Terri L. French
Bindlestiffs
The school closed a month ago, but I hadn’t been to class in a good six months anyway. My father recently lost his job at the Rouge. It’s two months since the Ford Massacre and Pop is still limping badly from his injury, making it difficult for him to work. I take whatever odd jobs I can to help feed my eight brothers and sisters, even if payment is only a stale loaf of bread and some over-ripe apples. My mother has taken to serving our dinner on smaller plates so that what little we have looks like more. The day after my sixteenth birthday, I decide to leave Michigan and hop a train to California. I hear there are jobs to be found out there. I ain’t never even been on a train let alone hitched one. I climb into bed wearing multiple layers of clothing after packing up a bindle with a comb, soap, razor, and a couple cans of potted meat. Then I lay there stiff as a board, my eyes glued to darkness, until midnight when I slip out and make my way to the switchyard to find a train that will take me to the “land of milk and honey.”
open window moonlight fills the empty bed
Luckily, I find an empty boxcar, toss in my bag and try to hoist myself aboard. My padded body weighs me down and I start to worry that the train will take off or one of the switchyard bulls will yank me off and give me a good thrashing. But just as I hear the engine come to life, a hand reaches out from inside the boxcar and jerks me inside. The car reeks of soot and sweat.
“You liked to have not made it, kid,” says an old guy with skin like boot leather. He gives me a toothless grin and a firm slap on the back. “Settle in for the ride, son.”
refrigerator car nothing colder than death
About the Author
Terri L. French is a poet/writer and retired Massage Therapist. She and her husband, Ray, have four mostly grown children and one spoiled dog. They now enjoy the nomadic life of full-time RVers.