The Boxcar Blues Read online

  THE

  BOXCAR

  BLUES

  By

  Jeff Egerton

  Text copyright © 2012 Jeff Egerton

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or

  your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is dedicated to all of the courageous men and women who have fought and sacrificed for our country’s freedom.

  Author’s note: This is a story that takes place well before the Civil Rights Act and the concept of political correctness. The book contains terms that some readers might find offensive, but this language was the norm in the 30s and 40s. With this in mind, I made an effort to keep those terms to an absolute minimum.

  PROLOGUE

  In the early 1930s men moved across the land like an endless trickling stream of humanity. They traveled on foot, a few by car, but most by rail; packed inside or piled on top of boxcars. Most of the time they didn’t know where they were going, but kept moving regardless. It wasn’t out of determination, it was out of desperation. There had to be a better life out there somewhere.

  The migrant army was predominantly men, but occasionally women and children tagged along. They could be just as hungry as the men; they could show you the idle stare of hopelessness, same as the men. They could suffer just as deeply. Everyone was different, each suffering in their own way, and yet they were all cut from the same worn and ragged fabric.

  The stream moved in every direction at once. Men heading north to seek work in the auto factories; south to find work picking cotton; east to the tomato crop in New Jersey; west to the hay fields of Imperial, or apple orchards of Washington. The hell of it was, in many cases, once you got there the work was over. Again you had made the trip for naught. You were turned away, usually by armed guards who let you know you weren’t wanted. “Ain’t any more work, get the hell out of here.”

  So, you got the hell out of there, maybe found a hobo jungle or the cardboard shanties of a Hooverville. Then you sat and thought the same thoughts you struggled with in Amarillo, in Birmingham, or Yuma. You pondered your fate at every stop and came up with the same solution, you had to keep moving. Work wasn’t going to come to you. Nobody ever walked into a hobo jungle and offered you a job. But still, you had to keep looking. All of those rumors of work couldn’t be wrong.

  When you couldn’t find a job, you had to eat, so you begged and if that didn’t pay off, you stole. The great lesson of the depression was — you can get used to anything. Life had been reduced to its simplest terms: do whatever you can to stay alive.

  The Great Depression — nothing great about it.

  CHAPTER ONE

  August, 1932. Dakota Springs, Texas

  At mid-afternoon the brutal west Texas sun beat down relentlessly on anything not covered by shade. From his hiding place in the tall field grass Luke Jackson, oblivious to the heat, had been watching a farm house across the road. They had a well stocked hen house and he’d been waiting for the right time to get himself a free chicken dinner.

  For the last few minutes, however, his focus had shifted to a stranger, most likely another homeless soul, shuffling down the dusty gravel road. When the stranger stopped and ducked into the corn field, Luke realized that the guy had also heard the tell tale clucking of an active hen house and his scheme was the same as Luke’s; to steal one of the hens.

  A minute later, Luke heard the rustling of corn husks. He saw the stranger squatting in the grass twenty feet from him. He was certain the guy’s intention was the same as his and he had to beat him to it.

  As soon as Curly Levitz heard the familiar squawking from the hen house, he knew this was too good of a chance to pass up. He settled down in the grass and focused on the farm house watching for any activity that would interfere with his plans to grab a free dinner. He was deep in thought about a plump pullet when the voice scared the hell out of him.

  Luke yelled in a whisper, “Hey kid, wha’chu doin’?

  Curly saw a dark face staring at him from the field grass. Not knowing what to make of the guy he ignored the voice and looked back at the house.

  Luke tried again, “I said, what are you doing? Are you gonna hit that hen house?”

  “Yeah! What’s it to you?”

  “I was here first, that’s what.”

  Curly saw big dark eyes staring out from under a worn fedora. White teeth glowed against the dark skin like a candle in a cave. He said, “I don’t care if you was here first. I’m gonna get one of those hens.”

  Luke’s last meal of two stale tortillas had been two days ago. He was hungry and desperate, a combination that drove men to do things they’d normally never consider. He countered, “You stay put. I’m goin’ first.”

  Because he was just as hungry, Curly wasn’t about to give in. He said, “The hell if you are. I ain’t waiting for no one.”

  Luke had sized him up at first glance. The kid was smaller than him, but had that tough look about him that anyone on the road quickly acquires. If it came to a fight, Luke thought he had the edge.

  He broke for the house. To his chagrin, the kid jumped up and ran beside him. Luke jerked a thumb over his shoulder and barked, “Get back in the field, kid. I’ll get us some chickens.”

  The guy didn’t listen.

  Luke stopped beside the farm house.

  The other hobo, close behind him, said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothin’. I’m just making sure there ain’t no one around.”

  On his hands and knees, Luke crept past two windows. He didn’t hear any sounds coming from the house and hadn’t seen anyone. It was looking better all the time, except for the pest who wouldn’t go away. He tried to scare the kid. “Farmers have been known to shoot at chicken thieves. You sure you wanna do this?”

  “You ain’t gonna scare me off, fella. I’m just as hungry as you are.”

  Luke cursed to himself. Because his odds of getting a bird were better by himself, he wished the kid would have waited in the field. That wasn’t to be, so he asked, “I don’t think there’s anyone in the house. You ready?”

  “Hell yes. Let’s go.”

  Luke thought about the racket chickens made when you grabbed them. He hoped the kid knew enough to wring their necks right quick to shut them up. He took off for the hen house with the kid right behind him. As soon as they ran through the wire and wood door, the resident hens started flapping about and making a ruckus that could be heard in the next county.

  Luke grabbed the first pullet he could catch. He started to wring its neck to shut it up, then saw an axe and chopping block. He laid the frenzied bird on the block and whacked off its head.

  Curly grabbed two pullets. He struggled to behead one while holding the other.

  With an armful of bloody chicken, Luke yelled, “C’mon, kid. Don’t take all day.”

  The door to the farm house flew open. A farmer looking down the barrel of a shotgun rushed toward them. He was tall, madder than hell and yelling in a deep voice, “Put them birds down, you thievin’ bastards!”

  Knowing the guy might shoot any second, the boys stopped and dropped their birds. As if to emphasize their death, the headless chicks flapped aimlessly around in the dirt.

  The farmer looked at his dead birds, spewing out their lasts drops of blood, then back at the boys. He roared, “Already kilt ‘em, hunh? That’s wha
t I ought to do to you two, is take an axe to your necks.”

  The boys backed cautiously away from the enraged farmer. Luke said, “Mister, I ain’t eaten in two days. I’ll do some work around here to pay for those chickens.”

  Curly picked up on the logic, “Me too, mister. I don’t mind doing some chores.”

  The farmer never softened his demeanor. “I don’t want your kind around here. Get your low-down hides off my property and don’t come back.”

  Luke and Curly backed away a few steps, then turned and ran to the field. They picked up their bindles and looked back at the disgruntled farmer. He was watching them with an icy stare; the shotgun in one hand and two dead chickens in the other.

  Curly said, “I feel sorry for the next hobo that hits that hen house.”

  Luke said, “Thanks to you, we didn’t get nuthin’.”

  Curly shot back. “God damn it, it wasn’t my fault.”

  “I could ‘a made it out of there with a nice fat pullet if you didn’t take so long.”

  Curly countered, “I was trying to get us another bird.”

  “You ain’t any good at stealing chickens, that’s for sure.”

  “Shit, I stole more chickens than you’ve ever seen.”

  “You sure talk big.”

  Silence prevailed for the next five minutes. It was like the boys knew there was no point to arguing. They were without a meal and the reason didn’t matter. In the distance a train whistle cut the late afternoon heat. They both looked toward the sound that pulled at them like an invisible shepherd, guiding them toward the tracks that stretched unerringly into the future.

  Luke said, “You gonna catch out?”

  “I don’t know. I might hit the stem first; see if I can get a meal.”

  Luke looked down at the other guy and said, “I don’t do no begging at houses unless black folk live there.”

  “White people don’t give you no food?”

  “Not very often.”

  “There’s some houses up ahead. You wait out of sight and I’ll see if I can get us something.”

  “I hope you’re better at putting the arm on people than you are at stealing chickens.”

  “You just watch. I’ll talk them out of their gold fillings.”

  “You sure talk big.”

  From the cover of a hedge row the boys looked over a recently painted house with a two year old Ford Model A in the driveway.

  Curly said, “This is as good a chance as we’ll find today. When Luke nodded his assent, Curly left to redeem himself. He approached the house and saw the man of the house in the front window lighting his pipe. Perfect. Right after dinner was the best time. He headed for the back door to catch the lady of the house cleaning up. If he was lucky he'd get a warm meal. He always offered to do some work, but most often they'd give him something just to get rid of him. They didn't want no hobo hanging around, even if he was just a kid.

  Hat in hand Curly approached the back door. He knocked softly and a lady answered. With a sorrowful look he stood back and said, "S'cuse me, ma'am. I was wondering if you had any work I could do in exchange for something to eat. I don't need much, just a piece of stale bread or something, an' I'm real good at painting. I'll put a fresh coat on that shed in an hour."

  A plump, gray haired woman wiped her hands on her apron, and said, "Oh, you poor dear, you're just a young boy. Wait here."

  Curly sat down on the stoop. From the smell in the kitchen, he thought he'd soon be feasting on pork chops and potatoes, maybe even a piece of apple pie. He’d make that black kid eat his words.

  Then, when he heard the old man's voice, his thoughts of a warm meal disappeared like smoke in a breeze. "Martha, was that someone at the door?"

  From his tone Curly could tell the old fart wasn't in favor of handouts. The wife said, "It's just a young boy. I was going to give him a pork chop and a slice of bread."

  "The hell if you are. He can go somewhere else for his handouts. I work too damn hard to be supporting every vagrant that knocks on the door. Word gets around we're handing out food and they'll be lined up down the block, trying to eat us out of house and home."

  Curly had heard this song before. He was long gone when the guy threw open the door.

  He walked back to the field, knowing what the black guy was going to say.

  Surprisingly, Luke said, “I knew that house wasn’t no good. They got a new car, curtains on the windows and fancy shutters. Ain’t no way they’re going to give nothing away. Rich people hold onto their fixins like it’s life or death. They don’t know about bein’ hungry.”

  “Yeah, I can’t argue with that.”

  Again the boys walked toward the tracks, watching for another house that might be worth a visit. Every house they passed looked as if it was long deserted; no lights, screens torn, shingles falling like snowflakes. A sad reminder of transient times when people lived somewhere until the rent was due, then left town.

  A quarter mile from the tracks they saw a pear tree that hadn't been picked clean yet. Luke scrambled up the tree and filled his pockets with ripe pears. A block later they sat down under the portico of a closed Standard Oil station and ate most of the pears. Curly said, “Pork chops would have been a lot better. I hope the guy back at that house chokes on his next meal until his fat ass quits breathing.”

  Luke looked off in the distance. He didn’t care if they guy choked or not, he was thinking about his future. He asked, “Where you going next?”

  Curly grabbed handful of pebbles and tossed them one by one at a faded sign. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll catch out and see where I end up. How ‘bout you?”

  “There ain’t no point in staying here.” Luke stood and looked toward the tracks. “We might as well travel together for a while. What’s your name?”

  Curly held out his hand and said, “Abraham Levitz. Most people call me Curly.”

  Luke shook his hand and smiled, “Luke Jackson and everybody calls me Luke.”

  “I kind of like traveling with someone. Don’t do it often. Most of the time I stick to myself.”

  “That’s why you ain’t eaten in so long.”

  “Wha’dya mean, Luke?”

  “You’re the worst chicken thief I’ve ever seen.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  An hour later Luke and Curly hopped into a boxcar on a westbound freight train that was just gathering steam. Out of habit they looked to see who else was in the car. Once the train was under a full head of steam it would be going too fast to jump off and they’d be trapped with their fellow riders, whether they were good or bad, for the entire trip.

  At one end of the boxcar they saw a few men who gave them a cursory glance, then went back to sleep; those weren't the ones they worried about. They were looking for the men who stared at them, sizing them up for robbery or other violent act. Luke was searching for the look of those who carried a hate for black people with them. They weren’t hard to spot because they never hid their hatred; in most cases, they wore it like a badge.

  They didn’t see anyone who looked troublesome, but still Luke decided to hide out in the end of the car that was filled with packing paper. He said, “I’m getting some shut eye under this packing paper. Wake me if you decide to drop off.”

  “O.K.” Curly gathered some paper for padding and sat down near the doorway. As the rhythmical clicking of the wheels increased and the swaying of the boxcar became more erratic, he lowered his head and thought of his family back in upper New York.

  His Dad would be working the fields seven days a week, trying to raise enough produce to feed the family and sell what was left over, if there were buyers with cash. His brothers were too young to leave home, but had wanted to go with him rather than live with the bitch his father had married. She’d moved in and turned their life into a living hell. An ex-school teacher, she’d taken to whacking their hands with a ruler when the chores weren't done to her satisfaction. The last straw had been when she grounded him because he wasn’t payi
ng close attention to her tutoring. He’d complained, but his father said the extra schooling was good for them and they should be grateful for her help. Curly countered with, "It's her or me. If she stays, I'm leaving."

  His Dad said he loved this woman and she was staying. He warned his son there wasn't much work to be had. Undaunted, Curly packed his bags and left that afternoon. Since then he’d traveled over a thousand miles looking for work. Every time he was turned down for a job his Dad’s words rung in his ear. He was thinking about finding work when sleep came.

  Curly woke with a start when he sensed someone near him. Before his eyes could focus in the blue-black light of the approaching dawn, he smelled them; there was no mistaking the gamy scent of hobos. He saw a dirty, tattered man sitting a few feet to his left, between him and the doorway. Dark eyes stared at him from under a worn fedora, but the voice came from his right, "Don't be afraid, boy. We’re your friends and want to give you something to eat."

  Trouble! Nobody ever offered you food in a boxcar. Curly turned his attention to the speed of the train — was it slow enough to jump off? No, the engineer was high-balling it. He had no idea how long before there'd be another water stop. His only defense was to bluff.

  In his huskiest voice, Curly bellowed, "I don’t want your fuckin' food! Get the hell away from me before I throw you off the train."

  "Whew-we," the one on his right said. "We got us a tiger, Gene. He's gonna throw us off the train."

  Curly’s head spun as he looked around the boxcar. It was deserted. He wondered if Luke was still sleeping in the packing paper. Then he calculated his chances of surviving a jump from the fast moving train — they weren’t good.

  The man on his left pulled out a knife. The other one laughed, "He-he, you still gonna throw us off the train, sonny boy?"

  Curly thrust his hand in his jacket pocket and screamed, "I'm packing a rod. Get the hell away from me or I’ll shoot!"