Looking down on Jimbo lying in his casket, I thought he didn’t age well. In high school, he was a certifiable jock, and the girls loved him. And now he wore too much rouge. I smiled. I had been the nerdy guy who wanted to hang out with a cool guy. And Jimbo fit the bill. He had been my hero for a time. And in recent years, I’d come to loathe him.

I limped away from his body and took my seat at the back of the viewing room. My thoughts returned to a particular evening as a seventeen-year-old, a night that changed my physical being.

The train slowed as it approached Sibley; the steel sides of the boxcars creaked as they flexed and relaxed. As it passed over adjoining rail sections, the boxcar bumps grew softer and further apart. Jimbo and I stood in the open sliding door and watched the small town’s late-night lights grow larger. The smell of the freshly tilled soil grew stronger. Farmhouses scattered along the countryside, illuminated by a cloudless sky and a full moon, looked like shadows.

“Man, this’s great,” Jimbo said.

“Whadda’ we do now?” I asked.

“Well… let’s pick a spot to get off where we can stash the beer. The cafe is two blocks up the main street.”

The train slowed to a walking pace.

“There,” Jimbo said, “there by the water tower. See the outbuilding with the bushes?”

“OK, Jimbo. You go first,” I looked towards my idol.

“No sweat.” He bounded onto the track bed. The thick rubber of his new Converse athletic shoes cushioned the blow.

I handed the remaining warm beer to the lead actor, sat on the edge, and lowered myself, the lesser, to the surface, landing with several quick steps sliding along on the bottoms of my cheap, leather-sole shoes. The train whistle pierced the night air over the countryside.

“We left all those beer cans and the potato chip sack in the boxcar. Someone will know.”

“Yup… sure will. Jeez, I’m starved,” Jimbo said. “Wait ’til you get a whiff of the pancakes. Yeah, pancakes and eggs coming right up.” Jimbo rolled up the cigarette package in his football t-shirt sleeve—tough-guy style. He squinted, let loose a spit, and swaggered down the sidewalk.

“This is the street. See the cafe sign? It’s open ‘til 1 in the morning! Race ya’.”

“Nope, you’d win. Screw you.”

The headlights of several cars flashed the adventurers as they entered the Golden Ladle.

“Let’s take that booth over there by the windows. Easier for us to keep an eye on everyone so that we can watch for any bad guys,” Jimbo joked.

“Yeah, just like the movies,” I agreed and grinned.

The red vinyl booths ringed the cafe. Several red Formica tables supported by chrome arms and legs sat in the middle. The steamy plate-glass windows showed smudges from kitchen grease, a smell that permeated the room. Once seated, I felt a rush of nervous energy.

“This is the cafe Dad and I stopped at last weekend on the way back from fishin’. Pretty cool, eh?” Jimbo said. “We stayed at the Mahoney’s huge cabin on Lake Okoboji—swell place. Dad leaned in and said, “Well, Jimbo. I expect you to live like us, live the posh life like this.”

The waitress walked up to us with her white apron, Hulda on her name tag, and a pencil stuck in her hair. Jimbo gave her the once-over and smirked. He felt like playing. Drunk from the beer and stoned from the joint we’d split as the train headed north—one Jimbo’d lifted from his older brother’s sock drawer, the one I choked on—I grimaced.

“Hey, sweetheart. Whadda’ ya recommend for two hungry rustlers?”

Hulda answered in her Scandinavian accent, “Da egg platter vith hash browns, two pancakes, and sausages. $1.75…darlin’. You guys smell like cows. Been in a barnyard? Shor you wouldn’t settle for some hay?”

Jimbo laughed, but Hulda’s facial expression stopped it. Clearly, she was not going to put up with any guff, but he liked the challenge. I slumped back into my seat. No, no, no, Jimbo. Don’t do it. I’m too high.

“Ya’, we’re cattle rustlers,” said Jimbo. “We wrangled a load of heifers in Kansas, heading to a location in Minnesota that we cannot mention.”

“Do you hevva a name for your outfit… two outlaws on such dangerous missions?” she said, sarcasm dripping like the final drops of poured maple syrup. Hulda stepped back a pace and cocked her head.

“Funny you should ask. If you promise to keep this to yourself, we are, in fact, the Midnight Ramblers, and we are wanted in four states. Again, I am not free to name those.”

I shuffled my feet under the table. Shit.

“Yeah, we’re the Ramblers… outlaws…sort of,” I looked down.

Jimbo picked up the pace. “See our truck over there…the rusted Peterbilt semi-trailer truck and that cattle car. It’s not much to look at, but that is part of our success… it doesn’t attract too much attention.”

Hulda clucked her cheeks. “I see. Dere’s Julius. He’d be mighty interested you’re using his truck.”

While rotating a saltshaker, I snorted, “Ah, we’re just kiddin’.”

Hulda turned her head towards an oversized man in coveralls and a John Deere hat. “Hey, Juli. Dese guys want to use yur rig to move some stolen cattle.”

Juli stared at the boys, picked up his pork chop, took a big bite, and chewed it like a cow eats his cud; he maintained his gaze as we looked away. Jimbo smiled, squirmed.

Hulda raised her eyebrows, removed the pencil from her hair, and taped her order pad. “So, what do cattle rustlers eat? Huh?”

“Give us the egg special. However you want to do it—really! Whatever you think is best—you know, what people usually do…what’s popular,” I said.

“Yeah. I’ll take the platter, too,” Jimbo agreed.

Hulda made a few notes, gazed at the boys, and left while Jimbo looked out the window.

“No big deal, right? Is Juli still staring at us?”

I sneaked a glance. “No, but let’s just eat and get out of here. Besides, we need to get back. When does the next train come through for Sioux City, Jimbo?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Jimbo said.

“Aren’t you worried? The next train is when?”

“No clue.”

I was shocked. We’re in trouble now. We gotta get out of here, or there will be hell to pay at home.

“That’s not good, Jimbo! Really? You said we’re going on a train ride, and it won’t cost a thing. Easy, you said. Not the smartest idea, Jimbo.”

“Settle down. Keep your voice down. No problem, Duke.” Jimbo flipped through the selection on the countertop jukebox at the end of their table, made a selection, and reached into his jeans pocket for some change. A small bell rang as each coin dropped into the slot. The Beatles came through the speakers; it was 1966, after all.    

“I really don’t care right now. It’s midnight. We’re gonna get caught. This is the craziest Friday night thing we have ever done, and you don’t know,”  I said

“Right, I don’t know for sure. Get over it…”

“You don’t know when we can get back! Jeez.”

“Have I ever done you wrong before? Look, I got this under control.”

“Yeah, OK, Jimbo. I’m sure you have this under control. So sure.” No, he doesn’t. I am gettin’ tired of his bragging and showing off to classmates about things we had done, like tipping over the outhouse on our English teacher’s farm. Our friends found it humorous, but word got around, and our teacher called the law. This is the last time I hang out with Jimbo…dumbo.

Hulda slapped their plates on the table.

“Eat up, boys; you got a bunch of sweaty cows to deliver sumvere. I know you can’t tell me, but I vill call the cops and tell ‘em you are on the way to Sumvere, Minnesota.” Hulda retreated to her station at the front.

The silence broke when the door opened and slammed shut.

“Holy crap. Don’t look up, Duke.”

A highway patrolman had strolled in. “Hey, Hulda. Give me some coffee to go.”  He leaned in towards the waitress, his potbelly resting over the edge of the counter. He smiled and made a kissing sound. “Really, Carl?” Hulda said.

Hulda leaned forward and whispered to the cop, nodding her head towards Jimbo and me. The cop looked around the cafe, and his eyes settled on us. We gazed uncomfortably around the room, moving our forks through the remains of the egg special.

Hulda handed him his no-charge coffee; he turned towards the boys and took several steps to the duo’s table, his free hand resting on the handle of his sidearm.

“So, you boys out after a prom or something? Maybe, searching out houses to break into?”

“No, sir. We just decided to take a little road trip from Sioux City,” Jimbo said.

“I see. A little road trip at midnight with alcohol on your breaths.”

Jimbo’s face showed his terror, stammering, “Well…we heard about the great food here and…”

The officer stroked his chin and looked into their faces. I bit my lip.

“Right. So, you drove 60 miles to taste The Ladle’s egg special. Hmm?” his voice raised as he looked at Juli…the two exchanged smiles. Hulda watched from behind the cash register, wrinkling her forehead. The cop’s walkie-talkie crackled to life…’ trouble at the Skordahl farm. I need you to call me from your car ASAP.’

The cop shot us a cold stare, gave us a knowing nod, and strode out the door.

“Whoa. That was close,” Jimbo said. “I was shaking like a leaf.”

We scarfed down the food, paid our bill without speaking to Hulda, and cautiously stepped outside…surveyed our surroundings. Parked along a curb near the railroad track, pointed towards the cafe, was a cop car. We looked at each other. “Not good,” I said.

The car’s headlights came on as we vanished down a side street. The Plymouth’s engine roared to life and echoed like a bombshell ricocheting off the brick buildings.

We hustled down the street parallel to Main to stay ahead of Carl. As beams illuminated the intersection, we ducked into an alleyway and crouched behind several garbage cans. The engine sound grew louder. The headlights stopped at the entrance to the alley and then moved forward. A searchlight, fastened to the front fender of the cop car, ran up the space, past the trash, past us. The car turned the other direction, down the alley, away from us. “Let’s go,” Jimbo said, and we sprinted to the tracks, crawled under the branches of our bush hideout, and waited. No sign of law enforcement. No sign of a train.

“This is nuts. I’ve had enough,” I said under my breath, afraid to confront Jimbo.

I mused, what if a train doesn’t come until daylight? I rubbed my face, feeling compromised by the alcohol and weed. After hours of anxiety and feeling safer, we left the confines of the bush. Jimbo shuffled around the space and wrung his hands. Perhaps anything he might say to me might sound weak or apologetic…so he avoided conversation.

He fired up two cigarettes and handed one to me.

“Guess I should have thought this through more? Eh? If my parents find out, my goose is cooked. Say goodbye to that new Mustang.”

“Hell, that’s nothing. If I get caught, I’ll get my butt whipped, grounded forever,” I said.

Jimbo laughed. “I don’t care much if you get your hide tanned. You hang out with me to impress the girls. You’d be left in the dirt if it weren’t for me.”

I prayed, Dear God, if you get me out of this, I will say my rosary every day. Every day. Promise.

The sound of an approaching train interrupted our thoughts. The V-shaped, metal snowplow, hovering several inches above the rails, glistened from the headlight above. It looked like an implement of destruction from a science fiction movie. We smiled at the sight of our ticket home. We smiled at each other and approached the tracks, waiting for an open boxcar.

Dozens of cattle cars shut up tight passed.

“There’s the end of the train, Jimbo. We have to do something,” I said. My hands reached toward the heavens, hoping for divine intervention.

“Don’t see too much cow shit in this one. But the door is closed, too. Fuck,” Jimbo whispered; his fist slammed the wood siding.

After exchanging looks, pinching noses, and nervous laughs, we realized we had no choice. It was 4 a.m.

Jimbo jumped on the ladder and scrambled up the shallow steps to the roof. With some difficulty, I followed. We sat on the broad board, running the length of the boxcar. Safely aboard our last chance to pull off this scheme, we braced our feet against wood ribs that ran to the roof’s edge.

The cars jerked as the train moved through the crossover along the rails headed south. The caravan of boxcars played its symphony of metal squealing and couplings clanking. The clamor eased into a lyrical second passage—the swaying of the cars and the whistling of the wind. Quiet harmony.

We watched the sky lighten and felt the relief as the miles passed, taking us closer to home. I watched boxcars in front and behind bump over track sections. The undulations replicated a rope’s ripple when gently shaken from one end. Jimbo and I sat sideways on the centerboard opposite each other. We watched farms come into view and listened to the sounds of farmers starting their tractors for early morning field discing.

Reassured the riddle of getting home was solved, we turned to the solace of our thoughts. Jimbo leaned back, drained. Maybe the night had worn him out: the train ride to Sibley, The Ladle, Hulda, Juli, the cop. Crap. Yeah, what a night. The melodic clicking sound of the train soothed my worry. The sense of freedom from despair spurred me to tap Jimbo on the shoulder, an awkward gesture for an awkward moment.

“Hey. You’re acting kind of weird. Never seen you so quiet,” I said. No reaction.

Lost in his world, Jimbo tapped his fingers on the metal roof like a rock n’ roll drummer. Minutes passed. Jimbo spun his muscular frame around to face me, inches away.

“Just enjoying the ride.” Jimbo gazed towards the stars and let out a big sigh. “Good weather, huh? I mean, it can be snowing this time of year, right? To me, this is the best time of year, with school almost out, too. Hell, we’re graduating in a couple of months. That’s a big deal. You’re all set to go to Iowa State. Right? ”

“Sure. And the thought of graduating makes you quiet? Why haven’t you decided on a college like the rest of us?” Again, no reply. His air of superiority always irritated me, but I bowed low one more time. “Jimbo, sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

The boxcar rocked violently, and I grabbed the centerboard, closed my eyes, resigned to the reality that Jimbo was not about to tell me anything. But he leaned forward, and the self-defined rebel gathered his courage. The floodgates opened.

“Listen, all of us are wondering what the hell is next. Right? Well, I know what I’m gonna do. Listen. I have a plan for my future. It’s my life. I’ll be eighteen soon, so I know what’s important. That’s all that matters. My parents think they have all the answers for me. So do others. Screw ‘em all. I do what I want. I’ll sell everything I own…my new stereo, all my clothes, all my belongings. I heard of a place in Colorado where they live together by their own rules, grow their food, and make shoes for a living…doesn’t that sound great!”

Jimbo talked fast. His bravado seemed rattled. Maybe the night’s events and saying his plan out loud scared him. Perhaps he hoped I would endorse his thinking. Maybe he outwardly congratulated himself on his visions, which he believed despite the obvious.

The happiness of the moment, of approaching Sioux City, faded for me.

“I’ll have a new life, live like a hippie, smoke dope, live in communes, and have an ‘old lady’ to sleep with whenever I want,” Jimbo said in a voice that did not convince me.

I debated whether to tell him this wasn’t a plan; it was a disaster.

“Let me get this straight. You are not going to college like I am? Only I know your plans? Do you think your parents won’t care if you go to some marijuana commune to make shoes? What do you do after the thrill of that little adventure ends? It won’t last.”

“Nah. It’s fine. I can handle…”

“You can’t handle Jack-squat! You didn’t even worry about getting home.”

Jimbo looked away from me, then back.

“Gonna be OK. What do you know? You little squirt?

Why would he say that to me? Screw him.

“OK, here’s something you don’t know, Mr. Smarty Pants. I flagged my ACT,” Jimbo stuck his palm in my face as if to say enough. Riled. “Hey, you twerp, I am tempted to beat the shit out of you.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Come on fucker. I have had enough of your crap.”

Despite being the apparent underdog, I jumped to my feet, unafraid, empowered, foolish. Influenced by the car’s rocking, we waved our arms, bobbed, and weaved beneath half-hearted left hooks and uppercuts that did not land. Our arms were tired. We stopped our gyrations and gazed at each other—no fight left in either of us. Funny, now, I realize this was more than a physical moment; this was a moment of emotional exhaustion. A jolt of the car dropped us on our butts. Neither of us spoke, and Jimbo turned away.

Jimbo said he was tired of the wind and the danger of being on top of a rickety car that shook intensely and in plain sight of cops working the early shift. He crawled to the rooftop’s edge for a peek. I held onto his feet. He reached for the edge of the wood-slatted door, sliding it back a couple of feet. He yelped like a quarterback who sensed a come-from-behind victory in the fourth quarter. Jimbo scrambled back to me with the good news.

“We can do this. Do we want to stay on the top all the way into town? Hell, no. Or do we want to swing down into the boxcar? Hell, yeah. Let’s do it,”  Jimbo said, grabbing the roof’s edge with both hands.

The jock swung down and into the car with one continuous motion; his elbows smacked into the sides of the small opening. Jimbo pushed the door fully open. “C’mon. Piece of cake. C’mon, you chicken shit.”

I consider the ramifications of staying on top. No way I’m gonna be a chicken. Ah, screw it. I crawled on my belly to the edge and clutched the rail as Jimbo began a countdown from ten, laughed, and waited for the chicken to fly, but chickens and I didn’t fly. I hurtled off the roof.

One hand loosened from its hold as I arced toward the opening. My right foot crashed into the side of the car, my shoe fell away, and for a terrible second, it appeared I’d drop off the side of the train onto the tracks. My body twisted. I made an unexpected recovery and fell onto the floor. Jimbo grabbed my arms and lugged me further into the boxcar. I screamed and reached for my right ankle, “I think it’s broken!”

I elevated my foot and rested the heel on the wall. Each movement of the car hurt, causing me to pant in pain. Jimbo sat back and watched my agony, content to be in his world.

Our return trip became torture. I didn’t savor the countryside, drink a beer, or smoke a Winston. Instead, I searched for the lights of Sioux City on the horizon, like a bus passenger looking down the street for their ride.

“Ha, there it is. Time to spare,” Jimbo said.

“Gonna need a doctor…”

“Oh, you’re fine. Let’s get home first, OK? Here, take my high-top. Cinch it up tight to support your ankle.”

The train stopped, and the boxcar was several blocks from the Chevy. I eased out of the boxcar, gingerly placing my injured foot on the ground—a no-go.

I told Jimbo, “Put your arm around my shoulder. Don’t walk too fast. What am I going to tell my parents about the ankle…how it happened?”

“Tell ‘em we were rasslin’, and your ankle got caught under the bed frame. OK?” Jimbo said.

“Might work. What if it doesn’t?”

The Chevy fired up. Jimbo shot me a glance as if to tell me to quit whining. Covered by the height of his expensive shoe, my ever-expanding ankle was out of his view.

Rounding the last corner before home, Jimbo shut off the engine as he rolled down the short hill and coasted into his driveway, stopping at the car’s regular station. The neighborhood still slept. The newspapers lay on the lawns.

“Don’t say a word.”

“No problem. Help me in the side door.”

Jimbo led the way, and I hobbled into the kitchen. The house was quiet except for the snoring of Jimbo’s Friday night, martini-sloshed parents down the hall. No one was there to greet us, yet I was in trouble. The pain was incredible, real, and permanent.

 

 

All Rights Reserved. © Steve Gerkin | No reprints without permission.