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Wednesday, Jan. 17

As we get closer to the end of the trip, my relationship with Rapid-T is getting more strained. Today, for instance, he decides he wants to stay in Waycross until the weekend, getting a shower, washing our clothes and hanging out. ("They have a good mission!" he explains, a statement that doesn't grab me. I have a job and a life to get back to; my plan is to land in Jacksonville, where my brother lives, shower and clean clothes there and then head back to New York by more conventional means.) Postponing a decision, we stash our bags under some spare brake parts and wander down the stem.

At the Chamber of Commerce we get directions to a good ol'-fashioned BBQ place -- but when we arrive, we find out they close at 2:30 -- a half-hour ago. Rapid-T tries arguing them into staying open, but they're having none of it. Instead, they direct us to a sandwich shop down the street -- which just changed its hours to also close up shop at 2:30. This time, Rapid-T stands in the lobby unleashing a tirade on southern culture. "Why can't you people stay open? You have customers. We're hungry!" he says. Surprisingly, his comments don't have the staff jumping to re-open and we head across the street to the supermarket, setting the scene for the weirdest weirdness of the trip.

Since Rapid-T has no money, I offer to buy some lunch meat, cheese and bread and make sandwiches. While I'm getting the stuff, though, he spots some frozen pizzas, picks one up and declares he's getting it. Well, he amends himself when I mention he's broke, I'm getting it. I decline, out of a combination of sheer cussedness and irritation -- plus the fact that the store doesn't have a microwave and I don't relish actually frozen frozen pizza. He next tries to purchase a box of uncooked sausage links, which I similarly veto. After arguing for several aisles, we somehow we compromise on peanut butter and jelly, but, he explains, "I got to have milk. I won't eat it without milk." I get the milk.

At the checkout, he spies some individual pies and asks if he can get one. I agree. "Can I have another?" I grit my teeth. "Sure." "Can I have another?" "No! No more pies! Arghhh!." Now I remember why I never want to have kids.

We take the food outside and set up a picnic on a bench on the side of the store, chomping down our food for almost half-an-hour. I pack up the leftovers while Rapid-T goes in to use the bathroom for the third time -- and while he's inside, an assistant manager comes over and asks us to leave. I say, sure, I'm just waiting for my friend to come back. When Rapid-T does return, though, he's not feeling well and says he can't walk -- a common complaint after every meal. I explain that it would be better to loiter in the field across the street, since we were just asked to leave -- a request that so infuriates Rapid-T that he heads back inside to complain. I leave, watching from half a block away to see what happens when the cops show up. They don't, though, and Rapid-T eventually joins me, having, he says, lodged a formal complaint with the manager about how they treat customers.

We head back to the yard around 3:45 p.m., with Rapid-T complaining at every step how ill he's feeling. He finally sits down and refuses to go any further. I wait for a few minutes but soon chivvy him to his feet: the train we -- or at least I -- am hoping to catch pulls out at 4:30 and I'd like to be on it. On the way back to the yard we pass a figure that looks eerily similar to what I saw last time I looked in the mirror: It's the first other hobo I've seen on the trip. An older gent -- unshaven, thin and dirty -- the man tells us his name is Pony Boy and he's been hopping freights for nigh on 17 years. He got into town a few days ago and ran into an old hobo buddy from years ago -- but when his friend got arrested for some "tickets he had out for a while -- something about public drunkeness," Pony Boy decided to get out of town. He warns us the yard was hot, though, and says he planned on headed to the freeway to try some hitchhiking.

We get back to the yard and are told, in the slowest accent I've ever heard, that southern trains leave from the other side of the yard, although they loop around where we are (in the north end) at a speed that might be slow enough to catch. That's not an idea we love: I'm laden with my backpack and duffel bag (containing my sleeping bag and, in Georgia weather, my jacket), while Rapid-T has a backpack, a bag with his sleeping bag and a train tool kit (flares, crow bar, spare hat and a nice pair of shoes, for some arcane reason). With his stomach bothering him, we figure the best move is to head slowly down to the other end of the yard, hoping our train doesn't pull out while we're walking.

It does.

We're moseying south along the tracks just after 5 p.m. when we hear a whistle blow and see a mixed freight train heading our way. I wave to the conductor, who opens his window. "What number are you?" I yell.

"455," he shouts back. Our train.

Rapid-T and I stand there looking at the cars. So far, there's nothing hoppable: closed boxcars, grainers without cubbyholes, tankers. Nothing. Then, we see a string of gondolas -- large, topless boxes -- that look empty. "Can we hop it?" I ask Rapid-T.

He shrugs. "You can try," he says. "Remember, underhand grip."

I drop my duffel bag with him, make sure my backpack's on tight and start running. I'm too late for the first car I pick and head back to the curve in the track where Rapid-T stands. Picking another car I take off, matching its speed for a few seconds before grabbing the highest rung I can reach. I pull myself up, keeping me knees in, and fish around with my foot for the bottom rung. Once I find it, I scurry to the top, teetering for a second on the edge as the train picks up speed and I try to evaluate what's in the car.

I look back and see Rapid-T trying to throw my duffel in the car, but with it filled with my coat and bag, and he being burdened with his own stuff, the duffel fails to make it. "It's too heavy," he shouts. I shrug and keep on looking, waiting for T to try jumping on another car, but he appears frozen by the rails, only moving his arms, perhaps to wave. Within a dozen cars, the curve of the track puts him out of sight.

I look down. Getting on was a thrill -- but we've never practiced getting off. The hobo books I've read flash through my head, with one scene predominate: Jack London's description of an ex-hobo he knew called "Stumpy," who'd had both his legs chopped off when he dismounted wrong. I shrug and jump into the car, landing on my feet some six feet below the car's lip.

I've done it. I've caught a car on the fly.

I look behind me, waiting for Rapid-T to try jumping on another car, but he doesn't seem to move. Within a dozen cars, the curve of the track puts him out of sight.

That's the last I see of Rapid-T -- or my stuff.

I head to the front of the gondola, crouching out of the wind, although, in truth, it's warmer this southern evening then it has been since I've started the trip. As I get used to the movement of the car, I head to the side, resting my arms on the edge of the car and staring off into the swampy countryside, taking mental pictures of what might be the most beautiful sunset I've ever seen. As night falls, I lay down on the rust-covered floor and stare at the stars, picking out the three constellations I know and watching airplanes roar overhead, wondering what the passengers up there think they know about traveling.

Four hours later, the train stops. I recognize all the sounds that were so unfamiliar 11 days ago; the squealing wheels, the cutting of the brakes, the walkie-talkie chatter of brakemen working on the train. I jump out of the gondola and head to a brakemen cutting out cars. "Hey, where am I?" I ask.

He smiles. "Just get here?"

"Yep."

"You're in Moncrief Yards," he says, naming a place I've never heard of. I curse. "Where's that?"

"Jacksonville."

I sigh with relief and head down the yard toward town, subconsciously noticing all the things I've never paid attention to before the trip: Oh, that rail's shiny; must be used a lot; Hey, there's the Amtrack corridor, better stay on this side; No Blazers around, so I'm safe from the bulls. As I pass a unit, I hear a shouted "Hey." I look up in time to catch a package of crackers tossed to me by the engineer. "You want any water?" he asks. I nod, and he tosses me two bottles.

I drink one as I wander out to the street, waiting for my brother to come pick me up. As I pick through the crackers it occurs to me.

I've done it. I'm now a hobo.