymouth would take off around 9 pm. With hours upon hours to kill I laid in the brush and munched on my baguette of Jimmy John’s bread. Several trains passed and backed up in front of me in the yard. It was my train, and all day long it was in the process of being built. The locomotive was piecing each car on, pulling forward past where I was then backing up with a loud boom boom boom of slack action from the car’s couplers as another car was added to the string. By 9:00 pm it was nightfall and having grown restless from idly sitting in the brush all day I got up. Using the cover of darkness I edged my way past where the tree line stopped and over to behind an electrical box near the yard office to see if I could get a better view of what was going on. It had been about an hour of no activity and I was starting to grow from anticipatory to slightly antsy. Retiring back to my spot in the brush I listened into my scanner, then without a word on the wire, the lights of the locomotive I had been watching all day, blared on. “This was it!” I thought. The train began edging forward slowly and after about 20 minutes of this unassuming movement it had made its way down past me. Rolling at about a steady five miles an hour I grabbed my pack, turning off my scanner, and popped out of the brush next to the railroad tracks. Soon enough I spotted a grainer with a porch facing the rear. Grabbing the ladder of the car as I had on my previous adventure, I took several steps with the train before placing my left foot into its stirrup and hoisting myself up. Climbing onto the porch I crawled inside the cubby hole. The lethargy of sitting still all day had taken its toll. After some evening sightseeing, I retired into the grainer hole and fell asleep. Off and on through the night I would look out the side of the car for signs of where we were. Every so often flipping my scanner on to see what the railroad station for the mile marker we were on had to say, then after consulting my map I was able to make a rough guestimate of my whereabouts. Dozing on and off, the last time I had checked I was somewhere east of Lansing. Waking up, the sky was a deep morning blue still dark and dotted with stars. The train had slowed and the car's couplers had jerked me awake. Crawling out of the grainer hole I eyed an interstate sign under the large highway interchange crisscrossing above. Being too faraway, the sign was unreadable but I knew from the warehouses around me that I had seen them before from the highway. The train slowed as we inched along picking up speed and slowing down again. My intuition had me restless with anticipation. This was a time I knew I had to be alert. The train was not going to stop and if I missed my exit window as we slowed down through the train diamond I could end up anywhere from Saginaw, Toledo OH, or in a desolate industrial part of Detroit I did not want to be. As the train passed through it began to turn south on a gentle curve. The night was dark, eyeing a billboard as we passed through an intersection the train began to pick up speed. The billboard read “Downtown Plymouth,” listing an array of shops and things to do. This was it! I had to make my exit now. Grabbing my pack I had set at my feet beside the ladder, I tossed it gently, backwards off the train, then swinging around the ladder to the outside of the car, I climbed down to the bottom stirrup. Facing the direction the train was headed I dangled half off the ladder and jumping off began to run. Veering away from the tracks I circled back to my pack some several yards behind. The train had picked up speed and had been going a little over 15 mph as I disembarked. Running away from the tracks I had just missed running into some track side switching equipment hidden in the dark. “Phew, that could’ve been bad,” I thought. Excited at my success, the slight shake up from the near collision faded as I walked to the street catching my footing and waiting for the train to finish passing through the crossing. I would find later I had jumped off just before the train had picked up speed past the south curve of the train diamond headed towards Toledo, a near miss.

Walking through the crossing it was near 5 am and the traffic across the tracks slowly drove by. Up the road I spotted a Coney Island decked out in a 50s style metallic diner shell, it was open and I was starving. Walking inside I sat down at a booth and immediately ordered a veggie burger and some chamomile tea. After the waitress left I sunk deep into the soft cushion of the seat. Sprawling out I pulled my maps from my pack and examined them, backtracking to where I had jumped off I confirmed my narrow miss getting off past the south curve to Toledo. My food came out and after putting my maps away I got to work. In the midst of my gobbling frenzy two police officers mosied into the diner. It was empty except for the two waitresses and a table of two on the opposite side of the restaurant. Quietly I sat after my intermittent inhales of my meal, sipping my tea and digesting, not just the food, but the entire trip. There I was almost a week later and so much had happened but it wasn’t over yet. After paying my bill I walked out into the faintly lit streets. The navy blue light was breaking through the darkness and the birds were beginning to sing. Following the downtown’s street signs I found my way over to the library. There behind a pine tree at an inner corner of the building I crawled and cozied myself against the brick. Hidden by the tree I felt safe. “No one will see me here,” without another thought I quickly fell asleep. When I awoke, It was near 9 A.M. the sun was out bright and after crawling out from behind the tree I perched on the steps to the library just around the corner. It was Sunday and not only was I surprised to see the library even had hours but I also found myself sitting among a growing group of people waiting for the librarian to finally unlock the door and usher us in. Inside I walked up the stairs to the computers. Sitting down I got to work finding the bus schedule. The predominant bus systems in the area were the DDOT (Detroit Department Of Transportation) and SMART bus. The SMART bus, which had a reputation for being rather unreliable seemed anything but smart, yet it appeared to be my only shot at getting back to the north side. My research was bringing little hope and I was beginning to think I might be spending the night in Plymouth. As my internet search was leaving me with a scarcity of information I began to chirp up. Walking over to the librarian's desk I asked if she knew anything about public busses into the city. Plymouth's status as a more well-to-do middle class town on the edge of Detroit did not serve me here and the librarians lack of knowledge was apparent in her hesitation as she drew a blank on any information of the transit system in the area. Truthfully it was not her fault. Detroit had been reconstructed and designed to inhibit the employment of any proficient mass transit system back in the days of the model A and T when automobiles first made their appearance as a viable transportation option. Detroit of course was to be the showcase city of their effectiveness and so mass transit was ensured a back seat to the parade. As I began to ask others in the computer area sitting around me, a man sitting directly next to me spoke up out of curiosity. He asked what my situation was that had me sitting at the library on a Sunday morning in dirty jeans with a hiking pack asking about information on public busses headed into the heart of Detroit. I told him I had just caught a train from Grand Rapids where I had been visiting a friend for the past few days and was trying to get back to my parents house in the northern suburbs. More intrigued now, with a calm demeanor he offered to buy me breakfast. With a little internal negotiation of my trust I accepted. Down in the parking lot the man unlocked his car, it was a white sedan. Popping the trunk he told me I could put my bag in there. Against everything I had been told on message boards and from others stories of hitch hiking I handed him my pack. Cautiously, I felt ok, getting in the front seat I buckled up and we pulled out heading down the main road. In the car the man asked me more about how I had caught my train, where I got off and even offered to buy me groceries. Headed toward the Coney Island I had eaten at earlier that morning we pulled into the parking lot. Without a word I reluctantly walked inside. Sitting down at the booth the waitress greeted us. I looked at the man after she had left and told him, “honestly I’m not really hungry, I ate here earlier this morning after I jumped off my train.” The man closed his menu and without a second thought exclaimed, “well we don't have to eat here, I can buy you groceries or we can figure something else out.” Walking out of the restaurant he began to talk out loud considering other options, “I could just drive you back to the north side.” Looking at me he asked, “would that work?” He told me he was the music director for a church in the area, While our conversation revealed that he was not a religious man in the stricter sense of religion but had a more worldly spiritual view of what that subject meant to him. I told him a ride up north would be awesome and I’d prefer that. With some slight back and forth he decided it was the right thing for him to do and asked if I was comfortable making a quick detour to swing back by his house. My hesitation towards this had me guarded, still unsure of how much I could trust, but I agreed. Arriving at his house in a quiet suburban neighborhood he told me I could come in or wait in the car. I told him I’d wait and he disappeared into the house through his open garage. Maybe 20 minutes later he emerged with a coat and two cats trailing behind. Filling up their food bowls he coaxed me out of the car and into the garage to come say hello to the cats. He could tell I was hesitant but still insisted, however cautious I was, my guard began to lower and soon the man suggested we take off.

In the car he told me he had called the pastor at his church, it was a Methodist church, and told him that he was going to miss the service that day. I asked how the pastor took it, the man explained that the rest of the musical ensemble would be able to handle it. With gratitude at this man's kindness I eased up more and he began to tell me about his life before settling down in Plymouth. Around my age, he told me, he had traveled by train throughout Europe. Oftentimes, he said, he had run out of money and had to spend the night on train station benches, once he even broke into a barn in Belgium to sleep. He told me how lonely he had been and how sometimes he had cried himself to sleep. When I told him where I had jumped off my train he said he had been down by the tracks over there a few years ago when a train was rolling slow through the intersection and had the impulse to jump on. With a quiet reflection in his voice he questioned to himself out loud whether he should’ve. As we made our way north the man revealed he had been married but now divorced he lived alone, his wife and him were still friends. Still he seemed lonely but not without dignity. His benevolence shown through whatever sadness may have appeared to linger around the experiences he had shared. Slowly my guard had melted, without losing agency, into endearment and admiration. This man was like my older friend Bruce in so many ways. Both shared a mysticism and depth of wisdom that they seemed to see and reflect on life from and not only did I admire this but more deeply resonated with it. Their values, worldly and sincere, held a truth and authenticity I craved in my human interactions and relationships and I yearned for more. Slowly I was beginning to know what it meant to be felt and seen and offer up my own sincerity to others.

Pulling off the highway near the Detroit Zoo we had arrived in Royal Oak. My parents still lived about 10 miles north but my friends lived just down the street in a little yellow house off 9 mile in Ferndale. I told him he could drop me off at Holiday Market, a smaller locally owned grocery store my brother's friend Dave worked at. Pulling into the parking lot he stopped the car and popped the trunk. Getting out we both circled around back, pulling out my bag and handing it to me along with 26 bucks. Looking at me with a smile he said, “here, this is for you, it’s my payback for all the wonderful things the universe did for me when I was younger.”

The sincerity and magic in that moment and the simplicity of how everything fell together, connected and lined up was uncanny. Walking from around the back of the car I headed in towards the store. I was overflowing with gratitude and marveling at the unexpected and sheer synchronicity of connections that led me here. It was as if simply taking a leap of faith and choosing over and over again to listen to myself and daring to do the undone, which I had only read about in seemingly faraway places, done by far away people, whose lives I believed were so untouchable, that I stepped into this realm of possibilities. These events and circumstances had all lined up in my favor supporting me forward on my journey.

Heading into Holiday Market I went to the head cashier and asked if Dave was working? “No he’s not in today,” the lady simply said. I walked around looking at the aisles of food. Deciding I was hungry again I bought some macrobiotic sushi and some other premade vegan bites and headed back to the street walking north up Main into the heart of Downtown Royal Oak. Relinquishing the idea of meeting up with Dave I wandered up one side of the avenue and down the other. Without a phone I resolved to give Nick a call at some point, but as for now I was enjoying the adventure, meandering the downtown snacking on my grocery store vegan lunch. Up the avenue I crossed traffic and began to walk back south down Main past the shops and restaurants I had known growing up as a kid.

Passing Memphis Blues Smokehouse I reminisced, I will never forget having gotten dinner there with my parents, brother and sister when I was younger. It was the first time I could remember being in Royal Oak and there was something so enchanting about the atmosphere; smoky, bar, loud, with sunlight pouring in from the double storied restaurant windows that faced the street. I was so excited as a kid when I discovered there was a live band playing, something had me mesmerized about the environment. It was loose and unorthodox and for once my family seemed less tense, and having let their hair down, fun. Down the avenue I trodded. Incognito across the street on the corner, the hipster/alternative clothing store. All the record stores, t-shirt shops, head shops and the lone gelato place. Finally on my side of the street just around the corner from the Royal Oak Music Theatre where I had seen Flogging Molly and Gogol Bordello play I passed Cold Stone Creamery. Then I saw them, a group of strangely crusty black clad punk rock looking kids with torn jean vests and patches all over their clothes. Each patch with a band logo or name screen printed on. Their faces were dirty. The tallest of the group flagged me down as I nodded walking up to them. “Whats up yall,” I announced. While I definitely listened to the same music as them I never dawned the crusty punk black clad uniform quite religiously as some others. Conformity was never my strong suit whether I wanted to fit in or not and so the crusty punk motif was a lingering facet of a greater dimensional repertoire of music and culture I identified with but could never get close too.

We began to talk as I joined them on the bench. They were perched up with their two dogs and hiking packs. My getup was unassuming which I liked. In blue jeans and a grey shirt I may have been your last guess for a train hopper in a lineup of the 4 of us but it showed when I began to tell them about my ride I caught into Plymouth the night before. Respect was shown and we began throwing around info. They told me they were headed to New York City for Punk Island, a recurring punk music festival that happens every summer. It sounded like a great time but it was not my trajectory, I was headed for the west coast where life was perceivably easier, the sun and open space was greater and the Pacific Ocean was calling me. Besides, I could not fathom being homeless in New York City, the very idea of the city screamed cold, polluted, dark and inhospitable for sleeping outside in. I was good on that. Sooner than later there was a stirring amongst the three of them as we sat and chatted. I had asked them what they were doing when I walked up and they had told me they were planning on hustling up enough money to get a bag of wine, a “space bag.” The other guy in the group, a shorter rounder looking dude with a patched hat that he had bent the bill up on to expose the word ”Pussy” scrawled in marker, pulled out an empty space bag and the girl in the group pulled hers out too. She explained she kept it with her sleeping bag, demonstrating to me how she would blow it up at night and use it as a pillow. After sharing their tutorial the head of the group appeared restless and propositioned for me to chip in. I wasn’t really in the mood to drink but I decided why not, aside from feeling a sense of peer pressure I was interested in these kids and wanted to see how much information I could glean from this experience. Soon enough our little rag tag gathering began acquiring more attention and people. A random thug looking kid with baggy jeans, a baggy white t-shirt and baseball cap approached us and started talking to the group. This situation was getting more and more interesting and although my gut was intermittently concerned and cautious with the company we were acquiring I felt socially trapped even if it was all in my mind. The head of the group and white boy thug decided to run off with my $5 and the rest of the money they had accumulated to grab the space bag. The break was a relief, I enjoyed the company of the portly punk kid with the hat and the girl. After a short time the thug kid and ringleader returned with the wine. Pulling out the bag of Franzia, they tossed the box in the garbage can next to where we were perched. Soon after they had arrived back a sketchy looking duo in their mid to late twenties strolled up. The vibe was getting sketchier by the second and my instinct kept telling me to dip. Reluctantly I tagged along feeling still monetarily attached to the situation since I had chipped in for the wine and had not found the voice inside me yet to create a boundary. After much deliberation it was decided that we had to find a spot to actually drink this bag. Several times I wanted to turn off, runaway and slink out of sight but I felt a reluctance and almost energetic insistence. Truthfully I felt vulnerable and the company was becoming evermore unpredictable. Down the street and around the corner we headed eventually making our way to the Amtrak Platform whose line shot southeast towards Ferndale and Northwest to Pontiac west of Main Street through the back side of Downtown Royal Oak. Passing the Amtrak station we walked down the tracks to a spot in the grass, maybe 100 ft from the station's platform, behind a building. We all popped a squat. Unbeknownst to me another person had joined us on our short walk. This guy sat at the edge of the group smoking a cigarette, dressed in formal casual clothes. Apparently he had been on his cigarette break and stepped out the back door of the business he worked at just as the tail end of our sordid posse passed by him. We all sat in a circle against the brick wall. The three crusty punk train riders, the meth head couple, the white boy thug heroin addict and myself. As the conversation cajolled on it shifted from the meth head couple bragging about making meth to how they and the crusty train rider leader all had Hep C. On that note the leader of the pack opened the bag of wine smacked the bag and passed it across to me. “Here you paid for most of it, you get first dibs.” At once I felt honored and at the same time, not in the best of company, growing evermore weary of who I was beginning to find myself surrounded by. I took a swill and passed it back to him. The bag went around and as it grew closer to my turn I became evermore concerned of the prospect of drinking after three people with Hep C. I had no clue how it worked, how transferable or what mode of transference it could be passed on through. It was the first time I had ever encountered this, never had I had to negotiate the possibility of infection from someone else. In spite of the social risk I piped up and told them they could have the bag and that I wasn’t too keen on drinking after them. It was taken surprisingly well, the guy on his cigarette butt chimed in and started talking about his time in New York City working with a needle exchange.

For one reason or another I had pulled my I pod out. The thug kid eyed it and asked if he could see what music I had on there. My novice self, reluctant to ruffle anymore social feathers, handed it to him. Popping in the headphones he scrolled through and found some Dre and Eminem. Down the line from us back at the Amtrak platform a train had arrived. After a little while the speakers on the platform announced the last call for boarding. As the train doors shut the thug kid got up. The train jolted forward and slowly passing us trackside began to pick up speed. The thug kid walked up to the train now moving at around 60 mph and with arms stretching out, looked as if he were about to plaster himself to the side of the passing cars, shouting incoherently. All of us turned towards him yelling, “you idiot!” “What the fuck are you doing?” The crusty kids and myself looked at him bewildered. Not only could he have been killed from a snag on the train or losing his balance he was also bringing heat to our drinking spot. The afternoon just got more sketchy. Sooner than later two Canadian National Railroad Police vehicles pulled down the tracks past us and stopped. The meth head couple panicked and digging into their bags began pulling out used syringes and dumping them in the bush next to where we were sitting. They spouted off worry, citing possible felony charges for being in proximity to meth paraphernalia. I had about had it at this point. In the commotion I slowly stood up against the buildings wall grabbing my pack and forgetting about my Ipod I slipped around the corner of the building and onto the sidewalk, briskly walking away up the street. There on Main Street I posted back up on a bench and gathered myself. “Fuck that!” I thought. Never again will I hang around that crap. But I spoke too soon. Several minutes later the gang appeared and spotting me circled around sitting back down on the benches where I was sitting. They told me luckily no one was searched and they were all told to beat it. Thug boy had brought the bag of wine with him holding it at the waste of his pants dangling inside between his legs. Sitting down next to me he pulled it out and took a big swill right there on Main Street. The crusty punk leader ordered him to ditch it. At that moment two undercover police officers showed up and began trying to talk to the group. In spite of remembering my I pod I did not feel confident nor wished to engage with that nut job thug kid anymore. I somehow felt removed enough from the situation with the undercover officers that I was able to get up and take off. Walking down the street again It felt like I nearly dodged a bullet. Back down toward the end of Main Street I found myself behind Holiday Market. Sitting on a bench against the backside of the building near the loading dock I called my buddy Nick, he picked up. I told him I was In Royal Oak and asked him when he was getting off work. Although he lived in Ferndale on 9 mile just south of where I was he still worked as a Pizza Hut delivery driver in Rochester some 10 miles north, in his noisey Trans Am. He said he'd be off in 3 to 4 hours and he'd come grab me when he made it back down my way. Awesome I said and told him to give me a shout when he was on his way.

After a bit I got up and walked back up Main Street to the Barnes and Noble across the Avenue. Little did I know an old friend who I had grown apart from back in early high school was working there. Walking in I headed towards the bathroom. Mike and I spotted each other, I was hard to miss with my rust stained clothes, matted dreads and hiking pack. He walked over to me surprised. Greeting each other I began to tell him how I just caught my second freight train and the ridiculous situation I had just nearly escaped. Mike looked at me with slight shock and interest. He had been one of the pivotal people in my early high school age who had introduced me to a greater repertoire of punk music and politics. I had wanted to fit in with the posse of skater kids and misfits he belonged to and so through my acting out to gain attention, respect and carve out a name for myself in the group, however negative it might've been, I was given the name Spaz. Embracing it at first I slowly found it more and more demoralizing and grew to resent its implications. Feeling as though I was treated like some anomaly once again, a court jester or an outcast within a social sphere I thought I belonged.

After Mike and I said our short hello’s I ventured up to the second floor and grabbing a book off the shelf I hunkered down in a comfy chair. The book I had chosen was “The Man with the Pink Triangle,” it was a memoir of a holocaust survivor who was persecuted for being a homosexual. I was engrossed once again, the book took a turn for the worse, however, with its vivid descriptions of sexual violence and although I was glued to the pages it triggered me enough to put it down. I told myself I would finish it or buy it some other time. My phone was charging and after a while I put it away and got up. Walking back outside I posted up on the corner in front of the bookstore. A short while later a guy from down a side street popped out of a burger joint there behind the bookstore. With dreadlocks just past his shoulders, a pair of khaki shorts and a red band t-shirt he walked up to me. “Do you need any help?” he asked. I told him I had just caught a freight train back into Plymouth from Grand Rapids and about the bizarre posse I had found myself with earlier. He introduced himself and told me he lived at the Trumbleplex, an anarchist squat house and community arts space in the Woodbridge neighborhood close to Wayne State University. I told him I was waiting for my friend but thanked him for offering. The world seemed to be opening up, new experiences and people coming out of the woodwork. Sure some of the experiences were less than desirable but I was navigating learning and growing. I felt expansive and overall exhausted. Afterall I had barely slept except for a few instances in the grainer hole and behind that pine tree in Plymouth.

The afternoon was turning into the evening. Around 4:30 Nick called and told me he was on his way. Little did I realize he meant he was getting home and was about to jump on his bike to come and meet me. Sitting there in front of the Barnes and Noble another friend of mine, Joel, appeared with his girlfriend. We hadn't seen each other in several years. He asked me what I was doing, standing there conspicuously with my pack. I told him the adventure I had just been on. His eyes bugged out. As we sat there talking Nick showed up. We said goodbye and Nick and I began to walk back towards Ferndale. The story was still alive inside of me and I couldn’t contain myself but first I shared about my time with Andrew. Nick knew before I had even said anything that something was up between us. After I told him what had happened he said, “I knew you'd fall in love with him.” Surprised and puzzled I asked “how?” Nick exclaimed, “because everybody does!” we had a small laugh and Nick said more soberly, “but you know you can't hang onto that.” “you’re an anarchist, you have to let him be free.” As corny as that may sound it was the truth, and at that moment I believed that’s how much I loved him, and that's how much I loved myself.

Arriving at Nick’s place we were greeted by my friends Amy and her boyfriend, who I had not yet met. Sitting there on the steps to their front porch I sat eating a fresh slice of pizza while I told them about the train trip and the group of kids from earlier. We eventually moved up to Nick’s room where we began watching a movie. My friends Ted and Allison showed up and I told them what had happened too. As I laid down on the futon mattress Nick had pulled out for us to watch the movie on his floor, I passed out immediately. Exhausted from the whole ordeal.

In the morning I woke to an empty room except for Nick lying in the bed next to me. He laughed telling me how hard I crashed. After a little while we roused ourselves up. Nick drove me back up to my parents house in Rochester. It was Sunday morning and my parents were away at church. Sitting in my dirty rust stained train clothes with soot and dirt ingrained in my hands I waited for them to get home. When they walked in they were surprised, asking me how I got home I told them and with a wide eyed disbelief my father exclaimed, “Is this my son!?” It was a mixture of astonishment and dare I say pride. On that note my mother ordered me upstairs to the shower telling me I was filthy. With a proud smirk on my face I headed to the bathroom to clean up.