Member-only story
Riding the Rails
The hobo life isn’t for everyone.
Georgie eyed the oncoming train. Standing to the side of the tracks, partially hidden by overgrown bushes, he could just barely make out the BNSF emblazoned on the double orange engines. He clutched his duffel bag to his chest while bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet like a rookie boxer eager for the big fight.
“This is it, Georgie m’ boy.” Usually the sound of his own voice calmed him down, but tonight it made him jittery. The stakes were too big for him to relax, not until he was safely seated in front of the roaring fire in San Francisco, roasting marshmallows and vienna sausages with other vagabonds from all over the country who’d gathered to share their stories.
The train blew its whistle, signaling its slight deceleration as it approached the crossing to Georgie’s left. Old Bill had told Georgie that was when you had to make the jump, just as the locomotive came to the crossing. Pick a car, jog until you come alongside, throw your bag in, and jump. “Piece o’ cake,” he’d said with a toothless grin, hunched over his pie in a dingy diner next to the train depot, his unwashed hair framing his face like a gray halo.
But as Georgie studied the cars hurtling past him, it didn’t seem easy at all. Most of the cars were either tankers or intermodal containers; neither had…
