The Invisible Sign

Where’s Richard?

It’s not easy to lasso a free spirit, even when you’re close to it! Not so difficult, though, when the lasso is an open boxcar door creeping past at walking speed.

Twins Of A Different Mother

August 1966—
Bothers of different mothers — Bo and his nephew Richard — crossed the 12th Street Bridge with empty pockets and nothing to do, headed to Crist’s Restaurant to beg some money from Mom/Grandma (depending on which of the two you refer to).

Born eight months earlier than his nephew Richard, Bo was the youngest brother of Richard’s mother, who, at eighteen, was pregnant with Richard, while at the same time Richard’s grandmother, age thirty-six, was giving birth to Bo, the last of her brood of seven.

Although it may not be rare for a mother and daughter to be pregnant at the same time, this story takes place in Appalachia, so I feel compelled to add that they were not pregnant by the same person, just in case you have ‘that sort of thinking.

The fact is, if they were, this story would take on a very different tone and be found on a bookshelf entitled: “Who’s yer daddy?”

As the hurricane of youth quickly blew them into their teens, it failed to dissipate the boredom of the dank, dusty, dwindling railroad town into which they were born, and which, to them, had a population of only two.

The summer of 66 was raging with Beatlemania, the Vietnam War, protests, the Beach Boys, Star Trek, and, most importantly, Dracula—Prince of Darkness, who was sucking blood fromtheaters everywhere.

Although it was less than two decades after WWII, such was the world they inherited. They lived in poverty; their fathers were drunks and abusers, which very much limited their social circle.

It was a new age, which to them meant only, “What should we do with the remainder of today, because today is all we have, and tomorrow is too far away to care about.”

An Hour of Her Wages

Where were we then?
Oh yes! No money and nowhere to go, they crossed the Twelfth Street Bridge that led from the residential side of town to the downtown shopping area.

The bridge passed over the PRR rail yards and dropped back to the street on the far side just shy of the railroad station and federal post office.

It was also less than two blocks from the restaurant where mom/grandma worked as a waitress. Spotting them as they entered and loaded up two glasses with ice and Coke.

 “And where are you two off to?”

They both shrugged their shoulders, and Bo asked,
“Can we each have a quarter so we can go to the Olympic?”

The matinee began at one o’clock and usually featured three movies, cartoons, and a news reel, which would keep them occupied until after dinner.

Reaching into her apron pocket, she extracted a fistful of coins. Sliding two quarters and two dimes, more than a full hour’s wages, across the counter to them, she said, 

“I’ll be off at 11 o’clock tonight if you want to walk me home.”

The Olympic Theater was very near the restaurant. A cheap-seat theater that offered a three-horror-movie matinee every Saturday for 25¢. It was a habit Bo didn’t want to break.

As Emma waited on another customer, the boys, without offering a thank-you or parting goodbye, finished their Coke and left the restaurant.

Turning once again toward the bridge with the rail yard beneath, something suddenly flashed in Richard’s brain that ignited it like two tickets to Mars.

“Come on, I’ve got a better idea than a movie,” he said.

He slapped Bo on the shoulder and started off toward the bridge at a quick trot.

Bo called to him, “Hey man! Come on! It’s too hot to be running.”

But Richard only quickened his pace, and as they reached the bridge, they turned left onto Tenth Avenue. Still running for another two blocks, they stopped at a large group of bushes.

The bushes hid a high, chain-link fence with jagged wire on top — a fence that kept people from wandering onto the many sets of railroad tracks that passed through the city.

“Why are we here?” Bo asked, feeling even more sweaty than usual, and no less perturbed.

They had just run four blocks to view a trash-laden group of eight-foot-high hedges adjacent to a vacant brick building.

Behind the hedge was that chain-link fence with jagged wire at the top that guarded the railroad tracks from wandering wayfarers, like teenage boys.

It Ain’t A Movie—But It’s Something To Do

Richard stepped toward the fence and pointed to a freight train that was barely creeping along.

“There, that boxcar right there,” he said, glancing back to be certain Bo was paying attention. Moving slowly toward them was a boxcar with its cargo exposed through the open door.

Richard spotted it when they were in front of the restaurant. It was moving slowly enough that he knew that they could run alongside, if they wanted.

A bit of a fearless hellion, a trait he’d inherited from his father’s dubious character, Richard was not afraid to try just about anything; the thought of jumping on a moving freight train was, to him, a lot better than a movie.

For some reason, what was in the boxcar totally intrigued him, while Bo just wanted to sit in a cool, dark movie theater with a Coke and popcorn.

As the boxcar moved closer, Richard’s excitement flared, and he dove into the waiting hedgerow next to the fence with Bo following.

Ducking into the hedges at a spot he’d obviously visited before, Richard led Bo through a hidden opening cut out of the linked chain of the fence.

“Oh, goody! Now we’re what? … Frank and Jesse James!” Bo murmured.

Being caught previously in the rail yard, for which they both had their butts whipped with a belt by Richard’s dad, Bo had visions, this time of a long jail sentence in which Richard’s dad visits daily, just to beat them with that belt, again!

The flashbacks put a knot in Bo’s stomach as he once again followed his aberrant nephew onto this hallowed ground that was made holy by the railroad police and a previous sacrificial ass-whipping.

Crouching low on the other side of the fence, they waited until the boxcar was at a slight angle but still approaching them. Richard whispered loudly as if the hedge behind them was crowded with people,

“Let’s go!” he said in a heavy but hushed voice, as if someone with super-hearing was lurking within a half mile.

Like rabbits from a fox, they sped across the two sets of open tracks that lay between them and the oncoming car, at an ever-diminishing angle toward the approaching open door.

Bo’s heart was pounding, and his brain was about to burst.

“Oh my god,” Bo thought, “it’s broad daylight, and we’re running toward a moving train with the Twelfth Street Bridge clearly in view! We are definitely going to jail this time!”

Richard was dauntless, never hearing, never fearing, or if he did, he did not acknowledge either.

Another thought Bo formulated during their flight of stupidity: “Why, in anybody’s mind, would jumping into a moving freight car seem like something fun to do?“

Bo was perplexed, but followed along nonetheless. He caught hold of the bar next to the open door, but it was more difficult than he’d imagined. As he pulled himself into the moving car, he shouted,

“WHY CAN’T WE JUST GO SEE THE MOVIE?”

The Bag Behind the Pallets

The boxcar was hotter than the noonday sun and smelled like old grease and an amalgam of several other mysterious odors.

As they ducked between the pallets of cargo to avoid being seen, the dust mites stirred by their entrance floated heavily in the shaft of sunlight that barely lit the entrance of the open door.

The remainder of the car appeared pitch-black and stifling hot. The pallets, most stacked at least six feet high, were covered in thick cardboard and strapped in multiple directions with heavy steel straps.

Regardless, there was no getting into them without a knife or toolbox, or maybe a cutting torch of some kind, and there surely wasn’t anything in them the boys could carry home to make use of.

Still, Richard decided to check all of them, hoping to find a vulnerability or a different type of cargo somewhere within the 7500 cubic feet of heat and stink.

Climbing atop the nearest pallet, he began to ninja hop from one to the other until he disappeared into the darkness at the leading end of the car.

As the train continued its slow rolling motion, from what he could tell, it appeared that all of the pallets were strapped and sealed in the same fashion like some type of mechanical equipment.

 Coming back to Bo at the door, Richard shouted, “I’m going to go check the back!”

Bo rolled his eyes as he sat in the shade of one of the pallets, trying to catch the slight breeze offered by the open door.

Outside, Bo could see that, though they were moving very slowly, they were about to leave the city limits.

If Richard took much longer, they would soon be in the Juniata shop yard, which was more than a mile from where they leapt on board.

With the theater falling well behind, Bo was becoming very anxious.

“How about we just go see the movie? Eh?” He shouted again.

Richard, who had already moved well away, continued to ignore him. The partially closed door put the trailing end of the sixty-foot car in deep shadow, also, but much less murky than the leading end.

Paused on top of the last pallet in the middle row, he stood still, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness, straining to see what was nearby. On the floor six feet or so below, in between the pallets, Richard detected the shape of something lying there, but could not quite make it out. Was it a bundle, or maybe a large sack leaning against the bulkhead?

Suddenly, Bo shouted very loudly over the top of the cargo-laden pallets, “WE’RE STARTING TO SPEED UP!”

By now, they were at least two miles from the bridge that had long ago faded from view. The sudden announcement startled Richard as he concentrated on the shadowy enigma below him. As much as he wanted to investigate, he was torn between that and vacating while they could.

Then, just as he was turning to leave, the bundle on the floor looked up and spoke to him in a gravelly voice:

 “If you’re gonna get your ass off you’d better move it, or your dumb ass is on its way to Harrisburg!”

Startled Richard, nearly pissing in his pants at the sound of the enigmatic voice from the darkness, began hopping across the pallets toward the door.

Sully Ends With A Speech

By the time he’d made it across, the train had gained enough speed that the trees passed them at a quickened pace; far too fast for an easy exit.

Standing there, contemplating the predicament, Bo realized that if he jumped now, he would likely be shredded by the shale and also likely bash his head against the railroad ties or other junk alongside the tracks.

As the two boys stood silently as the train gained greater momentum. Then, from somewhere between the stacks of pallets, a ragged, weathered creature suddenly appeared behind them.

With the voice of a heavy smoker, and a freshly lit cigarette between his fingers, he said,

“What in hell da you two think yer doin jumpin onto my fuckin train? When ya see a door standin open, that tells right then tha’ some’uns already in in here!”

The stranger took a long draw on his cigarette, threw the butt to the floor, crushing it out with his booted toe as he shook his head, bewildered.

Looking at one another, then out the door, then back at hobo, the two stood numb and speechless. To jump or not to jump—jumping was out of the question! Could they jump, roll, and survive unscathed like the cowboys on television? Even if they could, neither was willing to chance it.

 “Well you ken jes sit yer asses down now, cuz yer gonna be here for good bit ba’for ya kin git off agin,” he said as he extracted a new cigarette from his pocket.

I’m guessin you boys live in Altoona by the looks of ya! Is everyone who lives there as stupid as you two assholes, or were you bred that way?”

The stranger shook his head, lit another cigarette, and stepped closer to the door. The boys stepped back away from him in opposite directions. Rather than responding, once again Richard showed his brass balls.

“Can I bum get one of your cigarettes?” He asked.

A look of surprise crossed the stranger’s face.

He croaked a short laugh as smoke billowed from his mouth and nose. “You ken go shit in yer hat, boy! I ain’t given you my smokes! Do I look like I’m made of money?”

Richard reached into his pocket and pulled out thirty-five cents.

“That’s more than the cost of a pack!” Richard said, holding the coins out for the hobo to take.

The stranger let go a rasping, phlegmy chuckle that emitted from his chest like an exhalation through bubbling tar.

“Thirty-five cents!” The man squinted at the coins in Richard’s hand like they might be counterfeit.

“Hell, boy! That’ll buy a lungful and a half these days, with a little left over. Wha’d you two do, break open yer piggybanks? That’s not travelin money, fer certain! Oh, yea that’s — that’s right — that’s ‘movie-money’! I forgot! I’ll bet mommy gave youse yer allowance to see a picture show!”

He plucked the change out of Richard’s hand with his fingertips, as if trying not to touch his skin. Shaking the coins in his palm as if to confirm their reality, he dropped them in his coat pocket, as the nicotine-coated fingers of his other hand produced a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes.

He proffered one to Richard as he squinted one smoke-filled eye.

“Yer two boys is too young to be smokin!” he said.

Watching Richard take the cigarette, Bo, struck dumb by this utterly bizarre situation, stared at the two figures as if they were an episode of The Twilight Zone.

“This here ain’t a charity, boys. But fair’s fair. You want one too?”

The stranger poked the pack of Luckys toward Bo, who continued his slack-jawed stare. Timidly reaching for the smoke as if he was about to put his hand into a bear trap, it was suddenly jerked away.

“That’s thirty-five cents, boy! Jes like thu other!” The man grimaced. “These ain’t cheap, ya know!”

“I only got a quarter,” Bo responded, pulling the coin from his pocket and handing it to the hobo in exchange for the cigarette.

The stranger made a quick, wizard-like motion with his hand, and the flame of a battered, monogrammed Zippo lighter magically appeared in front of the boys.

The man gave another guttural laugh, “Perty slick, huh” he said.

The lighter’s metal was etched with three initials no one had asked about for ages: S.A.B. double-engraved beneath the emblem of the United States Marine Corps.

As quickly as it appeared, the Zippo snapped shut and disappeared to safeguard it from thieves. He watched the boys with a deep curiosity, judging whether they were really smokers or just pretending to be all grown up.

While they both took a drag and inhaled without incident, he sized them up with the eyes of someone who’d seen the best and worst of people for a long time, and most often, on the same day.

“Names don’t matter out here,” he said gruffly, sinking down to his haunches to lean against a pallet as if folding himself into the shadows.

“But if you need to call me somethin, call me Sully.”

He took a long drag of his stubby, unfiltered cigarette, held the draw like it was something precious and life sustaining, then smoke again billowed from his mouth and nose as he said,

“So, what is it? You boys running away, or just being stupid? I heard you say something about going to a movie.”

His one eye squinted again as the smoke rolled into it.

“This ain’t no goddamned movie theater, is it?” Letting loose a loud rattling laugh.

Bo opened his mouth to answer, but Sully cut him off with a grunt;

“Hell, it doan matter one way or tha other! Can’t say as I mind having the company too. My guess is that you,” he said, pointing at Bo, “are the follower, and you,” he said, turning his gaze to Richard, “you are an instigator. I know a troublemaker when I see one, and you, boy, you got some balls on ya. Didn’t act like you’z afraid of me at all.”

That’s Why I’m Riding The Rails

The boys drew on their smokes like old pro’s as they turned to watch the scenery pass them by. Neither of them knew when or where this journey would end.

The train — like their years of young life — carried them past trees, open fields, houses, heaps of old rusted cars, shambled homes, and old men on rickety chairs passing a bottle, jungle fires, and ragged men in dirty clothes staring into the flames, then more trees…and more of the world as it truly is.

Cast in their indifference, they watched life rush past like characters on the stage of a living theater. The ethereal feeling Bo had expanded and chewed at his mind—the rhythmic clacking of the wheels on the tracks, the passing of time, and scenery.

Bo felt that he was beginning to understand a little why Sully did this. Being a part of this constantly moving world, part of these things seen from the rails, the breeze through the open door, an esoteric existence that only the riders of the rails are privy to and fall in love with, marrying themselves to it.

Bo felt a sudden rush of calm, a complete escape of fear and anxiety washed over him. Not only escaping teachers, his mother, and his siblings, but the jerks, the bullies in school, and from answering to others for his life, his thinking.

Here, he could life his way; coming and going as he pleased.

Sully’s voice suddenly broke through the noise of the moving boxcar,

“Yer a thinker, ain’t cha, boy?”

The hobo stared at Bo as if he instinctively knew what Bo was mulling over.

“Believe me, you don’t want this life, boy! No way fer a dog let alone a man to live. I guarantee it. Still, I guess yer gonna do what yer gonna do, ain’t-cha?”

They rode on in silence for the next twenty or thirty minutes when, without a doubt, they sensed that the train was beginning to lose speed. The boys rose to their feet and stepped to the open door.

“Yep,” said Sully, “Best back away from the door, boys, we’re rollin into the Tyrone rail yard, and we don’t want the bulls to see us. Fact, I should probably pull that door nearly to, lessen you boys are thinkin’ bout git’n off here.

Sully paused, looking from one boy to the other, “— which I strongly advise,” he said, his tone stronger and louder than normal.

Sully studied the pair inquisitively before letting out another bubbling chuckle. Once more, digging the pack from his coat pocket, he offered them each another cigarette, but they both refused.

Instead, the boys stood together at the open door, leaning out, peering ahead to where they could see the slight beginnings of the town called Tyrone.

The small urban city sat just beyond the approaching rail yard as their train now rolled slowly along the farthest of the three tracks that passed through it. The train finally slowed to a point where they could easily step off.

Bo and Richard looked at one another, then back to the approaching town.

“I’m jumpin off,” Bo said, “You ready?”

He looked at Richard questioningly, but there was no response. Richard stepped back and squatted next to a pallet near Sully and asked, “Can I have that cigarette?”

Sully handed him another smoke and let out a laugh!

“Don’t tell me,” and he laughed raspily, “Son-of-a-’’, he stopped short of saying it. “Boy—What? Did I git it all wrong? Here I thought I could read anybody but—damn! YOU? I sure didn’t read you as the wanderin type. Or are you just escapin?”

Richard’s eyes were staring at the floor between his feet. His thinking was simple: what it would be like to keep going, to see places like Harrisburg, Philadelphia, maybe even the coast, New Jersey, or even New York City.

Looking up at Sully, who appeared to be smirking, or maybe just grinning at him as he’d just discovered gravity all over again.

Richard snapped back, “So? What about it? It’s my life, ain’t it?”

Sully brought his smoky fingers to the bill of his cap in a mock salute. “That’s how I got started,” Sully replied softly. “I’ll be damned,” his voice trailed off into silence.

Bo had already taken hold of the rail at the edge of the door and stepped out onto the ladder outside.

“Come on, man, let’s go, before it starts moving again,” Bo said, looking imploringly to Richard.

There was no time to argue about it. Richard continued to look toward the fields, past Bo, as if he were no longer aware of Bo’s existence.

The train came to a narrow patch of grass leading to an open field. As Bo’s foot met the ground, he let go of the boxcar. Standing there, waiting, he thought there was no way that Richard would refuse to get off that train, but the open door of the slow-rolling car faded into the distance.

A few seconds later, Sully leaned out, touched a greasy finger to the bill of his hat as a farewell gesture, and slid the door over to hide their presence from the bulls of the Tyrone yard.

Where Has My Brother Gone

It was nearly nightfall — and despite the heat of summer air, Bo felt frozen inside and out, feeling a sudden panic, his mind swinging wildly: could this be happening? The train began to pick up speed once again. Leaving Bo to feel utterly alone—without a brother.

As the boxcar he’d occupied disappeared in the distance, Bo looked at the last of the approaching cars, thinking, should I get back on that train. Then, he thought, “But what if I get on and Richard gets off and I didn’t know it. Or what if Richard is already off and I didn’t see him?”

Taking a deep breath, he watched as the remaining cars gathered speed, and as the last car passed, he turned and walked across the field toward the Tyrone train station.

On the other side of the field, he could see a street. A quarter of a mile or so beyond, the station sat, devoid of passengers. Sitting on the bench in front, Bo waited until the shadows of the day lengthened, hoping that Richard would come walking in from somewhere.

As the sun sank behind the trees, he finally went to the pay phone at the end of the building. Taking out the dime he’d withheld from Sully, he dropped it in the slot and dialed, “9–4–4–1–5–9–3,” the phone begin to ring at the other end.

“Hello.” It was the voice of his older brother, Terry.

“It’s me, I need a ride, can you come get me?”

“Where are you?” Terry asked.

“I’m at the train station in Tyrone,” Bo said weakly.

“What the hell? How did you get all the way over there!” Terry snapped back.

“I jumped on a boxcar, and it started moving too fast, and I couldn’t get off.”

“That was a dumb ass move! Are you all right?”

“Just cold and hungry,” Bo replied, and then asked, “Is Mom at work?” Remembering that he was supposed to walk her home tonight.

“Yeah,” Terry replied, “I’ll be there in about an hour to get your dumb ass!”

Although he could have tried walking, he wouldn’t be home before morning, that is, if he could even walk that far. It was about thirty miles or more by car.  Besides, the sun was setting, and he would have to walk along a darkened highway. Not a good idea.

The phone clicked, and Bo sat down again on the bench. All he had to do now was sit and wait.

Forgive Me Mother For I Have Sinned

By the time Terry arrived, Bo was sitting directly under the dim light above the bench where he could be easily seen. Still no sign of Richard.

It wasn’t all that cold, but for some reason, Bo was shivering, making him all the more grateful for his brother’s rescue. It may have been midnight, for all Bo knew, by the time his ride arrived. His legs felt weak and worn as he raised them into the car. They pulled away from the station without speaking.

Nearly halfway home, Terry finally spoke, “You know people have been killed pulling crap like that.”

“I know,” Bo responded. “It was a dumb ass thing to do — I know.

Terry glanced at Bo. “I’m guessing that you’re pretty hungry. I have supper ready.”

“Do you have any cigarettes?” Bo asked.

Terry shook his head, “No, why should I? I don’t smoke, remember.“

Feeling more sick than hungry, Bo wondered where Richard was now, assuming that he was still with Sully on that train— no money, clothes, or anything to take care of him except for Sully’s road wisdom.

Feeling no need to tell his brother what happened, the anxiety of his secret took its toll, and he drifted into an uneasy sleep as his mind reeled with a sense of loss and panic that settled into the deepest pit of his stomach.

When they arrived home, little was said about it. Bo embellished the story with no mention of Richard or Sully—nothing but that he just got crazy and tried it.

Since each Bo and Richard lived in their own homes, nobody asked about Richard. His parents assumed he was at his grandmother’s house, and those at Bo’s home assumed Richard was with his. The fewer mouths to be fed, the better.

Although Bo felt responsible, he couldn’t bear to send everyone into a panic, and if Richard did keep going, Bo understood why. Nobody wanted to deal with his rotten father, and Richard was his whipping post whenever he was angry.

The next two days passed and still no sign of his return, and none were yet the wiser. It was not unusual for nobody to ask, as Richard always did as he pleased.

Attempting to justify his continued silence, Bo lay across his bed, wondering what would happen when the absence was finally discovered. 

“Should I tell? It’s not like he was kidnapped or anything, but they wouldn’t know that. So, then, who do I tell, and will they understand that Richard chose to run away?” Bo thought?

After the fourth day, and still no sign of him, Bo came to the dining room where his mother was having her morning coffee and a cigarette. She took a drag and looked at him pensively.

“Mom, do you remember the other day when Richard and me stopped at the restaurant…and I said that we was going to the movies?”

Always very stoic and armed with the wisdom of raising six other children ahead of him, she offered him a cigarette to indicate that there were few secrets he had that she was not aware of.

“Well,” Bo began …

Instinctively, Emma braced herself for what she mentally knew there was about to be a confession.