Hot Box to Yuma

A Story by Irony Is King

HOT BOX TO YUMA

Ninety three degrees here and it is eleven o’clock at night. I am brooding hard over this fact slumped on a barstool in some empty bar in Yuma Arizona watching the little bubbles of carbonation dissipate idly as Blake seeks out his shot on the pool table. You can all but see the heat as it hangs in the stale air of Red’s Birdcage, a subterranean dive with the most recent addition to the beat to hell nineteen seventies relic of a jukebox blaring out at us from blown out speakers; Billy Joel. I cant place the song because it is one of those rare fail tracks that held brief sway in the eighties because cocaine along with all sorts of debauchery was socially acceptable, allowing creatures like Billy Joel and his accomplices in crime to high-jack the sound waves while the sane world gave music up for dead. The bar, the Birdcage as it called itself, I was told used to be a brothel when Yuma was “Hot” back in who knows when and with that fact in mind I can almost see the action when I go from the bar where all the dusty old drunks would have been slamming down whiskey from jugs and hear the mad frenzied piano as I walk up one of the two narrow spiral staircases that lead to what was once the gambling room with all the poker tables and chairs still set up and ready in this modern-day ghost town. Imagine: high rollers spilling jug whiskey down their chins; laughing raucously and grabbing the squawking talent gasping for air in tight corsets beneath heavy wigs and a heavier layer of cake makeup all night long. The American Dream had fangs back in those days and failure to forcefully seize it either left you dead in the dirt with a bullet in your head or left to rot in some kind of dingy backwater town like Yuma while everyone else moved on to bigger and better things they stole from you or some other poor sod while you cursed the gods and called for more firewater a sweltering hot limbo of obscurity. If the Native Americans were considered savages I wonder what you would call this lot?

I realize now that I have been staring at my glass of beer with a vacant expression for quite awhile now and I look up to catch another nervous glance from the girl tending bar so I try to look innocent, welcoming and friendly, though this is laughable if you were to see me and my companion. We look like hell; dirty hair in complete disarray filled with dust, river water and grime from our travels with filthy jeans and shoes wrecked from the strange places we have been stepping with three day old beards and a lingering scent of whiskey as well as that of over applied deodorant that obviously is there to mask a scent much more sinister and grim. We are not from around here and that is blatantly transparent; we talk too fast, look to strange and have slept too little; just a pair of gaunt drifters from Outside.

What were we doing in these desert cross-roads only a stones throw away from Mexico? Acting upon an insane and irresistible urge to flee far from home with nothing but adrenaline and resolve. We have come to the halfway point in this journey; seven hundred and thirty miles away from where we started and surrounded by ominous vibes and murky direction ahead. It began around one p.m. the day before in a train yard in San Bernardino California…

“Peace be the journey brothers. Be safe!” Tru, Blake’s Hawaiian cousin said, throwing up a Chaka sign before driving away at top speed in his brand new Dodge Challenger. We responded in the same way, blinking in the ruthless San Bernardino sunlight with our back packs and liquor store bags housing a pint of whiskey and two tall cans of Rolling Rock. We had no idea what was going to happen. All we planned on doing was jumping a freight train to somewhere for the weekend to celebrate my twenty third birthday. The loose aspiration was Vegas but as Tru said, “Peace be the journey.”

I had packed a number of things that in hindsight proved to be ridiculous. In my pack I had one sandwich, toothbrush and toothpaste, a bag of tobacco, a notebook, “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” by Ken Kesey, two collared shirts, two busted and worn t-shirts, one from the Marines and the other from a dive bar in Pasadena a pair of slacks, a pair of levis and a cell phone charger. Hardly ready for anything let alone what we were in for. My companion Blake had earned the nickname ‘Lone wolf’ for his solitary journeys all over the country on the railroads and the staunch self-sufficiency he maintained at all times when on the road and he was my friend and guide on this weird journey so I followed his lead up a hill and into the middle of a freeway overpass just as the first heavy drop of sweat rolled down my forehead and fell to the simmering asphalt.

Halfway across the bridge looked both ways to make sure no one was paying attention then vaulted the overpass railing, motioning for me to do the same and we go flying over the edge to run down a steep dirty hill towards a clump of dry trees at its bottom in which was housed one of those safe havens for tramps and derelicts that is passed around by word of mouth as a place where you can pass the time without fear of attracting any sort of attention. All the tell-tale signs are there as we looked for a place to sit down in the brush; all things characteristic of wasting time and idle hands: empty King Cobra or Magnum forty ounce bottles strewn all about, innumerable cigarette butts ranging from top quality brands like Pall Mall to burnt yellow stubs that could only come from the mean yellow bag that calls itself Top as well as back pack trash like empty gas station sandwich wrappers and potato chip bags. All this is usually present at any place that can loosely guarantee you obscurity. They can also sometimes offer body lice, scabies, staph infection etc. but at least you are out of sight. This was going through my mind when we spotted the fine workmen’s coat hanging from the branch of a dead tree nearby and I realize that through all my careful planning I had forgotten to bring a coat and a cold desert night was only hours away. Blake inspected it with the care of a man who has experienced the blight of atrocious and dirty little biting insects and pronounces it clean. It’s my size too. Big bad medium work wear. Good omen? Whatever works I guess. It is mine now.

We sit down and Blake starts telling me what to watch out for; “Every yard has a Bull; he’s the rail cop. Some of them don’t care about train riders but a lot of others have it out for them; every yard is different but obviously they are the last thing you want to meet out here. Some of the workmen know what’s up when they see you and call the bull so the key is to be pretty much ninja about everything. Let’s check out the tracks.” He bounds up all excitement and we go to a gap in the trees to look at the section of rails nearest to us where the back ends of the trains pulling in would be visible and the sight is unwelcome; dozens of workers were toiling away on this section and that mean old bull was sitting in his white pickup observing it all. Rotten luck.

“S**t,” Blake says, cracking open his Rolling Rock and shaking foam off his hand onto the ground that immediately evaporates in the mean San Bernardino heat. “We can either wait for them to leave and hope our train doesn’t come or go to another spot I know about down the tracks. We would have to pass right by them to get there though and there is no shad at the other spot.” Neither of these ideas seemed appealing to me; possibly miss our train and spend more hours in the bushes or risk apprehension to go bake on a concrete slab somewhere down the rails. We both sat down back at our bum hideout and sipped our beers meditatively. Blake rolled a spliff, lit it and coughed. We realize that we forgot the source of all life back at the store, water, and flip a coin to see who gets to crawl back up to the highway and go fill four half liter bottles we found in a grimy Circle-K bag nearby and I lose; tails failed. Three sweaty minutes later I am back up on the highway walking to a Del Taco with empty bottles in hand two blocks away. I finally get there and pass two enormously fat people going in, father and son, so alike in appearance, dress and waddling gait that they could have been twins, leaving me shaking my head at the fact that they had just paid for the kind of abuse that they sell here to keep themselves heaving along. They jumped into a giant raised black truck with “MONSTER1” on the license plate and drove away. Jesus.

Bottles filled, I head back to our bum nest by the tracks thinking about the incredible amount of moisture that has been stolen away from me already by that orb of fire high above. Once atop the overpass in the right place I checked both ways for the Law or huge trucks before jogging across the lanes and jumping down and sliding down the crumbling hill to our nest to find Blake sitting cross-legged halfway through his spliff and tall can, staring off into space, looking as if he had just achieved Final Wisdom and was relishing his success. He nodded approvingly at the water bottles and sipped his beer. “I can’t believe we forgot water man. That is pretty much the only rule out here: bring enough water. You never know when your train is going to side-out in the middle of the desert for hours and without water you are fucked.” I nodded and took a sip from my can, tasting dirt and a warm flat liquid that had been an ice cold beer not long ago. “Any sign of movement?” I asked, “No. I guess we’ll just have to wait it out. The train shouldn’t be here for a couple hours anyway. The schedules change all the time though.”

I got nothing from this so I just shrugged, sat down and grabbed One Flew over the Cuckoo’s nest from my bag and sat down to read. After a few pages and uneasy minutes I gave up hope finding any sort of peace of mind in that insane asylum and stood up. “I’m going to walk down the trail and see if there is another way around.” Blake smiled, “Yeah man. Explore.”

I walked down the flattened dirt path beaten between a high barbed wire fence and the trash strewn trees and bushes beneath the highway, thinking all the while about this predicament we were in. Blake’s Hawaiian cousin had only dropped us off here on his way to wherever he was going, leaving us stranded by our own design. What if we got caught? What if no train ever came? It was Sunday; what then? No matter how selfless our friends were not one of them is going to be overjoyed at the prospect of driving all the way to San Bernardino and bring us home with our packs on our backs and our tails between our legs and we would never have that either. We were going to make this work. Sometimes you have to cast aside the safety net we all act like doesn’t exist and just go; be gone; hurtle head on to wherever and feel the real danger at hand and run the gauntlet of what ifs and possible possible incarceration, not to mention death by terrible means like hunger, thirst or s**t, maybe murder. There is just no telling what might happen out here. You might run across some good ol’ boys in a vacant lot somewhere getting stoned and crazy off corn liquor who hate you automatically because of your long hair and come at you in full force with tire irons, or maybe you get sliced on some horrid razor wire and have to watch as your wounds get infected, turning from yellow to green to black while you sit in a steaming boxcar hours away from the nearest town that could help your condition. Anything can go wrong but that’s the beauty of it; you might be a part of a tragedy, an action packed thriller or a comedy but the fact of the matter is you are part of a story.

After awhile I came to what I took to be a sign: a dead tree that had fallen over the fence, looking like a giant white splintered hand pointing the way. I ran back and grabbed Blake, telling him I had found a way around. I had no idea if it really was but it was at least something to do other than sit and wait in the reeking bushes. The arm across the wire was easy enough to cross and once over it we began to trudge towards a steep hill which proved difficult to surmount due to the dryness of the soil; it just crumbled beneath your feet and you got absolutely nowhere without a struggle. Once at its top, panting and sweating, we viewed another great obstacle: a giant stone quarry. Giant rock slopes and mounds of granite or whatever rock it is that is important enough to dig this deep into the earth to search for and create this awe inspiring gash in the earth. It was definitely a risk to go down there because we didn’t know the way out or if security was lurking to tackle us down to the ground when we got there and call the men with the shackles but the other way was blocked by men from the enemy; the train yard; even if they let us pass they could still serve as witnesses. There are the types of rail workers that had never even considered train riding as a possibility now that busses, cars, planes, etc. are so readily available but there are also the other kind that knew our type well from experience and the right numbers to call. The quarry seemed to be the lesser risk so we slid down into the b*****d without any more thought and got moving.

I began to feel lost as we passed through the thing; it looked so massive and foreboding like the never ending dunes of the Sahara desert that have looked on for ages without mercy as life expired in their domain; these mountainous rock piles looked the same. I kept thinking of tombs even though the sight was amazing and the day was clear and blue skied. Well we came to get lost didn’t we? I smiled because I realized that I had been brooding. “Man, this is incredible.” I said, looking out from the giant gash at the unbelievable magnitude of the whole operation. “Thank God its Sunday.” Blake replied, remarking on the fact that we were the only souls here among the silent and empty digging monster machines parked all around. We are all cheer now as we walked through this place that would have been impenetrable on any other day save Christmas and we catch a glimpse of the blessed rails glittering to our right just beyond another barbed wire fence. It was then that we saw the car. It was shiny, black, official looking, parked right in front of a portable office building and we almost walked right into the f****r in our reckless, bumbling good cheer. We jumped and ran behind a monster machine nearby and in the nick of time; seconds later we heard the door to the portable open then slam and the start of the car engine before it drove away. Minutes passed while we listened for more signs of danger until with some nervous laughter and relief we realized that safety and obscurity were ours again.

We walked out to the fence, I jump it and catch the packs and waters as Blake throws them over and scan the rails left to right for signs of The Bull or his minions as he leapt over. We seemed to have come to the perfect place. It was a sort of crossroads in the tracks where all trains going vaguely in our direction pass through and stop a short distance ahead. It seemed as if all we had to do was wait. We had found another spot, a sort of recession in the crushed rocks that made up the rail embankment with the customary empty bottles filled with dirt and glinting in the shade that was provided by one of those big metal power poles that never stop buzzing. Here we sat down on our packs as the sun began its slow descent into the hills. My phone told me it was five thirty.

It was slow work, this waiting, punctuated only by the occasional car driving by that sent us hiding face down in the brush until it passed or a train came rolling in. On these occasions we both felt the excitement of the possibility that our ride had come at last and Blake called in the numbers on the front car of the train to see where it was going. “U.P. 4458” or some other random number, silence for a moment then “no.” (they ask if you want a copy of the trains schedule faxed to you) then he would hang up and turn to me and say something like “Wyoming.” Or “Alabama.” Or “Memphis.” (the last one sounded very appealing but we agreed that it wouldn’t make sense because we only had four days to kill) and a few other cities as the sun sank and sank. It was never Las Vegas. Both of us were beginning to get very tired of crouching in our hot dusty hole here on the yard.

“There are a few different rides you can get: the open box car is the best, some grainer trains have a hole in them you can climb into and the inside is kind of a seat, then there are some box cars that are smaller than their train platforms so there is a porch ride there, dirty faced if you are in the front because you get all the dirt kicked up from the wheels and clean faced if its behind, and…” he was cut off by another train rumbling in. “Get those numbers.” He said to me because his back was to the train. “4-4-8-9-6.” I said and he called it in. “Phoenix.” He told me as he hung up. “F**k it.” I replied, “Let’s go to Phoenix. There has to be plenty to do over there.” “You down?” “Yeah man, I am over just sitting here. I just want to get on a train.” He smiled,” Alright lets go.”

We picked up our packs and ran out of the bum pit, running alongside the train looking for something rideable as it came to a halt; It felt eerie, odd, reckless and exhilarating; sweaty ninjas out for some Unknown; a sort of throwback to the beatniks of old. “There it is.” Blake said, pointing to an empty boxcar with its doors thrown open wide in apparent invitation. Blake jammed a railroad spike into the door jam and beat it securely into place with a large rock while I looked ahead nervously, hoping no one could hear this intense racket as it echoed around the steel car. After this noisy precaution was accomplished he climbed aboard and after a last scan up and down the tracks I followed him into our getaway car and smiled happily at every inch of the thing as I went to join Blake at the rear where he had already set up camp and was busy taking off his shoes. “What was the spike about?” I asked, accepting a cigarette from him and uncapping our pint of whiskey, “If those doors shut we will never be able to get them open again. It takes a forklift to pry them loose and by the time that happens we will be dead.” I nodded and took two drinks then pass him the bottle imagining that gruesome fate when we hear the hiss of the brakes and the rattling of all the cars falling in line that mean motion is about to happen. We were off at last.