The Journeyman
By C.G. Morelli
“Who’s there?” I called out, alarmed.
“Don’t worry, son. Ain’t no one but me.” An old man slipped out of the darkness, into a sliver of light that shone through the car’s slightly open door. His flannel shirt was dusty and tattered at the seams. The breast pocket was completely torn out to reveal a stained undershirt beneath.
“Look, I don’t want no trouble,” I said, “I just needed to hop a ride and I—“
“Relax, relax. Been riding these here rails for pert near twenty years now. Don’t usually get much company, so I welcome it when it comes ‘round.” He moved closer, limping slightly on a lame left leg which drew my gaze magnetically. The man’s blue jeans were roughly torn just below the knees, allowing strands of denim to cascade down his withered calves. The lame side appeared gnarled and twisted, as if someone had trapped it in a vice and wrenched it shut slowly until the bones were crushed and powdered.
“Lookin’ at my bum leg, I see?” I nodded, a little shocked and uneasy at having been discovered. “Smashed it up pretty darn good a few years ago. Happened right along these tracks here.” He leaned against the steel walls of the car in silent reflection. “I’d been riding the track all the way from here to the coast. Wasn’t more’n a few miles before they had me branded as a stowaway. Course, I couldn’t afford no situation like that, so I took the leap. You know what I’m saying, son?” I nodded. “Well, I hit the ground hard like I done a million times before. Only thing was I picked me a nice old tree stump as a landing place. Smashed my leg up pretty bad. But there ain’t too many doctors around for a guy like me, so you’re looking at the natural healing process right here, son.” I felt my head start to spin and all the blood rush out of it at the thought of a thousand tiny bone fragments rejoining themselves in an ill-fitting jigsaw puzzle. The old man jarred me from this unsettling thought with a jolly old chuckle you’d expect to hear from your grandfather or some department store Santa Claus. “Looks like you’re preparing for your first jump.”
“How’d you guess?” I asked sheepishly.
“Not a guess, son. I can tell by that sickly yella color rising up in your face right about now.” I responded with a heavy gulp and nothing more.
“Don’t worry. You’re gonna be alright. Just gotta close your eyes and let go.” Again, he released a grandfatherly chuckle, but I took no part in the celebration. Noticing this, he extinguished the laughter and looked on me apologetically. “Ok, son, I think I can help you.”
“Aren’t you gonna ask me what I’m doing here?”
“Don’ matter much to me, son. I just take ‘em as they come, you know. Not like we’ll be sendin’ each other Christmas cards some day.”
“Sure. But how do you expect to help me if you don’t know a thing about me?”
“I like to lead by example. Always say you get what you see when you’re with me. So take a good long look, son.” The old man limped closer to the door until his toes hung a few inches over the edge of the car’s floor. Tattered strips of denim blew wildly about in the strong current of wind that whipped through the door. He grabbed a tight hold of the railing and leaned his body perilously outside. Then, with nothing more than a strong breeze left in his place, he vanished into the semi-darkness of the early morning.
I rushed to the door and leaned my head out just enough to see the old man rolling down an embankment. When he came to a stop he quickly bounced to his feet like a pink rubber ball. As he shrunk off into the distance I could hear the distinct chuckle floating on the whipping wind. Though it wasn’t exactly what I’d expected in the way of help, it sure was inspiring. But would it be enough to coax me from the train car? Would I be able to accomplish the same feat as the old man without snapping myself in two?
I approached the sliding door cautiously and peered out, being careful not to wrap my head around an oncoming tree limb in the process. The sun was rising on a new morning, and in its murky light I could barely recognize the faint outline of a ramshackle train station. It was surrounded by a dense grouping of buildings, interspersed with a few higher towers. There weren’t too many options left. I knew that within a few minutes I’d be making my first exit from a moving train and the prospect didn’t excite me in the least.
As the train station grew larger in the approaching distance, I noticed a small clearing up ahead. I knew this might be my only chance for a safe exit. In one arm I carried a bag concealing almost everything I owned. The other gripped the hand rail of the train car tighter than a pair of shrunken jeans.
I slid the door open a little wider with my foot and watched the trees sweep rapidly past until they disappeared altogether into an open meadow. My stomach rose to my throat and, for the first time in days, I was actually relieved I hadn’t eaten anything. I took a few deep breaths to regain whatever composure remained at my disposal. “‘Just close my eyes and let go,” I whispered. “Just close my eyes and let go.” Then I flung my weary body from the train, into the open arms of the whistling wind.
C.G. Morelli’s work has appeared in Highlights for Children, SI.com, The Love of Sports, and The Reading Eagle/Times. He is the author of a short story collection titled In the Pen: A Baseball Collection (2006). Contact C. G.
