The Man Who Killed A Man
"I'm always wonderin' what that kid's doin'," mumbled the elderly man who limped
on a walker toward the door of his matchbox Las Vegas apartment, a tube hooked
to his nose to give him the oxygen he needed to survive. "Always somethin'," he
said.
The police had arrived in search of his granddaughter whom he was rearing since
his own daughter died. There had been nowhere else for the girl to go and so the
grandfather took her in. It had not been easy. He had little money and the girl
became rebellious and spent late nights out, sometimes days away. She took cash
from him, and occasionally used his apartment as a party joint and meetinghouse
for her reckless crew. The old man had come to disdain her posse, although he
continued to love her as best he could. There was little he could do, however,
to make her good.
The grandfather once'd been a God-fearing boy but that had gone by the wayside.
When he was twenty-one, he had killed a man. The year was 1933 and the place was
They argued. The other man attacked and, in a blink, was dead of a blow to the
head from a stick. Grandfather left
Over the years, obsessively he wondered about the man he'd killed. He knew a
little about him, had worked alongside him only four days, but had learned that
he had a wife and child somewhere back East, was estranged from both although he
continued to send them small amounts of money. The grandfather, feeling great
guilt and grief over the killing, wanted to send the woman money, but he didn't
have her address and conjectured that if he did, the police might trace him as a
killer and ship him off to prison.
The grandfather had skills. He made his way as a fix-it man, amateur
electrician, ranch hand, auto mechanic, things he'd picked up along the way of
life, over the years of hardy and hard living. He'd grown up poor in
When he left
"We got a report that your granddaughter's been stealing. Some pocketbooks and
things," said the police officer. "Know anything about it?"
"Doesn't... doesn't surprise me," said the man, taking a breath and continuing.
"We got her on our computer. If we catch her stealin', we gotta take her
downtown and book her."
The old man sighed. "Well, I guess if ya do, ya do."
"We got a warrant out for her arrest. You call us if you see her, OK? Otherwise,
you're aiding a fugitive."
He leaned on his walker. "I'll do the best I can. Sometimes she don't come
around for a week or two at a time."
The officer looked past the door. "You sure she's not here now?"
"Come 'n look around."
The policeman gave the apartment a cursory inspection. No one appeared to be
present and the cops always seemed to know when there was someone about,
something amiss. There always was something in the air when things weren't
right.
The old man remembered how he'd taken the bus out of
Whenever a woman passed on the street with a child in tow or in a perambulator,
the man would think about the wife and child of the man he'd killed. Whenever a
police car would pass, he would think that they had heard about his crime and
were about to seize him. After two weeks, however, his immediate fears subsided,
but the killing continued to haunt him in a taunting way.
He pumped gas for a while. Time never was important to him and he never
remembered dates; months collapsed in on him and his memory. All he could
remember was that it was winter, but sunny and often warm for the season. Then
he began to feel eerily uncomfortable in
He felt free there, as if the murder now were behind him. He apprenticed to an
auto mechanic and picked up some of the skills that he would use over the years.
Some days, he would forget about the murder, and other days he simply could not
get it off his mind.
The granddaughter returned around three in the afternoon. The man had been
asleep on the couch. He awoke in a start. "They're lookin' for ya, honey," he
told her.
"Who?"
"The POH-leece."
"What for?"
"For stealin'. Sez I'm supposed to call 'em if I see yah. Now what do I do?"
She brushed back her hair to reveal a pierced nose. "Just don't call," she said
calmly, lighting a cigarette.
"They said I hafta."
"I didn't steal nothin'!"
"Said you did." He pulled himself groggily upright.
"Just a couple purses. From the mall."
The man felt tears in his eyes. "That's all?" he wondered, saying it as if he
hardly knew what she was talking about.
"Yeah, I heard they got us on the surveillance tape."
"Oh, sweetie. Just..."
"I'll just go... pay for 'em, maybe bring 'em back, OK?"
"Where are they?"
"In the bedroom."
"Let 'em lay," said the old man, rising and walking slowly to the refrigerator.
"We'll think about what to do."
He left Elko after six months. Something about the place abraded him, something
he couldn't put his hand to. Perhaps it was the isolation, as if they might
corner him there, leave him no escape. And he began to feel as though the spirit
of the West were pushing him along like a prairie schooner, like he'd read about
in grade school. He remembered thinking about what a great life it would be, to
cross the prairie without a care, to seek those next horizons, the ones out of
touch in the cavernous city. Now he was making the journey and it was different,
on buses and all.
He had put his finger on the map and decided that he liked the sound of '
On the outskirts of town, he took a job driving a tractor on a dryland farm.
They grew potatoes, mustard and mint and he liked the work and the climate and
the people who, for the most part, were kind to him, unlike those in
He met a waitress at the diner in town, and they became friends. He was not a
noble man, but neither was she noble. They each recognized their lot. Her father
had gone bust farming and left for
The mother and daughter both worked at the diner and made
enough to get by. He began renting a room from them, a little el off the main
house with its own door, and paid two dollars a week rent out of his paycheck of
ten. He then would send as much as possible to his mother back home in
One day, the man received word by
The old man opened the bedroom door and saw the purses in the corner. Their
price tags read $19 and $12. He thought of this as insignificant, nada, nothing
to get excited about. He would pay it himself. He phoned the store, explained
the situation to the owner, that he was old, that he'd had problems with his
granddaughter and with his life, feeling at one moment an almost insatiable
compulsion to confess the murder right then and there. He explained that he was
willing to pay to keep the situation out of the hands of the law. But the owner
said he would have to go ahead with the prosecution, that reimbursement no
longer was an option. The man's heart got heavy and he put the phone down sadly.
After not too many months, he and the woman decided that
they were meant for one another, that their social status matched, that their
temperaments were not dissimilar, that they could tell one another what need be
told, as much as might need be, and so they married. The man went about his
quiet life, never revealing to his new wife that he once had killed a man in
His wife continued to work at the diner and he began to take on more
responsibility on the ranch, as mechanic, troubleshooter, manager. He worked
with confidence. The pay wasn't bad for rural
As the girl grew in the first months, the man realized that life indeed was more
precious than he ever before had imagined it, and increasingly, the ghost of the
murdered man began gnawing at him, day after day, night after night, until the
thought seemed to be on him all hours some days. He made many efforts to stop
thinking about it, but to no avail.
For the first time in his dreary life, however, he began to see himself as
highly privileged in that he had a wife and daughter and an income, all in all,
a much desirable circumstance. But there was a downside to his newfound
optimism, that somewhere back East was a fatherless child being reared in
uncertainty. The man began to pray to God, asking Him repeatedly to send some
signal that He would spare the lives of the wife and child of the man he'd
killed, not make them miserable the way they easily might have been, as the man
often had found himself throughout childhood.
He continued to experience fear whenever the police were involved, like the time
that they were called to the ranch to investigate the theft of several shotguns.
The man became intensely edgy during the police visit, and at one point, he
almost confessed to the murder. Going home that evening, he stopped at the bar
and quickly downed four straight shots of alcohol, and stumbled into the house
somewhat tipsy. This was a new set of affairs for his wife, and was the first
sign of trouble in their marriage.
The grandfather took the two purses and put them into a bag. He wrote the figure
"$31" on a slip of paper and attached it to the bag, then put the parcel near
the front door. It was his every intention of paying off the cost of the purses,
whether the charges were dropped against his granddaughter or not, as a
conscience-clearing exercise. He then took his seat by the television and
watched back-to-back episodes of Wheel of Fortune.
During the show, he was gripped by an intense malaise, the likes of which he'd
never in his life felt before. His chest was heavy and he thought he might be
dying. It frightened him no end and he began to think about how long he'd lived,
and how some lives had been cut short, like the one of the man he'd murdered. He
looked over at the bag with its note, and began to think about killing himself,
to stop his misery. He was going to die soon anyway, he knew.
At that moment, his granddaughter arrived. He hardly knew that she had gone out.
He faced such travail keeping track of her. At first, it scared him when she
came in the door, and he realized how vulnerable he was.
"Hi Gramp," she said.
The grandfather rose slowly. He eyed the bag with the purses. "I'm gonna pay for
'em, even if they send you to jail. ‘Cause we need clean consciences," he said.
She opened the freezer and nabbed a pudding pop. "You're always talkin' about
that Gramp. Consciences..."
"If it ain't clear, your life's nothin'."
She laughed. "My conscience isn't exactly clear."
"Should be."
"I'm goin' clean," she said.
"Good girl."
"Yeah, get myself a job. My own apartment."
"Your own place!?"
"Sure! Why not?"
"Well, heck... I dunno."
"Yeah, it's time."
"But what about, about the... the.. the..."
"The what, Gramp?"
"The... purses... the thirty one dollars..."
She looked over at him. "I thought you were gonna pay it back?"
The man felt as though he were floating. "I'm gonna die soon," he blurted out.
Her eyes popped. "Gramp! Don't talk like that."
"Everybody's got a time to go," he said.
The young woman hugged him. "Gramp, it'll be OK."
"Ain't much time left. You're leavin' me ain't ya."
"Naw, Gramp, I'm not leavin'. I’ll be right close by."
The man began to feel more and more alienated from his wife and child because of
the recurring thoughts of the murder. He began to drink to forget. And the idea
of his own child spooked him, for it brought up again and again incessantly the
notion of a child that needed protecting and rearing, two things that the child
back East would be robbed of on account of the fact that his or her father had
been killed.
The renewed feeling opened a period of introspection and tension for the man.
His work became haphazard and his bosses noted a change in his behavior. At
first, they attributed it to some unfortunate occurrences at the farm after the
tractor blew up and a small fire consumed a tool shed. But when he became more
irritable and disagreeable, they started trying to discern what in the world was
wrong with their foreman. On questioning they discovered little except that the
man was troubled by something he would not divulge.
When the child was seven months old, and after separation from the wife on
account of his drinking, the grandfather packed up and left
"Hey, gramp. Let's go out to dinner," said the granddaughter.
"Oh, heck, I don't know."
"C'mon. I'm buyin'."
"I'll just have my soup."
"You're always havin' soup!"
"I like soup."
"I'll get you a nice hamburger. Over at Dicky's."
"That'd be OK."
They walked out into the warmth of the late afternoon, into the full and furious
rush-hour traffic of the "new"
As they entered the restaurant only a half-block away, he was struck that the
hostess resembled closely his dead daughter, and that caused great anxiety. He
wondered if his granddaughter would notice the resemblance, but she offered no
comment. They had a nice meal and avoided any conversation that might lead to
conflict, like about the stolen purses or the granddaughter's habits of staying
out late, or even disappearing. The man continued to be drawn to the hostess,
and her presence began to harp on him. He became anxious and was glad to leave
the place.
"Gramp? What's botherin' you?" the girl asked as they walked back toward the
apartment.
"Oh, just a lotta things." Then: "You gotta believe in God, honey."
She tittered. "I'm tryin' Gramp."
"You gotta try hard. God's the one who's gonna help you when you need Him."
Over the years, the man had no contact with the daughter or with his onetime
wife. His life was not so easy. Making a living in the nineteen fifties and
sixties was not difficult, but the man became enmeshed in bad living with liquor
and prostitutes. There was a move from the outskirts of
Then after a bad spell, where his spirits had sunk to an all-time low, he
decided to begin the process of straightening his life by stopping his bad
habits and seeing more to spirituality. He prayed often and began to feel
better, that someday he would be forgiven the murder of the man in
During this time he received on two separate occasions photographs and letters
from his daughter. When he opened them, he felt great love mixed with fear for
he knew not how she came into possessing his address and this made him feel
vulnerable, potentially to the police and prosecution for the murder. The
pictures showed the daughter and grandchild, images that moved the man to tears
and mourning for all the lives ruined in his renegade ways of living.
One day he received a phone call from the California Department of Social
Services saying that his daughter had died and that she had left behind her
twelve-year-old daughter. The man had one week to decide whether to take the
child in himself or turn her over to the government for care until she was
eighteen. He felt that the right thing to do would be to care for this
granddaughter, that perhaps it was the first step down the road to true
redemption.
The ensuing years were hard ones. The man fell ill and the granddaughter often
turned against him, as if in defiance. There were times when the man felt that
he was getting what he deserved, times he just wanted to give up. He continued
to pray, but the sense of comfort had all but evaporated. The murder kept coming
back.
That evening, after the granddaughter had departed and as the man was watching
yet another Wheel of Fortune episode, there came a knock on the door. "OPEN UP!
POLICE!" came the call. He hobbled over and greeted the officers gently.
"Hello again," he said.
"Hi there. We got a report of a break-in here."
"Nobody breakin' in."
"Neighbors say somebody's takin' down your screen and goin' in the window. Mind
if we take a look?"
"Suit yourself."
The policeman, one of a pair, walked toward the east side of the apartment and
searched the bedroom. The man was unnerved knowing that the purses were lying
exposed in the bedroom. But the cop returned to the living room and asked if the
man knew who was in the bathroom. "Nobody, I guess," was the reply.
The policeman tried the door which was locked. "You sure nobody's in here?" he
asked. "You know we're looking for your granddaughter."
"She went out..." said the man.
"She went out? You were supposed to turn her in if she came here," the cop said
as he tested the door.
"I... I mean, she went out. She goes out for days at a time."
"You're not hidin' her in the bathroom are ya?"
"Heck no. I said she went out."
The second officer, who had circled the outside of the house, entered the living
room. "The screen's down like they said. But the window's locked and the
curtain’s drawn."
"You know anybody breakin' into your house?" the officer asked the old man.
"No, I don't." The clicking of the 'wheel' on the television filled a momentary
void.
The officer knocked on the bathroom door. "Anybody in there!" he shouted. Then
putting his ear to it: "Yep, someone's in there." He hollered in, "You better
open the door! Or we're gonna break it down!"
It opened slowly. The granddaughter appeared. "What the heck?!" said the
grandfather.
"Hi there," said the officer. "What'cha doing?"
"Nothin'," she replied.
"Is this your granddaughter? The one we're looking for?" he said to the old man.
"Sure is."
"OK, sweetheart, come on out. What're you doin’ breaking into your own
granddad's house?" A bearded, youngish man, tattooed about the neck and arms,
appeared from behind the door. "And who's this guy?"
"It's my boyfriend. We wanted to take a bath together."
"Well, get dressed and come on out. Don't you think you might ask your granddad
if you can take a bath, instead of breaking into his house like that? And aren't
you a little young to be taking a bath with your boyfriend?"
"I’m 19." She shrugged.
"We got a warrant," said the officer.
When she clothed herself and emerged, she was handcuffed. The grandfather
watched sadly as the cop walked her toward the door.
"I don't know what the heck's into her," mumbled the old man, as the girl was
escorted away. He accompanied her to the curb where he felt faint and began to
collapse. A third officer arriving on the scene helped him to sit on the tiny,
almost grassless lawn in front of the building, and the man began to whimper. "I
just don't know..." he said.
"You OK, there, old timer?" inquired the officer.
The man barely regained his composure and began to speak through trembling lips.
"I... I need to talk to somebody. I... I..."
The cop crouched and talked directly to him. "Your granddaughter is gonna be OK.
We're gonna book her and hold here until the judge can set a trial date. You
need to bail her out, though."
"No, no." The man waved the officer away. "It's somethin' that happened a long
time ago. I need to talk to somebody about it. I killed a man..."
"You killed a man?!"
"Yeah, it was
The officer paused. "Heck, just 'cause you hit somebody with a stick and he fell
down doesn't mean you killed him."
The old man wiped his face of the sweat that suddenly had accumulated. He seemed
dazed. "Wha?"
The officer held him upright in a sitting position and spoke louder. "Just cause
you hit him with a stick and he fell down doesn't mean you killed him!"
The old man shook his head. He glared at the officer for a full twenty seconds.
"Mebbe... mebbe you're right..."
"You got any proof you killed him?"
"Oh... oh, heck no. I just left town."
"He might be alive and well..."
The man brightened. "You think so?!"
"Maybe, maybe not. Just 'cause you hit him and he fell down doesn't mean you
killed him." The officer summoned his partner. "Ray, why don't you take this
gentleman's story. See if anything checks out."
As the cruiser pulled from the curb, the granddaughter
winked and waved, and the elderly man returned the gesture weakly to her.
Officer Raymond Ferrar then retrieved his pad and began to take notes.
Cautiously and with care, he recorded the details of the
The Switch
Vern Silsby braked his car and eased it onto the dusty
turnoff from the rural
He sat serenely, not really listening to the radio, and gazing blankly onto the
railroad track that disappeared to both horizons. It was four in the afternoon
and Vern was unmoored, as if indeed one thing had ended and some other were yet
to commence.
He removed his eyeglasses and was
surprised as a barreling freight train passed before him moving at a wicked
clip, perhaps sixty, he imagined, comparing it to the speed of a car on the
two-lane which was traveling fifty as he traditionally did. The train was
piloted by four thundering diesel-electric locomotives in canary and gray, UNION
PACIFIC stamped in scarlet helvetica on their flanks. He realized then and there
that he had seen the trains thousands of times over, but never once had set eyes
on the
He began counting its boxcars, hoppers, tanks, TOFC and stacks and it struck him
that he had not even noticed the train coming. There had been no great noise to
it as if it had built momentum long before then had blown past him like a ghost.
There was no clicking or clacking, only a low whir and then whoosh, the thing
was gone, just a blinking beacon tagged on the coupler of the trailing well car.
"Wonder where the caboose went?" he wondered out loud.
He remembered a story he'd read when he was a boy, about two local teenagers
who'd hopped a freight train and rode it halfway across the nation to Oregon.
Now he would have loved to hop it and go somewhere, anywhere at all to be away
from the life he achingly had carved for himself.
He decided to walk the track westbound, so he doffed his suit jacket, loosened
his tie and strode unencumbered, looking east then west before stepping between
the rails, checking for more speeding trains. He touched the polished steel and
found it hot. The wooden ties, marching ceaselessly, reeked of tar. He focused
far down the track where the train's blipping taillight just now was
disappearing into the wiggly heat.
Vern went west, trying to walk only on every other of the ties which were
nestled in a tight bed of neat gray stones. In their endless run, he saw a
metaphor for his own life, like countless days vanishing one into the next. He
began to sweat. He loosened the tie further and found himself mesmerized by the
walking, one tie leading to another to another. Soon he could not stop himself.
There was something liberating about it as if he were going to leave everything
behind: A devoted wife, two kind daughters and five grandchildren, and a routine
and secure job.
Despite the blanket of humidity, he stayed his course, going past the point
where County Route 4 departed the tracks. Soon he found himself surrounded only
by cornfields, the rails riding an elevated roadbed that sliced through the land
like a level shot.
"Vern, Vern, Vern...where ya goin', buddy," he said, chuckling. "You been good,
gone to work every day, raised your children, provided for your wife." Then he
paused: "But what about ol' Vern? It's time for Vern."
He continued walking for five
minutes, then five more. Then five more. He was not physically fit, but no mind.
The walking made him feel young again. He began wishing he'd been walking for
years, that it would have kept him young. "Definitely should have taken up
walking long ago," he said. The countryside had turned stone silent, its
unyielding sky swallowing sound whole. When the steel rail clicked in expansion,
the tick of it immediately was lost in the air.
He began to think about the tax department. He liked the
people but knew them too well. The familiarity was comforting but, in the end,
troubling. Why, he thought, had he not followed the trail west before, not just
to
Then from behind came a somber wail. First, it did not register, but then Vern
winced and spun to find another freight train bearing down on him, its triad of
pulsing lights more intense than even daylight. It spooked him that he hadn't
heard it coming, and abruptly he realized how much danger there was in the
world, that perhaps his safe life was best. His adrenaline surged and he lept
from the track and skidded down the loose ballast slope. Within fifteen seconds,
the train was hurtling past, the engineer laying heavy on the air chimes in
doppler, and wagging his finger at Vern as if to say "What are you doin' Vern!
Gonna get killed Vern!"
He watched the train with the awe of a child, was marginally cooled by its hot
draft, and counted its cars, every one the same, sixty-seven in all. They looked
like the type that would carry coal but from his low angle, he could see no coal
piled in them. The train made much more noise than the previous one, as if the
cars might be empty and their steel shells might be picking up the sound and
reverberating it. Vern then realized that his heart was thumping from arousal
and fear, and so he took a moment to regain his composure and dust off his
trousers, then climbed the bank and continued walking the ties west.
He now felt guilty, and alternately exhilarated, about leaving work, a
counterpoint of moods that he could nary explain. He realized how patently alien
it was for him to be strolling on a railroad track and dreaming of escape when
his co-workers were back at the office, stamping forms and making small talk.
Then and there, just for fun, he decided that he did not want to go back to the
tax department.
The daily drive was long, almost an hour each way, and the work was tedious,
processing forms, one after another after another, like the railroad ties
underfoot. Vern knew he was a stamp-pad-man, no kidding himself about that. His
only reward was security. But his house was paid off and his daughters married.
What need had he for that job? he thought. "Why go back?" he said. "Maybe I'll
just die," he added. "Just throw myself in front of a train. Or ride the rails
west."
As he walked the endless tangent, he noticed that the track was heading for a
split, that a switch in the main line led to a siding track that ran parallel to
the main, all the way to the horizon. He could fathom no reason for such
arrangement, but there it was, one track dividing into two. He decided to rest,
so he sat on the rail, but soon it was burning his rear end, so he rose again to
standing. He worried that his pants were getting dirty, and then let go the
concern. "Won't need these pants clean much longer," he joked aloud.
As he gazed westward, he began to compare the tracks to his own existence. He
had stayed on the main track, but now wondered where the other might lead. As
far as he could see, it ran parallel but he was sure that somewhere down the
line it would find a new route, go south perhaps. He thought about life in
general, where everyone starts out on the same track, while some gradually split
away. If you have the courage to split away. So he decided he'd follow the track
less traveled.
Vern jumped up on the rail and began to walk it like a boy, foot over foot over
foot, balancing himself with arms outstretched. Despite his clumsy stature, he
made fifteen steps before falling off. He re-mounted the rail and started
walking again, this time over the switch. But one false move put his foot down
between the outer rail and the leg of the switch point. As he was trying to free
it, the trackside switch box began to gurgle and grind and the switch itself
moved, as if by remote control, squeezing his foot in the mechanism.
Vern worked to free his foot, pulling vigorously, but to no avail. It was wedged
tight, and even was crushed to the extent of causing him minor pain. Vern began
to panic.
Suddenly he wished he were safely back at work and quickly decided that he
definitely would not leave his family and job behind. In the vagrant life, he
knew, a train might mow him down or he might be murdered by transients. Yes,
that is what had happened to the young men from his youth: They'd been killed.
Now he was certain that he did not want to die by jumping in front of a train.
Now he just wanted to get his damned foot out of the switch.
After a minute of trying, Vern knew the score. "Oh, dear God," he mumbled,
looking skyward. "Dear God, what have we got ourselves into here?!" he cried
aloud, sweat flooding off him now as he worked his foot fruitlessly while rushes
of adrenaline contributed to a sense of heightened dread. With the sun hammering
him, Vern quickly fell desperately thirsty and craved a drink of anything,
water, juice, soda, "ANYTHING!!" he found himself shouting, realizing that the
intrepid life could cripple him in myriad ways: Thirst, hunger, death. Then he
shouted "HELP!" but there was nobody to hear it, only a raven that had settled
on the polished rail as if to mock him.
"GO GET HELP!" he shouted at the bird, feeling the more focused solar beam now
degrading him, inch by inch. "Heat stroke," he muttered. Sweat dripped off the
tip of his nose, and soaked his white shirt. "HELP!" he shouted.
"HELP!"
Vern now wished more intently than ever that he never had left his job. He
really hadn't been all that sick, just a little tired, he guessed. He missed the
air-conditioned comfort of his office, and his padded chair. He looked at his
watch and knew that he'd have been preparing to go soon, back to his welcoming
home and a bountiful meal prepared by a loving wife, as he had six-thousand
nights before. Now he considered the consequences of his truancy and promised
aloud: "God, if you help me here, I SWEAR!... I'll go back to work and be a good
guy!"
Hearing no response, Vern began to feel not only seared on his fair skin, but
inside too. His stomach twisted in a way that threatened to devour him. He
estimated that his foot had been caught five minutes and checked his watch.
"Four-twenty," he said, looking behind himself as best he could, down the track
where the two speeding trains'd come from.
He began to think about his life, that it might end soon.
He thought about his mother and her welcoming parlor on the farm in
Vern started to feel dizzy and dazed, and wanted to sit, but the disposition of
the foot wouldn't allow it. He imagined that if he passed out, that he would
fall and break his leg, and he found the idea so unnerving that he redoubled his
effort to stay alert. Then he had a panicked flash, that a train was throttling
up behind him. He tried to spin to see it, which was painful to his back. No
train. "Maybe that switch'll move again," he thought but it remained aligned for
the main track no matter how hard he stared at it. Far, far in the distance, he
spotted a farmer on his tractor, but there was no use yelling.
Vern began to think about his affairs being in order, his will, bank account and
all. He took his wife's and daughters' and grandchildren's photos from his
wallet and kissed them, then searched his pockets for a pen with which to write
a farewell notice, around the frame of a dollar bill, he figured. He knew a
train never would see him in time, this speck on the prairie of life. So Vern
prepared to die. "Should have heeded that engineer," he said. "I'm not a very
good vagabond." The heat was beginning to make him feel as though he surely was
going to faint, when he was revivified by a terrifying sight, a light beam
approaching from dead-ahead west. "OH, DEAR GOD!" he shouted. "OH, DEAR GOD
ALMIGHTY!"
He could not bear to look, but just as well, he could not take his eyes away. He
began to gesture frantically but conceded that the engineer would not see him in
time. Then he changed his mind. "YES! HE'LL SEE ME!" he said. "I'M NOT GONNA
DIE!" But reflecting on the basic laws of physics, he knew it would take a long
time to halt the train whose light scorched him even more than the sun itself.
Terror gripped Vern. "They'll never see me," he sobbed quietly.
The train took a long time to approach, and Vern's fear began to overwhelm him.
He vomited on the track. The oily stink of the creosoted crossties sickened him
further. He vomited again. As the light moved closer, he began to quake, and
waved his hands maniacally in one last gesture to living. Then, to his relief,
he realized that the train was moving slowly, and that it was not on the main
track but on the parallel. Finally it halted several hundred feet down the rail
beyond a signal stand, and the engineer began blasting his horn, as if to signal
Vern who screamed, "I'M STUCK!! HELP ME!!"
The engineer popped the front hatch of the safety cab and descended the
locomotive's ladder to the ballasted V between tracks. He began walking toward
Vern, then urgently picked up the pace when he realized that something was
amiss. "HELP ME! HELP!" Vern screamed, twisting partway around and, in a specter
that chilled him to his core, spotted from the corner of his eye a bright lamp
far down the rail.
"MOVE!! NOW!!" the engineer shouted. "WESTBOUND'S COMIN' FAST!"
"I CAN'T! MY FOOT'S STUCK!"
The engineer ran toward Vern. "HOLY MERCY ME!" he yelled, then reversed course
and hurried back toward the locomotive, hollered up at the fireman: "STOP THAT
WESTBOUND! STOP IT NOW! CALL THE DISPATCHER! STOP IT NOW! AND TELL 'EM TO THROW
THAT SWITCH! EAST END OF BOONE SIDING! HIS FOOT'S CAUGHT!"
Vern had no recourse but to pray. He covered his eyes as the engineer tried to
jerk his foot from the switch, without success. "TAKE A MILE TO STOP THAT
TRAIN!" the engineer shouted. Vern knew deep inside that the train was less than
one mile off. He could not hear it yet, but the headlamp was clear in his mind,
its beam burning the back of his head. "HOW D'JA EVER GET IN THIS MESS?!"
Seeing the futility of the situation, the engineer commenced running east as
fast as he possibly could.
Next thing, Vern heard a shrieking sound. He blocked his ears and prayed. The
shrieking came closer and closer, and he felt the train bearing down on him, its
beam now melting straight through his heart. The screeching of the steel brake
pads on the steel wheels pierced his eardrums, and as he turned partway again,
he saw the lead locomotive within striking distance, billows of blue brake smoke
issuing from its trucks. The engineer who had tried to help him now was just a
bystander, crouching trackside with his hands held to his cheeks in horror.
At the very moment when all seemed surely lost, the switch point moved, freeing
Vern's foot. He threw himself off the track and somersaulted down the stone
banking as the locomotive’s speed ground down quickly, squealing and squealing
until it finally came to a halt directly over the spot where Vern had been
trapped.
After a moment of dreamy silence, Vern heard the various trainmen shouting in
anger and shock. They gathered around Vern who was laying face down, and who now
was hyperventilating and patting his bloodied cheek. "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT
ABOUT, PARTNER!?" screamed the pilot of the westbound "COULDA KILLED US ALL!"
Vern began to convulse. He turned over onto his back and sat upright, but could
not stop himself from shaking. He vomited again, this time in his lap. When he
had regained a bit of his composure, he laid down on his back again and asked
the men to give him a moment to recoup. The two engineers angrily pulled Vern to
his feet.
"IDIOT!"
"I'm really sorry," Vern said, quaking. "My foot got stuck. The switch moved
like magic."
"Dispatcher throws the switches in
"In
"Yeah, it's magic alright!" The engineer's voice dripped disdain.
Soon a county sheriff's cruiser, beacons blazing, came bumping down the
trackside maintenance road and halted near the men.
"VERN?!" said the officer, climbing out. "What the heck..."
Vern ran to, and embraced, the policeman. "Dan... I.. I was just walking and,
and my foot got stuck..."
"You OK?"
"Yes. Thanks to these wonderful men."
The westbound's hogger said, "Union Pacific's gonna file big-time trespass
charges. Against this idiot!"
"Go ahead! File! I'll gladly pay the price. I'm really sorry you guys." Vern's
lip quivered and he began to sob. Blood dripped from his cheek. "I'm just a
silly old man."
"Mighta damaged the train. You don't go into emergency every day."
"I think I better go now," said Vern. "I never even thought
about the railroad until now. Does it really go to the
"You freakin' fruitcake..." muttered the engineer.
"Let's go Vern," said the policeman. And to the trainmen: "I'll file a report. I
know this man."
As they retreated down the rutted dirt road, there was only silence. Then the
cop asked, "What the heck got into you, Vern?"
Vern only could shake his head. "I disbelieve it myself. I was just..." and he
went silent.
"Just what?"
"Dreaming, I guess."
"Dreamin'?! About what?!"
"Just... about... leaving? Remember that story, when we were kids, about those
guys who... who hopped a freight train?"
"What the heck you talkin' about Vern? Where you goin' Vern?" The cop laughed.
The cruiser suddenly heaved up and down.
Vern let his breath go. "It's hard to explain. You know how sometimes you just
want to..."
"To what Vern?"
"Just... run away."
"Oh, that!" The cop laughed. "Yeah, right. Don't we all. Yep, every day. Yes
siree. I just wanted to yesterday. Then I remembered I needed to put out the
garbage." He chuckled. "God, no, Vern, this is where you belong. You aren't goin'
anywhere."
Vern said nothing. His emotions ran the gamut. In a half-minute, they had
reached his car. "Seems like I walked miles," he said. Then: "Someday I'll tell
you about it, OK Dan?"
"Pretty soon. I'll be in touch Vern. We’ll fill out a report in the morning, OK?
Stop by my office."
As he prepared to exit the cruiser, the policeman touched Vern's arm lovingly.
"Vern, we've known each other since we were kids. I always knew you always would
be here. Where you belong."
As the sheriff peeled away, Vern stared for an extended moment at the halted
train. The side of one boxcar, whose door was slid wide open, said SOUTHERN
GIVES A GREEN LIGHT TO INNOVATION. Vern wondered about the 'southern' part,
someplace far away. He started his car, and gunned it onto the highway, excited,
sad, relieved and frightened, even a little angry. Air flowing in the window
cooled him, and as he recovered, he began to think about the train, his stuck
foot, his job, Dan the cop. Then he pulled over and sat, just thinking, the
stopped train still in view.
He began driving again, but pulled to the side again, U-turned, drove back to
the dusty turnoff where he first had encountered the track, and shut the car
down. At that moment, the train began to inch westward. At first, Vern was
frozen. But then, in a wink, he lept from his car, hustled alongside the train
and struggled to pull himself up into the open boxcar. Once inside, as his
beloved
Nine Nine Nine Three Six Nine Eight Six Four
“Hi”. He tipped his head and offered a managed smile.
“Hello,” she replied somewhat shyly, taking a seat two stools away.
After he drained the last of his daiquiri, he asked her, “What’s your name?” He
nervously palmed peanuts from the bowl in front of him. Just speaking to the
woman had raised his chemistry.
“Vivian.” She looked away.
“Hi, I’m George.” He extended his hand. She shook it reluctantly. “What’s your
social security number?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. To the bartender: “A white wine, please.” Her head shook
side to side.
“And I’ll have another daiquiri,” said George. “Make it a double, like the last
one.”
“The last two…” said the barkeep.
“Right.”
Vivian looked over at him. She found him handsome. “Easy there, friend.”
“So now I’m your friend?”
“What’s with that social security thing? Some new sort of bad come-on?” She did
not know why she was engaging him.
George threw his hands up. He’d been enveloped by a puff of cigaret smoke from
the couple next to him. “Um… actually I read it…” He felt low, and sheepish.
Vivian laughed. “That is one of the
stupidest lines I’ve ever heard in my entire life!”
George grimaced and hesitated. “OK, I read it in a book. A book about picking up
girls, OK? For guys like me, who can’t meet girls. They say that if you, you
know, surprise a girl, you know, a woman… that she’ll feel like she had to talk
to you because she’ll be, like, flustered.” George was waving his hand aimlessly
in the air. “They gave a list. One of the things on it was the social security
number.” His voice was practically inaudible now, and he was sweating.
“Or maybe she’ll walk away. Fast.” The bartender put her wine on the bar. She
had lightened inexplicably and quashed a smile. He slid a fresh bowl of cheese
doodles in front of her. She felt attracted to George and compelled to talk to
him.
“That’s an interesting approach,” joked the barkeep. “Four dollars,” he said to
Vivian.
Vivian
reached for her purse, but George interrupted her as the daiquiri was set before
him by the understudy mixologist. “No, no, I’ve got it,” said George, touching
her hand. “Read that in the book too. That you buy the lady a drink.” He slapped
twenty dollars on the bar. “And keep the change. Just to show the girl what a
big spender I am.” He smiled at Vivian.
The barkeep moved away, punched the register and rang the bell. George was
flushed now, slightly tipsy but somewhat glum that he had painted himself into a
conversational black hole. He typically shied from bold repartee with women
because he’d failed at it so many, many times. Now he was at sea and knew not
how to reach land. But he felt Vivian’s tug. And she represented contact. He
felt that the social security line actually had worked. At least she was paying
him mind and he’d even seen her smile. “Where are you from?” he asked as gently
as he could.
“I live in
“I’m from
“My sister lives here. I’ve come once every two years for the last four years.”
“That’s twice.”
“Three times.”
“I’m here on business,” said George. “Wonderful airport
they’ve got here. I’m killing time.
“I don’t spend much time at airports. I’m mostly with my kids.”
“I spend too much time at airports,” George replied, sipping the daiquiri and
licking his lip. “All business. No kids.” He looked away. “Sometimes it makes
you wonder what it’s all for…” he found himself musing.
She popped a doodle in her mouth. “Uh-oh! Life alert! Life alert! Man in
Concourse Three wondering what life is all about! Mayday! Mayday!” she jested.
“You’re killing me here!” he said, their eyes meeting.
She spied at the next-door newsstand a magazine cover that suggested something
she wanted to read. “I’m sorry, George. I mean, there’s lots of things to do in
life. Not just have a… a family…”
“Yeah, no family. Yahoo…”
“George,” she said, putting her hand on his arm.” I didn’t mean that. I’m
sorry.” She took a much-needed sip of wine and scrambled for some hook to
continue the conversation.
George was comforted by the way she had touched him and had said his name. He
got bold. He remembered reading in the pick-up book that once started, you
should stick to your strategy even if the situation seemed hopeless. “So what
is your social security number?” he
wondered.
“Oh, please…” Then: “George, you seem awfully nice. Why do you hide behind some
advice book?” Their eyes met yet again, and hers spoke to him. Now he was sure
the strategy was working. And she did not know why she was continuing to talk to
him.
George straightened. Her compliment further emboldened him. He began to speak,
but could not breathe. He cut off his words.
“No, no, go ahead,” she said, shaking her head up and down and sipping anew the
wine.
He took a large gulp from his drink. The airport’s PA system began paging a
doctor for an emergency in Departure Lounge 37. George popped upright. “My gosh,
I thought he was calling my name!”
“When?”
“He said ‘Dr. DeRider’ and my name is George Ryder. But not ‘doctor’.” His mood
slumped and he looked toward the television where a batter whiffed a pitch. “I
do wish I was married. Do you follow baseball?”
“Nah.” Vivian gazed off wistfully. “My husband did. But he passed away.
Wonderful man. The kids miss him so much.”
“I’m sorry. How old are your kids?”
“Nineteen and sixteen and fourteen.”
“I’d love to meet them.”
She spoke forcefully. “When they’re little, you think they’ll never be so much
fun again. Then when they get older, you realize that they’re your kids and that
they’re your treasure forever.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Vivian found herself unable to speak.
“How old are you?” George asked.
She did not answer.
He asked again.
“Forty-six,” she said. “But I didn’t tell you that, OK?”
George smiled in understanding. “Me too. Forty-six.”
“Welcome to the club.”
In the distance, George spotted a jetliner rising at an unusually flat angle off
the tarmac. Grey clouds had rolled out and the sky was lifting. He sipped his
drink and touched his forehead. “They say the weather goes west to east. I guess
I’ll be leaving soon.”
“No!”
“What?!” George almost knocked over his drink.
Vivian recoiled. “I… I mean, no, don’t go… if… if the airport is fogged in. You
might… get hurt…”
“Did your husband die in a plane crash?”
“Yes. Of the injuries. Months later. How did you know?”
George fumbled with his napkin which he’d balled up. “I didn’t.”
Vivian swallowed a big mouthful of wine which went immediately to her head. “So
what is your passion, George?”
He checked his watch. “I’d be leaving the office right now. I go home every day
at the same time and I watch the same shows every week. That’s a heck of a life
isn’t it?”
“Depends on what you do?”
“I do IT for Union Pacific. The railroad. Mr. Middle
She straightened and focused on the glasses rack. George was sure he’d bored
her. “Oh, gosh!” Vivian said suddenly. “I’ve got to call my son! I just
remembered. He had some college tests today. Wanted to see how they went.”
“So call…”
“I’ll call in a half-hour. Are your parents still alive?”
“My Mom is hanging in there. My adopted Mom.”
“My parents were the sweetest, most loving people. They died young.”
“I like you Vivian,” George found himself saying.
She felt light. “You’re very kind George. Did the book tell you to get right to
the point? Or is your destiny revealing itself?”
“Do you ever come to
“I’ve never been. I hear it’s pretty. Is it really windy?”
George sipped his drink. “It’s because of the
Vivian looked blank.
Then continuing he said: “Yes, I’ve never been to
“George, you OK?”
He slapped his own cheek. “I can’t believe I said that.”
“What?”
“That I’ve never been to
“Well, you have or you haven’t.”
“I was born in
“Me too.”
George now was feeling the cumulative effect of two days’ hard work, an
early-morning meeting, a long plane delay and the subsequent boredom. And now
almost three big daiquiris. “I’m adopted,” he confessed as if it were news. A
pair of businessmen brushed hard past him toting heavy briefcases. They
apologized.
“I’m adopted too, George. But I’ve had a good life.”
“Never said you didn’t. What makes you say that anyway?”
She drank a gulp of wine and looked toward the television. “Because we’re
supposed to think it’s all OK when sometimes it really isn’t.”
“You mean the lack of an identity?”
Vivian covered her eyes. “I got over that years ago.”
“What’s your birthday?”
“June 24.”
“Mine too! Slap me five!” George was elated now, and almost drunk. They slapped
hands. “So what is your social security number?”
“Oh, come on…”
“No really, if I hadn’t asked that in the first place, we wouldn’t be talking.
The book worked. Now I have to know.” Their eyes met again, this time in fire.
He was defiant.
“Do you believe in fate, George?”
“I would never deny it.” He popped several peanuts in his mouth.
“Bartender, what do you think of George?” she demanded.
“Like a dozen other guys,” said the barkeep, with a grin. “Sorry, ma’am I don’t
even know him. Seems like a sweet guy. That’s all I can say.”
“And you do work on tips,” George said, giggling and feeling bombed and pushing
his Seiko to the yonder side of his wrist as if to push time away, to extend his
interlude with Vivian. He pulled from his inside breast pocket his electronic
organizer and typed V-I-V-I-A-N. “What’s your damned phone number?” he asked
her.
“I thought we were on my social security number?”
“Not anymore.”
“I don’t give that out. My phone number. You think I’m nuts?” She brushed back
her hair and surveyed the blabbering clientele around her to assure herself that
she indeed was not alone with a madman.
“I think we need to see one another. I’m finding myself attracted to you. Like
no other woman.” George was speaking from the gut now.
“Give me yours. Phone number. I’ll make the first move,” said Vivian.
George wrote the number on a napkin imprinted with a damp circle from his second
daiquiri. “It’s OK to leave a message. I’ll await your call. And since you won’t
give me your phone number, how about your social security number?”
She took the napkin and grimaced. “Don’t push your luck, there, buddy. So you
can trace me and find everything out about me? Sorry. You might be one of those
internet nuts.” She was somewhat angry and upset now, then not. She wanted both
to get away from George but to embrace him at the very same moment.
“No, I…”
Vivian turned cold. She found herself blurting out her social security number.
“Nine nine nine three six nine eight six four… There I said it.”
George stroked his forehead and paused. “You’re just silly,” he said, now
feeling completely bombed.
“Aren’t you going to type it in?”
He tapped his temple. He began entering the numbers into his organizer, then
stopped and shut the device. Then he snatched back the napkin. “Don’t bother
calling. I’ll just die alone.” Then he reeled. He stared at the ashtray and
began to feel woozy. The room now was spinning and he almost tumbled off his
stool. The couple next to him broke into laughter and at first he thought they
were laughing at him and so he cast them a vicious glance. Then he paused. He
rose from his seat and almost fell over drunk. He grabbed his briefcase and
looked wide-eyed in terror at Vivian. “What the… what the HELL ARE YOU, ONE OF
THOSE INTERNET FREAKS! GO AROUND FINDING THINGS ABOUT PEOPLE AND…AND…
CONFRONTING THEM AT… AT… AIRPORTS!!” George was shouting now. The whole bar’s
attention turned on him. A baseball batter on the television popped out.
“Hey, hey calm down, OK buddy,” the barkeep urged.
“YOU GO AROUND POKING
INTO PEOPLES’ LIVES! FIND OUT EVERY DETAIL! THEN… THEN… WHAT… YOU GONNA SHAKE ME
DOWN!? WHAT YOU WANT, CASH!? HERE!! HERE’S A HUNDRED BUCKS!! JUST STAY AWAY FROM
ME MISS NINE NINE NINE THREE SIX NINE EIGHT SIX THREE!!”
George took a handful of twenties from his wallet and threw
them at the bar. One fluttered to the floor. He backed away from Vivian in fear
and dread.
Vivian lept to her feet. “George, I’m sorry! What did I say!?”
George picked up his briefcase, spun and quickly threaded his way through a
clutch of conventioneers sporting name tags and partying near the end of the
bar, then, without apology, shoved his way through the remaining patrons. He
scurried into the airport’s main thoroughfare.
Vivian set out after him. “GEORGE!” she hollered. “GEORGE!! WAIT!!”
He hurtled down the concourse, tripping over a baggage cart and skidding across
the floor on his chest in a violent tumble. Quickly regaining his bearing and
shunning aid from a surprised onlooker, he hurried toward the moving floor, lept
onto it and looked back to see if Vivian’d gained on him.
In the meantime, she had removed her pumps and tossed them side. She continued
in stocking feet. “GEORGE!!” she shouted after him. “GEEEEOOOORRRRRGE!!!!”
Heads turned.
Sweating now, he hopped off the moving floor and hurried toward Departure Lounge
37 where paramedics were tending to a prostrate stewardess. An oxygen mask had
been shoved onto her face. He lept over a row of seats while Vivian followed
close behind, weaving around the seats and narrowly avoiding a collision with a
pair of pilots. “GEORGE!! I NEED TO TALK TO YOU!!”
He ducked into a cordoned arrival area and was confronted by uniformed
personnel. “Sir, this area is closed!” commanded one agent.
George now was at the wall, corralled by a security man. Vivian finally caught
him. Panting, she grasped his arm as he fell to his knees in a form of trauma.
“George, what did I say!!??”
A cop, who had witnessed the wild action, arrived on scene and pulled a
trembling and dazed George to his feet. “OK, what’s going on here!”
George was caught in the hook of the policeman’s arm. His glasses had been
knocked askew on his nose. The cop asked Vivian, “OK, what’s going on here,
Miss!!”
Vivian was catching her breath. Her face was flushed and her heart was
thundering, reverberating in her ear like she never had heard it before. She
looked down at her stockinged feet and saw that the hose was dabbled in blood.
She put her hands to her face. “I… I don’t know, officer. George and I were just
having a conversation and…”
“JUST HAVING A CONVERSATION??!!” George screamed. “THIS BITCH HAS MY SOCIAL
SECURITY NUMBER, AND I’VE NEVER MET HER BEFORE!! SHE SAYS HER BIRTHDAY IS THE
SAME AS MINE!! SHE SAYS SHE’S THE SAME AGE AS ME!!” At that moment, George’s
briefcase snapped open and its contents spilled to the floor.
The cop shook his head. “A-right, a-right, what’s going on here?!” he demanded
to know. A second officer now had arrived on the scene.
George regained his composure. His breathing slowed. He continued speaking as
calmly as he could. “This… this woman…
we were sitting at the bar and I asked her ‘What’s your social security number?’
you know, like a stupid pickup line…”
The policeman’s eyes met Vivian’s and she nodded agreement. “And…” said the cop.
“So she finally told it to me, but she told me
my social security number!” George
thumped his index finger into his chest. “She’s obviously one of those
internet freaks who finds out stuff
about people…” George’s voice had taken to warbling out of nervous energy and
fear.
“George! I told you my number! Maybe you were confusing it with yours! Maybe they’re
somewhat similar! I mean, you’re kind of drunk!!” Vivian was beginning to shake
and to cry. Her adrenaline now had caught her.
George touched his bleeding lip as if disgusted. It was swollen from the fall at
the baggage cart. He shook his head awake. He did not speak. The cop took up the
slack, asking, “OK, OK, why don’t both of you show me some ID, like driver’s
license and including your social security numbers, OK?” The policeman gave a
stumped look to a third officer who had arrived on an electric cart. “Little
mixup,” he said, rolling his eyes.
George removed his wallet from his pocket. Vivian produced hers from her purse.
Each fumbled for the requested documents. The cop looked over the social
security cards. “OK, OK, what kind of little game are you two playing? What is
this, some kind of scam?”
“What?”
“Huh?”
“You tell me…” The cop showed the cards to the holders. Vivian’s read
999-36-9864. George’s read 999-36-9863. In the silence, the loudspeaker paged a
paramedic. George reeled, staggered and speechless. Vivian was paralyzed and her
mouth dropped wide. Her eyes locked onto George’s. His hands met hers and
grasped them tight.
“VIVIAN!!” he screamed, bear-hugging her like he never had embraced any person
every before. “VIVIAN, MY GOD!!”
“GEORGE!” she exclaimed through tears. “OH MY GOD, GEORGE!!” she hollered,
shrieking in joy. “GEORGE!!!”
As the cop wagged his head in incredulity, the small clutch of assembled gawkers
broke into a light round of bemused applause. The officers all just shrugged and
grinned, about what they did not know. A mustachioed janitor, happening upon the
tableau, inquired in broken English as to what might have caused such a scene,
and a man in a Burberry raincoat replied straight up that he simply did not know
what could have sparked this display of unconditional joy, but that it must have
been something really, really special and very, very vital.