Leaving
Wayland
“Where you trying to get to?” came the first words I heard when I climbed into the
boxcar.
“Or, more importantly, where you running from?” someone added. I couldn’t see
anybody on account of it was so dark. The sound of steel grinding under the train car began
patterning out into a rhythm.
It smelled like sweat and tobacco, and the metal floor was cold. As the train picked up
speed, the sliding door began to rattle on its hinges. I didn’t say anything, waiting to see the faces
beside me.
When we finally made it out into open farmland and moonlight spilled into the car, I
could see two boys older than me. One was tall, with glasses and tangled brown hair. He sat on a
homemade backpack, fiddle at his side. The other, the rougher of the two, was smaller and
blonde, and it seemed he had nothing but a beat up guitar case.
“I suppose I’m headed the same place you are,” I told him, “considering we’re on the
same track.”
They laughed, but it weren’t the kind of laugh that made you feel good—not like my
daddy’s laugh.
I was lucky to already have a name that could pass for a boy (even though my mama said
the spelling was different, but I figured I didn’t have to write it out for noboby).
“Name’s Francis,” I said, deep as I could. “You two got names?”
The tall one sized me up through his glasses. “Pete,” he said finally. “And this here is
Townes.”
I looked at their instruments, and they must’ve seen it because they asked if I played.
Some of the boys from my daddy’s still used to come around on Sunday afternoons to play and