Whoever had hit me had taken me out completely. That meant a ball bat or even one of those flat-faced blackjacks, and he must have been interrupted by the people in the store, or even a customer. Otherwise, he would have just crippled or killed me.
Time for a little of logical thinking. I was a stranger in Cambridge. Nobody knew me except the cops, and my buddies in jail. The only people I had pissed off was Abe Roster, the guy who wanted to rent me the barstool. I had broken his nose. I had a broken nose. Made Sense.
Once on the grass outside the window, I headed straight for the railroad tracks. That meant I had to climb, or rather sorta slide, over the steep hill on the side of the tracks that separated the town. The wind had gone away, but the chill was still in the air, and even though I hadn’t forgotten my “P” jacket, I could still feel it.
At the bottom of the hill, I walked over to the tracks and started heading east. Wheeling was only fifty miles. It was a big enough town to have a flop house. I could get some rest. Then? Well, who the hell knew.
When I’d gotten off the train in Cambridge, I was ready to start south. I’d go slow, and by the end of January, I’d get to Florida, and I’d be ready to join up with my old boss.
Still, I would be bothered for a long time by the things that had happened. People had abused me. They’d injured my body and took a lot of days out of my life. There should be a reckoning. Somehow, just sort of even things up.
Chapter 9
The tracks stretched ahead of me. Seemingly to infinity. I would walk, and maybe, just maybe, I might have a slow freight go past that I could hop onto. The chances though were remote. There was no reason for a train to slow down between here and Wheeling. I would hoof it, and it wouldn’t be easy. A short walk over railroad ties is a thing different from a fifty-mile walk.
Walking on the side of the tracks wasn’t any better. The gravel is loose, and most of the time it’s slanted downhill.
In the daytime during the summer snakes sometimes crawl up and lie on the warm ties, but there wouldn’t be any snakes today when the sun came up. I’d be all alone, probably for the next two days. And that was based on the fact that I had to walk fifty miles in that two days, still weak from the hospital and with no food or water. Sure, I could drink from a creek, and I was certain to do it. Thing is, there is no way to tell what I’d be drinking along with the water. So... if I balled the whole scenario up together, it didn’t look too good for me, except for one thing. I was free, and by the grace of pure chance, and some good doctor’s, I was alive!
It took three days. But...there were a few times when I sat down on the rails and rested. It was when I rested my physical body, that my mind went back and forth over my plans, like what sort of idiot bothered to count the ties on a railroad track. What sort of idiot took the trouble to measure the distance between the ties? Finally, what sort of guy offered a silent thanks to a gang of long dead guys, that had done such a perfect job of setting railroad ties.
Eventually, I realized that guy was a little slow in the head. I crossed on the toll bridge at Bridgeport, and ended up on Main Street. Wheeling is not a big town, but just the main business section is over three times bigger than the town I just left. Still, it’s an odd town because it is only three main streets wide, but then it stretches both up, and down, the river forever. The whole town is stuck between the mountains on one side, and the Ohio River on the other. The city also has its own island, that sets in the middle of the river.
The section of the town I found myself in was made up of greengrocers, pawn shops, car dealers, and shoe repair shops. I kept walking until I hit Market Street, one block from Main Street. Right off I found what I was looking for. Food!
Right in front of me was a place called the Market House, and inside, the first thing I saw was a fish house. I stepped right up to the counter and bought a piece of fish. Yeah, sounds goofy. What they do is sell you the piece of fried fish on a paper plate, and then you’re expected to make your own sandwich. The fixin’s are all right there on the side of the counter, so I selected two slices of bread, some tartar sauce, and made my sandwich.
Drinks were on the counter also, sitting in a bucket of ice. The booths were like ten feet away, so I hurried over, sat down, and bit into my sandwich. I was too busy concentrating on my sandwich to think much about my situation, but I made a mental note to remember that the girl had noticed my patched-up nose. I didn’t think I needed to worry about the cops back in Cambridge, putting out a wanted bulletin on me. They probably said good riddance.
The hot, greasy taste of the sandwich was a darn good argument to buy another, so I did it, and maybe this time I was a little better at putting it all together. The menu said fish sandwich and gave a price. It didn’t say a darn thing about the fact that you were expected to put it together yourself.
It was early afternoon when I got to the main street. I had a while to wait until the flophouses were open so I had some time to kill. For me, that was no problem. I asked a guy how to find the public library and I was on my way.
Thinking about my old jailhouse buddy, I read about the Civil War. Buck would have been proud of me. Most libraries stay open until seven o’clock in the evening. I went out one time to smoke a cigarette on the front steps, but the rest of the time, I just read the book. I was disappointed that I didn’t find any reference to John Hunt Morgan, but not surprised. The Civil War caused a lot of books to be written. Old Hunt Morgan would be in another one of them I was certain. The guy on the street I asked for directions to the flophouse knew nothing about it, but the second guy did.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s down on the bottom side of town on Main Street, right near the red-light district. His directions were good, so I had no trouble finding it.
Actually, it wasn’t a regular flophouse. It was a church, and they had a gymnasium with a bunch of cots in it, and the guy that told me about it was right. The red-light district was darn near across the street. It was only a block long and stretched from Twenty-Third Street clear down to the river. Lines of men stood in front of each house, a lot of them with two dollar-bills held in their hands. So I got a lesson.
I saw a street full of whorehouses and found out the price of a piece of well-used nooky. Two bucks.
My whole body was aching. The beating, then the hospital, and the long walk along the tracks, had used me up. I flopped down on the cot, pulled the army blanket over me, and shut my tired eyes. I didn’t take off my shoes, although I could smell the stink of others who had. Lots of shoes are stolen in flophouses.
At seven in the morning they chased us out, and the old padre that shook the hand of each of us, as we went out the door, made sure to invite us back for church on Sunday. Outside, I hurried the block to the river, and crept slowly down to the water where I washed my hands.
Strangely enough, there was an empty Schlitz bottle floating right in front of me. The last one I had seen was just before a guy called Abe Roster had swung one at my head.
I remember thinking I hoped that the old priest washed his hands. I could remember how inwardly I had shuddered, thinking about how I could avoid shaking his hand, but I just couldn’t. Man, it’s like this. The old guy had given me a bed when I needed it. No way was I going to insult him. Hopefully, the river water had killed any creepy bacteria that I had got from being nearly the last guy to shake his hand.
The day, much like the long set of railroad tracks, lay silently in front of me, much like the world around me, that didn’t give a hoot what I did for the day. The men and women, that I passed on the street, didn’t care that I had slept in a homeless shelter last night. They just wanted to get on to work, put in their day, and then get back home. How many of them, had spent the night, curled up beside a warm body? Did any of them, ever think about all the inventions, that made their life tolerable? A man, any man sitting on a commode, didn’t wonder