After a couple of seconds, I realize I’m still intact. I open my eyes and weigh my options. There are only two choices here, and since there’s no dismounting without going under the train, I count to three and buck upward with everything I’ve got. I manage to get my left knee up over the edge. Using foot, knee, chin, elbow, and fingernails, I scrape my way inside and collapse on the floor. I lie panting, utterly spent.
Then I realize I’m facing a dim light. I jerk upright on my elbow.
Four men are sitting on rough burlap feed sacks, playing cards by the light of a kerosene lantern. One of them, a shrunken old man with stubble and a hollow face, has an earthenware jug tipped up to his lips. In his surprise, he seems to have forgotten to put it back down. He does so now and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
“Well, well, well,” he says slowly. “What have we here?”
Two of the men sit perfectly still, staring at me over the top of fanned cards. The fourth climbs to his feet and steps forward.
He is a hulking brute with a thick black beard. His clothes are filthy, and the brim of his hat looks like someone has taken a bite out of it. I scramble to my feet and stumble backward, only to find that there’s nowhere to go. I twist my head around and discover that I’m up against one of a great many bundles of canvas.
When I turn back, the man is in my face, his breath rank with alcohol. “We don’t got room for no bums on this train, brother. You can git right back off.”
“Now hold on, Blackie,” says the old man with the jug. “Don’t go doin’ nothing rash now, you hear?”
“Rash nothin’,” says Blackie, reaching for my collar. I swat his arm away. He reaches with his other hand and I swing up to stop him. The bones in our forearms meet with a crack.
“Woohoo” cackles the old man. “Watch yourself, pal. Don’t you go messin’ with Blackie.”
“It seems to me maybe Blackie’s messing with me,” I shout, blocking another blow.
Blackie lunges. I fall onto a roll of canvas, and before my head even hits I’m yanked forward again. A moment later, my right arm is twisted behind my back, my feet hang over the edge of the open door, and I’m facing a line of trees that passes altogether too quickly.
“Blackie,” barks the old guy. “Blackie! Let ’im go. Let ’im go, I tell ya, and on the inside of the train, too!”
Blackie yanks my arm up toward the nape of my neck and shakes me.
“Blackie, I’m tellin’ ya!” shouts the old man. “We don’t need no trouble. Let ’im go!”
Blackie dangles me a little further out the door, then pivots and tosses me across the rolls of canvas. He returns to the other men, snatches the earthenware jug, and then passes right by me, climbing over the canvas and retreating to the far corner of the car. I watch him closely, rubbing my wrenched arm.
“Don’t be sore, kid,” says the old man. “Throwing people off trains is one of the perks of Blackie’s job, and he ain’t got to do it in a while. Here,” he says, patting the floor with the flat of his hand. “Come on over here.”
I shoot another glance at Blackie.
“Come on now,” says the old man. “Don’t be shy. Blackie’s gonna behave now, ain’t you, Blackie?”
Blackie grunts and takes a swig.
I rise and move cautiously toward the others.
The old man sticks his right hand up at me. I hesitate and then take it.
“I’m Camel,” he says. “And this here’s Grady. That’s Bill. I believe you’ve already made Blackie’s acquaintance.” He smiles, revealing a scant handful of teeth.
“How do you do,” I say.
“Grady, git that jug back, will ya?” says Camel.
Grady trains his gaze on me, and I meet it. After a while he gets up and moves silently toward Blackie.
Camel struggles to his feet, so stiff that at one point I reach out and steady his elbow. Once he’s upright he holds the kerosene lamp out and squints into my face. He peers at my clothes, surveying me from top to bottom.
“Now what did I tell you, Blackie?” he calls out crossly. “This here ain’t no bum. Blackie, git on over here and take a look. Learn yourself the difference.”
Blackie grunts, takes one last swallow, and relinquishes the jug to Grady.
Camel squints up at me. “What did you say your name was?”
“Jacob Jankowski.”
“You got red hair.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Where you from?”
I pause. Am I from Norwich or Ithaca? Is where you’re from the place you’re leaving or where you have roots?
“Nowhere,” I say.
Camel’s face hardens. He weaves slightly on bowed legs, casting an uneven light from the swinging lantern. “You done something, boy? You on the lam?”
“No,” I say. “Nothing like that.”
He squints at me a while longer and then nods. “All right then. None of my business no-how. Where you headed?”
“Not sure.”
“You outta work?”
“Yes sir. I reckon I am.”
“Ain’t no shame in it,” he says. “What can you do?”
“About anything,” I say.
Grady appears with the jug and hands it to Camel. He wipes its neck with his sleeve and passes it to me. “Here, have a belt.”
Now, I’m no virgin to liquor, but moonshine is another beast entirely. It burns hellfire through my chest and head. I catch my breath and fight back tears, staring Camel straight in the eyes even as my lungs threaten to combust.
Camel observes and nods slowly. “We land in Utica in the morning. I’ll take you to see Uncle Al.”
“Who? What?”
“You know. Alan Bunkel, Ringmaster Extraordinaire. Lord and Master of the Known and Unknown Universes.”
I must look baffled, because Camel lets loose with a toothless cackle. “Kid, don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”
“Notice what?” I ask.
“Shit, boys,” he hoots, looking around at the others. “He really don’t know!”
Grady and Bill smirk. Only Blackie is unamused. He scowls, pulling his hat farther down over his face.
Camel turns toward me, clears his throat, and speaks slowly, savoring each word. “You didn’t just jump a train, boy. You done jumped the Flying Squadron of the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth.”
“The what?” I say.
Camel laughs so hard he doubles over.
“Ah, that’s precious. Precious indeed,” he says, sniffing and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Ah, me. You done landed yer ass on a circus, boy.”
I blink at him.
“That there’s the big top,” he says, lifting the kerosene lamp and waving a crooked finger at the great rolls of canvas. “One of the canvas wagons caught the runs wrong and busted up real good, so here it is. Might as well find a place to sleep. It’s gonna be a few hours before we land. Just don’t lie too close to the door, that’s all. Sometimes we take them corners awful sharp.”
COURTESY OF THE PFENING ARCHIVES, COLUMBUS, OHIO
I awake to the prolonged screeching of brakes. I’m wedged a good deal farther between the rolls of canvas than I was when I fell asleep, and I’m disoriented. It takes me a second to figure out where I am.
The train shudders to a stop and exhales. Blackie, Bill, and Grady roll to their feet and drop wordlessly out the door. After they’re gone, Camel hobbles over. He leans down and pokes me.
“Come on, kid,” he says. “You gotta get out of here before the canvas men arrive. I’m gonna try to set you up with Crazy Joe this morning.”