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I don't get to see my friend Bob very often any more, so I look forward to our "chopping sessions" once or twice a month in the comfort of his home, where we while away the hours over good beer comparing notes and exchanging outragoeus stories. One night, after imbibing a sweet red port and reciting exceptionally long-winded verses of poetry he told me this story:
"Johnny," he said "have I ever told you about the time I rode the freight train to New Orleans and thought sure I was going to die?"
I had heard the story, but was anxious to hear it again. "Nope. No, I don't believe I've heard that one." I didn't want to ruin it for him.
He leaned forward in his chair and gazed out the window at the sprawling almond orchards and imagined them covered in snow, just like when he was fifteen, looking out the the door of his boxcar and seeing nothing but endless white upon white across the wind-swept plains, the engine chugging into the distance without him or the rest of the train.
It started as a joke amongst friends early one morning in the suburbs of Los Angeles. Bob delivered papers on his Schwin cruiser, and every morning he and about a dozen other rumpled, bleary-eyed boys would roll up to the little wooden shack which served as a their drop site and they would fold their papers for that morning's delivery. His friend, Art Watson was there every morning and together they smoked, gossiped and told dirty jokes to one another in the pre-dawn darkness. The also egged each other on into more and more outrageous dares.
"So who's idea was it?" I asked, sitting comfotably at the kitchen table. Somehow we always find our way into the kitchen. I guess it's because that's where the beer is kept.
"I was the one who read the book on New Orleans and was swept away with it" says Bob, "so I guess it was my idea. At that age I was always out of control. My buddy Watson nad I had been talking shit about it for days like kids do -- double and triple dog daring each other to the edges of common sense. One day he looked me in the eye and said, "OK, fine. Let's go." And we did. All anyone knew was that we had finished our routes that day and never came back. We had no phone at home, so it was two weeks before I was able to contact my family by mail."
