1987

Just past The Woods, the neighborhood dissolved into something wilder. A fenced-off quarry opened up first — a small lake at its center, deer wandering the edges like they owned it. The guy who owned the land had built himself a floating house out on the water, like he was hiding from the world. Every time we pushed through the fence, it felt like finding buried treasure.

Beyond the quarry was where things got serious: a junkyard full of wrecked cars, and right next to it, the railyard. Trains came in for repairs and sat along Litchfield Avenue. On weekends, when the workers were gone, we made it our own. We'd scramble up and down the cars using the ladders on their sides, and if we were lucky, there'd be a caboose at the end, door unlocked, waiting for us. One time we found boxes of flares and went wild — days of strike, light, throw, watch the sparks hiss and burn.

But one time the game got the best of me. I remember the sizzle and the smell of burning hair with unsettling clarity. I'd held a flare too high, and as I brought it down, some of that molten stuff dripped onto my head. Burned a clean bald patch right there. It took a lot of explaining to my parents.

The railyard wasn't just a playground though. It was a launching pad. The main line ran through town and trains slowed to a crawl on the long bend near Litchfield. We'd stand by the tracks daring each other to jump on. We'd gotten so good on the parked ones that the slow-moving trains felt easy. We always knew when to jump off — never wanted to stray so far we couldn't make the walk home.

One night in high school, Jon and I ended up at our friend Jeff's place. His older brother had a car and had heard about a party in Evansdale with a keg. We didn't think twice. We piled in. Sure enough — full blown party, and I was in the basement hustling pool and knocking back beers with Jon. Everything was fine until the cops showed up. People scattered upstairs. We ducked into a side room, hearts pounding.

Someone tapped the basement window. The guys who'd gone for another keg. They knew there were minors inside and needed us out to save their asses. They pulled us through one by one, and Jon and I tore off through backyard after backyard, ducking under streetlights until we felt safe. We laughed ourselves stupid once we were clear — then realized we were miles from home with no way back.

Then we heard it. The low familiar rumble of a train crawling on the tracks nearby. We didn't need to say anything. We just ran. We caught it right as it took the slow bend, jumped onto the back platform, and sat there catching our breath — at least it was heading toward home. We knew exactly where it was headed and picked our jump-off point. Ten minutes later, it was time. But this train was faster than any we'd tried before. When my feet hit the ground, I went tumbling through the grass — rolling, bouncing — and walked away scraped up but fine.

We were hanging around the neighborhood on a slow afternoon when the rumble came again. Jon and I shared a look. Before we knew it we were all running. The other guys got on first. I was right behind, but this train was faster. I almost pulled back — then saw them up there and knew I couldn't.

I pushed harder. Feet slipping on the loose rocks. Then my footing went. My legs slid forward — right under the edge of the train — and for one white-hot second, there was nothing in my head but hold on — pure animal, no thought, just hands. They shot up and caught the ladder. Rusty metal bit into my palms. The vibration of the train ran straight up my arms and into my teeth.

I hauled myself up and hung there, legs dangling inches from the tracks, the world roaring beneath me.