The haunting whistle of the westbound train echoed in the night. The distant sound woke Tom from his slumber. He had been sleeping under a small hickory tree, ten feet from the tracks. He stood up and grabbed his backpack, which had been doubling as his cot. The sound of the whistle was his cue to get moving. The night was cold, although it was still August, and it was threatening rain. There was a thick fog hanging in the air, Tom could only see across the tracks, no further. It didn’t matter, he’d done this many times before and he knew the way. The massive engines of the locomotive rumbled in the distance and steadily became louder as it approached. Tom began to walk westward, preparing to jump aboard.
The year was 1975. The quarter mile long CP Rail train was beginning its nightly run from Thunder Bay to Winnipeg, then bound for Regina. Many of its cars were empty, some were loaded with goods, but the purpose of the trip was to get the train to Saskatchewan for the grain run back to Ontario. Tom sped up to a jog. When the train caught up to him, he’d choose a boxcar and make the jump. He’d only have a split second to determine if the car was empty, and if it was, he’d climb in for the long ride to Winnipeg.
The ground shook as the train parted the fog curtain. Tom was now in a full run. Car after car clacked along the rails beside him. He checked the doors of each one. If a boxcar was empty the doors were kept open. He looked back and zeroed in on the one he wanted. As it approached, he stuck out his hand, something he’d perfected over the years. He snatched the door handle as it powered past, grabbing it tight and pulling himself up onto the step. Holding on for dear life, he felt the cool air blowing past his cheeks and through his hair. Then he readjusted his grip and pulled himself in through the wide-open door and onto the floor of the car. Relieved to be safely aboard, he lay there momentarily feeling the power of the train, the rush of the cool night air, and the gentle sway of the car, back and forth. Eventually he wanted the security of the wall opposite the door, so he got up on his feet and scooted across, quickly landing in a sitting position, pinning his backpack against the wall, facing the open door.
So often in the past, Tom had made this same daring jump. He thought to himself he’s lucky to have never been injured, or worse. One time, his foot slipped off the step and his coat became entangled with the train and he was dragged through gravel and over tracks for a mile or so. He shuddered every time he thought of this. Sitting now against his pack, he wondered if it would’ve been better if the train had pulled him under the wheels that night. Life has been tough, living in homeless shelters during good times, under bridges in bad times. Hitchhiking and jumping trains to get around the country, travelling from city to city.
Feeling more settled, Tom reached into the side pocket of his pack and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He removed the cap and took a long, hearty swig. The ensuing warmth radiated through his body, encouraging him take another shortly after. He set the bottle down and glanced to his right. Something at the front of the car had made a noise catching his attention. Over the clacking of the wheels and the wind blowing in the door, he couldn’t be sure if it was his imagination or something real. He gazed into the darkness and saw a shape slowly moving toward him.
“Hiram Walker?” said a man’s voice from the darkness.
Shocked to find out he wasn’t alone, Tom said the only thing that came to mind, “Special Old.”
“I recognize the shape of the bottle.”
The man stepped into the dim light filtering in through the door of the car.
“I’m sorry,” said Tom, “I didn’t realize this was your car.”
“Never mind. Name’s Zimmy.” The man reached out his hand.
Tom stood up and returned the gesture, “Hello Zimmy. I’m Tom.”
Now getting the full view of the man, Tom could see he was not threatening. Zimmy was a slight man with a serious face. Dark curly hair adding three inches to his height and a face full of stubble. Zimmy wore tight fitting jeans, hiking boots and a leather jacket. It was too dark to see if Zimmy’s hair was brown or black. Tom stood a couple inches taller and a dozen pounds heavier.
Zimmy was an unassuming man. His handshake was not firm and his body language indicated he was benign. “Can I offer you a drink?” asked Tom.
“Thank you, I have my own,” said Zimmy motioning toward the front of the car. “That was quite an entry. What brings you here?”
“I’m heading to Winnipeg. Looking for work.”
“Where are you from?”
Tom rubbed his chin, “Ontario.”
“Any place in particular?”
“Lately, Sault Ste. Marie, but nowhere for long,” said Tom.
Tom and Zimmy continued to chat, getting to know each other. Tom revealed that he had been homeless since he and his wife, Heather, broke up a decade ago. He hadn’t been able to find steady work since and his life had eroded to the point where he now travelled from town to town just hoping to catch a lucky break.
“Panhandling isn’t for me. I refuse to sit and ask for money. I prefer to live off the land. I hunt and fish for my meals and cook them on a fire. I would be lying if I told you I haven’t stolen a chicken from a farm a few dozen times.”
When the conversation turned to Zimmy, Tom found out that Zimmy played in a band and had his guitar with him on the train. Zimmy disappeared into the darkness and came out with his guitar and his own bottle of whiskey. They sat down with their backs against the wall and Zimmy played guitar while they sang and drank for hours.
“Where does your band play?” Tom asked at one point between songs.
“You name it. Seems like I’ve played every bar from New York to Vancouver.” Zimmy went on to explain that he had jumped on this train as part of a long trip from his home in New York to visit family in Duluth, Minnesota. Cutting through Canada was actually shorter.
“What’s your band’s name?” asked Tom.
Zimmy strummed a C chord, then a D, “The Drifters, appropriately.”
Zimmy played on, keeping them both entertained. He played mostly songs from famous singers. Between every song they’d chat about the good old days of The Drifters. When Tom knew the words to a song, he’d sing along. He was impressed with Zimmy’s talent and breadth of knowledge of music. He had a unique, raw voice that never sounded like the song, but was always in tune.
Minutes turned to hours and they both found their way to the bottom of their bottles. By 4 AM Tom had fully disclosed his past to Zimmy. He told him of the difficult life he’d been living since his divorce, followed by losing his job, leading to homelessness, depression, and even temptation for suicide.
The train was still chugging along at high speed across the top of Lake Superior when Tom got up and staggered over to the wide-open door. The fog had now cleared and the full moon was shining brightly on him. Right on cue, the trees parted and the train began to cross a bridge over a massive canyon. Tom, hanging on to the door, looked down into the abyss. It was too dark to see the bottom.
“Be careful over there, Man,” said Zimmy staggering over beside Tom.
“Be careful? Why?” said Tom slurring his words as he yelled over the sound of the train. “I’ve been on this route many times before. I do this every time we get to this bridge.”
“I don’t want you to fall,” said Zimmy. “It would be the last thing you ever did.”
“Each time I take this train, I stand here and stare into this canyon. Sometimes it’s daylight and let me tell you, it’s a mile to the bottom. Every time, I think to myself I should jump and end it all.”
Zimmy gripped the frame of the door a little tighter with his left hand and grabbed Tom’s arm with his right. “Obviously you haven’t gone ahead with it.”
“No, I haven’t. Each time I decide not to, and I promise myself I’ll give it one more go.”
“Give what one more go?”
“Life.”
“That’s good. That’s good Man, you should keep going. Things will work out.”
Tom hesitated, breathing the fresh air deeply, “You want to know the real reason I don’t jump?”
“Yeah, why?”
“If I jump with no one here to see me, no one would ever know. I’d just disappear into the darkness and nobody would ever look for me. There is nobody out there that would miss me. I have no job to be absent from. No mortgage to miss the payment on. No kids to phone me wondering where I went. I’d just be gone. I’d disappear into the darkness.”
Zimmy gripped a little tighter. “Don’t do this Man. Look, you can come with me to Minnesota. We’ll look for a job together.”
“That’s nice of you Zimmy, but you just met me a few hours ago. You don’t know me, and you don’t want to be stuck with me.”
Tom wrenched his arm free from Zimmy’s grip and stepped to the middle of the open door, no longer hanging on to anything. “If I jump now, you’ll be my witness. You can tell them I did it and they’ll have to come looking for me.”
“Tom, don’t!”
Tom stood staggering and staring out into the darkness of the night. The bridge had no railing so he could have simply leaned forward and fallen into the canyon, no damage done until he’d hit the bottom. The fall would be liberating. The air was inviting and fresh and cool.
Zimmy knew if he didn’t do something, Tom would either jump or fall to his death. Tom leaned forward almost to the point of no return. Zimmy lunged forward, grabbing him and pulling him backward, wrestling him to the floor. Tom didn’t resist at all. The whiskey had him in no shape to fight. Laying flat on the floor, he began to sit up to make a move for the door and Zimmy grabbed him again and laid his entire weight on top. Tom could probably have overcome Zimmy, but he couldn’t surmount the power of the whiskey. He lay flat on his back looking at the roof of the train.
“Has the canyon passed by yet?”
“What?” said Zimmy, pinning Tom in some obscure wrestling hold.
“The canyon. Have we passed it yet?”
Zimmy looked over his shoulder out the door and saw trees again. “Yeah Man, it passed.”
“Damn. I missed my chance.”
“I guess you’ll have to wait ‘til next trip.” Zimmy got up off Tom, but held on to him and helped him back to the wall. They flopped back down on their backs on the floor. Zimmy made sure to stay between Tom and the door.
“Yeah,” said Tom. “Next time… Will you come with me next time?”
“Yeah Man, I will”
“Thanks, Zimmy.”
“No problem, Tom”
Tom paused for a few minutes then spoke up again, “Hey Zimmy?”
“Yeah?”
“I meant to ask you something hours ago.”
“What?”
“What’s your real name, Man?”
“Zimmy!”
“Zimmy, no one is named Zimmy. What’s your real name from birth? Is Zimmy short for something? What’s your first name?”
“It’s just Zimmy, Man. Just Zimmy,” and they both passed out cold.
Hours later, Tom awoke to the familiar sound of brakes and the feeling of the train lurching to a stop. Groggy from the whiskey, it took him a bit of time to get his wits about him. He sat up and allowed his head to clear. He thought this must be the first stop along the route, Fort Frances, on the Minnesota border. The sun was up now, but it was cloudy and raining outside. There was a terrible taste in his mouth, he badly needed a drink of water. Suddenly he remembered the night he had just been through and he remembered Zimmy. He spun his head in both directions. There was now enough light to see the whole interior of the car and Zimmy was nowhere to be seen. At some point during the night, he must have gotten up and left. Wondering how Zimmy got himself off a moving train, Tom gathered his things and began to depart. He walked up to the door of the car just as a railroad employee appeared on the ground in front of him.
“What are you doing on here?” said the man.
“Catching a ride to Winnipeg,” said Tom.
“Well, it’s your lucky day. You’re here.”
Confused, Tom thought for a moment and looked out at his surroundings. “I’m where?”
“Winnipeg! Now please get off this train. You’re trespassing.”
Tom jumped down into the cold rain. He glanced at his watch. 8 AM. He slept through the Fort Frances stop altogether and that must have been where Zimmy got off. Tom walked away, realizing he was asking for trouble if he stayed. Clearing a good distance from the man, he stopped to throw his back pack over his shoulders. The rain was coming down in sheets. He was already soaked and freezing cold. The sky was dull and dreary, it was one of those days where you knew the rain would never let up. Tom’s hangover and the cold rain were unrelenting. As he adjusted the pack on his back, he noticed an unfamiliar piece of paper sticking out of his chest pocket. He pulled it out, unfolded it, and with the rain dripping off his nose, read it to himself.
Tom,
Great time last night. If you’re ever in New York, look me up. I’ll introduce you to the band. Take care of yourself my friend.
Stay on the train, Tom, stay on the train.
Your friend,
Bob (Zimmy)
Tom folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. It was already soaked. “Bob,” he laughed to himself. “I knew he had a real name,” he paused and thought again, “I wonder what his last name is.” Then Tom adjusted the weight of his pack once more, and walked off into the morning rain.
BT
