WITH A LOUD ROAR the train left the station, with me aboard. But a paying passenger I was not. I was hitching a ride on an old boxcar, trying to get to Memphis before the sun came up. I had a small bag of belongings with me—toiletries and such, a PB&J sandwich, the clothes on my back and a sense of humor (for good measure). I settled into the back of the car, taking notice of its full load of coal and what appeared to be industrial medical supplies.

We were not twenty minutes out of the station when a garbled voice from the darkness muttered, "Does this look infected to you?"

Startled, I bounced up from my lotus sitting position and eased into the shadows of the car to find the voice. And then I came upon the stranger.

I couldn't believe my eyes: He was shirtless, unshaven, somewhere in his fifties, and he wore immaculate pants above Adidas sneakers. I was quickly impressed by his familiarity with geostrategic issues and modern day soups; just as the stranger began peppering me with questions about instability in the Balkans (former Soviet satellites), he lowered his voice to a whisper and listed all of the secret ingredients in Progresso soup.

"Your foot doesn't look infected to me," I advised my new boxcar-mate, "but you may want to have that looked at in a major metropolitan city with a mature health care system."

He punched me square in the nose.

"What the heck was that for?" I asked. "I'm just trying to help."

For some reason, he didn't answer me. I stared back at him and remained quiet.


AT DAYBREAK, I asked (trying to make a truce, if you will) if he had ever visited an LL Bean store. I was desperate for conversation and the stranger looked like he had spent a considerable amount of time in the outdoors.

"I sure have," he said, "but they're way overpriced."

My heart skipped a beat as I sensed my first opportunity to forge some meaningful dialogue. So I replied, "I have found their prices on stuff pretty good compared to say, Patagonia," to which he agreed. I added, "I like the chamois shirts and goose down vests, and their moccasins are great."

The stranger said, "I like the shallow grave shovel and forehead sander."

There was a long pause. I sensed I may be in danger.

"How bout the San Diego Padres? THEY ARE PLAYING GREAT BALL AREN'T THEY!"

Now I was terrified. How could I not be? I had to get off this train at the next stop. But where was the next stop? Would the train slow down enough for me to jump? When was the sun coming back up? Would Al Sharpton run again in 2008? I was confused. I was alone. I was cold. I was tired.


"CAN SOMEONE TELL ME why the British lost the colonies?" This was the first thing I heard as I woke in the morning, only to see the stranger walking in small, concentric circles around the boxcar.

"Can someone tell me why the British lost the colonies!"

"I don't know, for goodness sakes," I yelled back at the stranger and asked, "What on earth have I done to make you so upset?"

Ignoring my question, the stranger continued, "I will tell you why the British lost the colonies. Because their diet was tea and crumpets, and our diet was raw squirrel meat and whiskey."

I mumbled to myself that this was no way to start the day. But the stranger would not relent. He asked me, "Did you like The Love Boat? Didn't you think Gavin McLeod was awesome!"

I really had to get off this train. And when I spotted the small town on the horizon, there was no question about it. I leapt from the boxcar and landed flat on a bed of cactus.

"See ya later, alligator," the stranger yelled back to me, "and good riddance."

I was dusty and tired ... and I ran straight into town.


To be continued ...


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