Don’t Ride Railcar UUH17

I once saw a man thrown from a moving train. He was my friend, and he was the first person to try and help me survive the life of hopping freight trains. That’s how things go for us, they change often and suddenly. I had to do bad things in order to not follow him. Well, those guys that gave him the toss did bad things to me… they were definitely done to me. I had to let them.

I was just seventeen then, so it had to have been about ten years ago? I don’t really keep track of days like most people. Could be more or less, doesn’t matter, the fact is he wasn’t the only person I’ve seen kilt. It's not the life my parents had planned for me, neither. They had good jobs, good homes and good intentions. The intentions flew out the window once my brother was born deformed. Then they had none of those things, as the medical bills, anger and a forgotten little boy helped collapse the foundation of that home. I doubt they even alerted the police when they realized I was gone. Better to be rid of the demon child with higher expectations than being a caretaker.

It was unfair of them to assume I would grow up to take care of Jacob when they died. They never even bothered to ask me, I could just see it. What else was I supposed to interpret finding my torn up acceptance letters in the garbage as, no doubt they left them there for me to find. The last straw was a home-cooked meal, hosting my dad’s boss from the factory… coaxing me down the path into his nightmare with a promise of a job in exchange for servitude. Fuck that you dead-eyed, flannel clad, zombie. 

I was not prepared for that decision, and it took me a long time to come to grips with it. Suburbia had not raised me for the harsh reality that awaits someone who wonders on railcars. It’s fucking brutal. It would have been easier to get a Xanax prescription and become the drone my parents raised me to be, but my heart wasn’t into that. I don’t do drugs at all in fact. 

It probably stems from watching a guy named Stu arrive in Portland one arm light and low on blood. Fucker decided to take PCP IN our railcar and FLIPPED OUT. Ended up ripping open the door, just green trees whizzing by, and sticking his arm out, grab onto them. This impressive act of courageous idiocy flung him back against the door and separated his body from his arm at the shoulder. I listened to him scream the rest of the way, and pondered whether it would have been better had he not stayed in the car, and just flown out with his arm. Being dead might be better than being a one armed bum. He did not appreciate my suggestion that he add “wounded vet” to his panhandling schtick, and moaned at me about it. I didn’t care, what was he gonna do, fight me?

Obviously, the question as to the appeal of this life is a constant point of discussion, usually over firelight and communal pint of cheap booze. Why do you do this dangerous lonely thing? The answer is universal but comes in different forms. Best I can come up with, we are all just pieces of the wrong puzzle, in a box with a picture we don’t match, bought at a second hand store for five bucks. Perhaps we are all looking for our right box out here. 

My reason… My favorite part, I guess, is the time in the railcar, with the door ajar, just watching the scenery fly by as I have deep conversation with a complete stranger, while tugging on a pint bottle. Being alone is fine, but interviewing the dark souls of wanderers by torch light is what gets me going. Their stories are better than yours, their philosophy has been tested in ways your average person will never. 

Your average person will never have to say a prayer, hoping that the person you're about to ride, alone and illegally with, for an unknown number of hours isn’t high on meth and violent… or god forbidden horny. Deep shit bonus points if they’re all those things and armed. 

But that is not why I’m bothering to write this post, on a phone that I stole from a gas station attendant. I need to warn you never to ride in railcar UUH17.

Of all the advice I received in my life in the wild, the most bullshit piece was about the red boxcar UUH17. Every few years I’d meet someone and they would warn me to choose any other car if you see the face of the devil. That was the only similarity between these encounters. The rest of the story was always different, and obviously fake.  I laughed at them.

A guy westbound from Gatlinburg told me it was filled with spiders. Another, while we baked in a stalled boxcar outside Phoenix, claimed he nearly drowned when water started to pour from the ceiling…This man lied to my face in the middle of the desert! I always saw through them, no matter how hysterical they became, they were just some jackass trying to pass a scary story off like real experience. After Phoenix, not three weeks later, I heard from this lady that she watched her brother melt on the way to Tallahassee, and I had had it. 

Melt… like a chocolate bar in the fucking sun. It was then I vowed to ride every car I saw with a Devil graffitied on the side of it. If that was an option, that’s what I aimed for. I thought it fitting, considering what my parents used to call me. The demon child... in a demon car. Badass.

They were always specific about UUH17, but I had never bothered to look at the numbers anyways… who gives a fuck what they’re called, so I just decided I might as well make it my thing. Eventually, if it were gonna show up, it would; and so it became muscle memory to ride with the devil. 

UUH17 caught me leaving Sacramento, headed back to Portland. Hell, for all I know, I probably passed Stu’s decomposed arm inside it. I had completely forgotten of its existence at this point; a condition I would never be able to enjoy again. I remember thinking the face on the side was a lot more elaborate than any other I had seen. It had unsettled me as I hopped on and slammed the door home to my own personal hellscape. 

I have worked for a long time to repress this ride, but no amount of brown liquor could wipe clean its memory completely. Bits and pieces of it come back to me in moments of idle silence, causing me to yell like a wounded and afraid coyote. 

My mother and father were in railcar UUH17 along with me. Them and that thing they call their son. They grew monstrous out of the shadows and into the dark lantern light, tall and hollow looking. Doting on that creation, that grotesque mound of stinking flesh. All they could do was cater to its every snarl, cooing at its horrendousness. A recreation of my childhood home grew up the walls of the car, before my very eyes. I was in a dimly lit version of the place I had run away from my entire life. My parents strapped me down to my childhood kitchen table and fed my leg to my mutant brother. I watched them do it, they propped my head up so that was all I could see. I felt them cutting into me, sawing away like lumberjacks into my meat and bones. I screamed at them, begged them to let me go, but they only smiled at me and the baby. Shushing me and praising me for being a good brother. 

I was found in the railyard nearly dead and carted away to the local hospital. The official report states I fell on the track and an oncoming train gave me a permanent hop, which is such complete bullshit. Those dumb fuck railyard bulls know my stump wasn’t a clean cut, even the doctors said it looked like it was cut away with a steak knife. No, everyone knows you don't have to care about someone who doesn’t pay taxes. Just patch him up and get him the out of your sight, eh? Just another dirty face on the sidewalk. Vagabond. Bum. Get the fuck out of here. Never mind what has happened to me, never mind what I’ve seen.

I stopped rail jumping after that. It was impossible anyway, with only one leg. At least that’s the excuse I told myself when I try to be willfully ignorant. Now I’m just a bum. A bum, amputee in his late twenties with a cardboard sign that says “Iraq took everything from me”. 

Please, if you see me or my sign, drop a buck or two, it’ll really help. Maybe I should figure out a gofundme or something. Anything to help me raise cash so I can get headed down south. There is no way I can stay in this rail system. 

You see, I’ve seen UUH17 four times in the past month, here around Seattle, and it feels too risky to think that’s a coincidence, especially because I stay far from train tracks. That’s why I’m spreading the word, I keep finding it out in the woods near where I set up my camp. Recently, I’ve been sleeping in the park, hoping it won’t hunt me, but I’m constantly hassled by the police. Who knows, it can probably sneak up on me even in the city. I'm afraid every door I walk through might be the beast in disguise.

My plan is to head to Belize, or maybe even farther. I don’t think I want to be in the same hemisphere as that thing. But there is a part of me that knows my parents will do anything for their little boy, and I bet the little baby is hungry again. Part of me knows I will have a final ride, I can feel it in my stump.

Whatever the fuck you do, listen to me. Do not ride with the devil and stay the fuck away from UUH17. Don’t ignore this warning, because it will use the things you fear to rob you of everything you know. 

Don’t Ride Railcar UUH17. 

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Photo credit- Martin Sanchez

-unsplash @zekedrone