The Train Tracks

The boy came out of the lilacs and stared upon the tracks.  His mother was preparing for his grandparents coming over later and she said he could go beyond the back bushes to where the trains 'lived' behind his house.  They were loud and big, and for the boy, the coolest thing in the world.

He ran up the the embankment, stood in the middle of the lines and looked down the tracks.  In the one direction, the tracks came around a big curve hidden behind a grove of weeping willows.  In the other, the tracks made a bee line to the east.  Blossoming golden shrubs and white daisies lined the sides of the tracks, with silver maples and pines rising further back. It was late May and the helicopter seeds were covering the ground while the flowers and evergreens fought for aromatic dominance.

The young boy put his hand on the rail, hot with the afternoon sun.  He felt the excitement in that heat, pulled his hand back and stood up.  Ever since he saw his first train through the foliage of his back yard, hearing the roar growing louder and louder until he shook, ever since his initial fear transformed instantly to fascination with the simple wave of an engineer out the window of the diesel engine, he so wanted to jump on one and ride away.  His mom poked at him, insisting all he wanted to do was ride to the next town for his favorite pizza.  He'd definitely stop for his favorite, sausage and onion with extra sauce, but he had taken time at the library to study trains.  Books and television stoked his passion, making him more determined to go for a ride one day.

He knew where the lines in his back yard went.  To the west, the prairies, the mountains and eventually the Pacific coast.  To the east, Minneapolis, Chicago, the Ohio Valley, New York City, passing farms and towns, the engineers waving to the folks who happened to be lucky enough to live by the tracks. He was driven by the excitement and freedom of his spirit thrown forward by a powerful engine, pushing and pushing.

One day he'd do just that, jump on a train and let it carry him away.  Pulled up by the trains embrace, the engineer smiles asking where do he wants to go first.  Pure freedom, no rules, no regulations, doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, dancing across the countryside, his happiness and joy only limited to where the tracks were laid.  Excitement in it's purest form awaited.

He could sense it.  The train was coming.  The boy knew the schedules by heart and it was almost time for the 2:37 to the Twin Cities.  It mostly had nondescript boxcars but occasionally an animal hauler would come buy, filled with screaming creatures so upset they managed to be louder than the train, especially if they were towards the back.  He listened hard, but couldn't quite make out the whistle blasting as it crossed road after road.  He wondered if the rails were vibrating.  He knelt down and quickly grabbed the hot line again, feeling nothing but maybe a distant hum.

The boy straightened up.  He looked towards the bend and wondered when the train would come, bursting through the quiet, pushing air out, making the willows lash out like whips.  If he were to jump on the train, he'd have to time it correctly.  He had gotten really good on his school playground practicing jumping from the jungle gym to the monkey bars.  He thought he could make it, never considering failure; a person jumping and missing, their last chance to escape, realizing too late what 'escape' could mean.

He got a determined look on his face.  He knew he could make it, he knew it.  He was going to set himself up, get a running start and when the 2:37 came by, he'd be off, leaving his old life behind and setting out on the adventure he was destined to embrace.  He just had to get to the dirt part of the tracks where the run up was even and time it so when he reached the train he would be able to grab a ladder on one of the boxcars.  Simple.

He smelt strawberry rhubarb pie.  The wind had changed direction, coming directly from his house, and straight from the kitchen where his mother was baking perfection.  The scent blasted through the lilacs and pines, wrapping its sweet tendrils around his small head.  He breathed in deep.  His Grandpa had always loved strawberry rhubarb pie.  The boy could remember sitting with him, devouring multiple pieces with ice cream, while his grandpa kept calling him a chip off the old block.  His birthday was coming up in June and he had already requested the pie.  It was his favorite as well.

The 2:37 could be heard in the distance, the train whistle blaring as it crossed the street a mile from his house.  He turned to face the willows waiting for it to show itself.  If he was going to jump on the train he would have to get down in position.  If not, he needed to get off the tracks. Even though he knew this train came by four days a week, he started to believe this may be his one chance to go.  He could jump free of school, chores, that bully who punched him everyday on the playground.  All of his current unwanted obligations left behind.

His mom's smile, his dog Loki, his train set his dad helped him build on weekends when he'd visit, his 1st grade teacher who gave him all of that work, but was always so nice and encouraging, the rose bushes in his yard, the art desk he painted trains at, his baseball team (who happened to have a game tomorrow), his mother's hugs which really did take the scary things away.

The train burst past the trees and finished the turn, barreling ahead.  He could feel the earth shake, he could feel the air being pushed away from in front of the mass of metal and he made his decision, at least for a day, and set off for what lie ahead.  The boy moved out of the direct path of the 2:37.