Railroad Man (4 page)

A twinkle flashed in Mother’s eye as she mused. “It may even be worth putting up with my sister-in-law for a short time to see such a lovely place.”

Sophia cut Mother a wounded look. Sadie’s fight fizzled as she directed her energy toward consuming the food in front of her. Thinking of Marianne marrying old Clyde Kilmer soured my stomach. I begged pardon from the table early, leaving the women to move on to the next topic.

An orange glow fell over the front porch from the enchanting harvest moon. I thought about its magic and wondered what kind of power the giant moon held. I rocked in the cushioned swing and allowed the orange glow to draw me into its bewitching power. I tried with all my might to tap into the moon’s magnetism, hoping to be transported through the darkness until I felt the touch of my sweet Marianne’s heart.

Over the next few months, I sifted news of Marianne’s wedding from my sisters’ conversations. A glutton for punishment, I hung on every word. There would be a Christmas wedding. Sophia would be maid of honor. Sadie organized a bridal shower. Mother fussed over what to wear. My job at the railroad provided plenty of green for Mother and the girls and enough on the side for me. I quietly accepted Marianne’s fate and mine as I settled into the routine of life at home where I was needed and adored.

Chapter IV

Atlanta

1933

On June 1, 1933, I reported to Terminal Station on Spring Street. A union job with the railroad was the best gig going in north Georgia in 1933. We were still in the Golden Age of the Railroad when the steam engine ruled. A job as train engineer granted me a status that was hard to find in that deprived era. I proudly took my place in the prized seat of the Baldwin 534 assigned to the Georgia-Alabama Line, the track I helped build. The railroad felt like home, and the men who worked with me were my railroad family.

I sat in the revered seat and watched little people move around the yard twenty feet below me. Behind me, the fireman stoked the firebox just as I had done one year earlier. The brakeman waited for a signal from the yard master to clear the way. Waving his red flag, the flagman hung from the caboose railing at a ninety degree angle. I felt the familiar heat on my face and the power of the engine rumbling through my chest. The pressure rose inside the boiler until the mighty wheels turned. The earth moved beneath the two hundred thousand pound locomotive. I blew the whistle, and we lurched forward.

Railroad detectives walked the line looking for stowaways. They moved from back to front checking the empties. I watched them as they came closer. Two hobos, one white and one colored, met my eye as they pulled themselves into an empty boxcar. Along the hobo grapevine, I became known as the one who looked the other way. The stowaways trusted me, and sometimes as many as fifty people packed a forty-foot car on my run. The detectives missed them and backed away to avoid ruining their fancy uniforms in the thick, black, sulfur-scented smoke. Colored and whites ran into the smoke to catch a ride under the cover of blackness. Only the young were strong enough to pull themselves into the moving cars with the help of an older hand. I looked the other way so I wouldn’t see if one of them slipped underneath the moving train.

On the open track, the mighty mule pulled twenty cars at sixty miles per hour. Perched high in the caboose, the brakeman and flagman kept a sharp eye out for loose or sparking wheels. The large locomotive was made to run the hilly terrain of the Appalachian foothills. But my heart skipped a beat every time I felt the vibration of a mountainside trestle under the weight of the heavy locomotive. We stopped for water, coal, and a wheel check at roadside whistle stops every three hundred miles.

I waited outside the Huntsville station while the wheels cooled down enough for the boys to check them. I looked around wishing that the old Model T was there waiting to take me to Marianne. I remembered the tears on her face the day I left her standing outside the station. I fought the ache in my heart and the urge to relive the past. Instead, I concentrated on the pleasures that waited back in Atlanta on Friday night.

***

I checked in at the Atlanta station on Friday mornings. Mother and the girls didn’t expect me until mid-day Saturday. The YMCA welcomed railroad employees and offered us unlimited room and board. I stopped by to catch a few winks and wash off a week of soot and grime. I coined a good deal on a couple of custom-made suits with the best tailor in town. The milliner measured my head for a dashing fedora that I wore half-cocked. The sun dipped past the city’s horizon. I stepped out of the YMCA looking snazzy and ready for some action.

I hopped a ride on the streetcar to Ponce de Leon in Decatur. My old buddy, Jack, pumped gas at the Texaco and watched over my prized possession, a 1930 Chevrolet Phaeton. I hung around the station cracking dry roasted nuts and swilling a Coca-Cola until Jack’s shift was over. He cleaned up in a room he rented in back of the store.

We cruised back to the inner city and hopped the clip joints. I’d buy a couple of rounds of gin juice while we eyed the merchandise. I put up a tough act and played the game. The girls were on me like bees on honey, throwing me a line here and there.

“
Hey, Big Boy, you lookin’ for some adventure?”

Jack would back away and take his leave. “Mickey, old boy, I’m never going to get a girl if I keep stepping out with you!”

Eventually my old buddy, Jack, went dizzy over some broad he met at the Five and Dime and left me out in the cold. Maybe that made me an easy target, or maybe I was just thinking with my shooter. Naïve young men with cash during the depression were easy targets for bootleggers pushing hooch, hustlers, runaways, drunks seeking a handout, gold diggers, and whores. I could take or leave the drink and ignore the rest, but I was a sucker for a good looking woman.

I sought out the exotic creatures of the city and the wonders they held. I gained a reputation as a looker on the lookout for a new skirt; broads were a dime a dozen. The city girls weren’t like my sisters or my true love. They tossed away fair play and were game for anything going down. They bleached their hair white like ripe cotton and wore penciled-in eyebrows like Jean Harlow. They smoked cigarettes in slim metal holders, drank hard liquor, and lived by their own standards.

***

Snow began to fall on a cold December night as I beat down the blues by roaming the streets of the city. One year had gone by since Marianne became Mrs. Kilmer. I wondered if Christmas would ever be the same for me. Most of the decent joints were closed. The holiday weekend killed the action in town, and no coppers patrolled the underground speakeasies that I usually avoided. I dipped down into an underground cave looking for something to cut the chill and my bad mood.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness of a room big enough for a five-man poker table, a slab of wood held up by two large kegs, and two corner tables. I gave the bartender a five spot for a shot of gin mill juice. I stood out like bait on a line. It didn’t take long for the fish to bite. She sidled up beside me at the makeshift bar. The slinky red dress hugged her body so that I could make out the line of her crotch. She was a natural blonde and a sweet-looking kitten. She threw me a line I’d heard many times before, but somehow, it sounded fresh coming from her.

“
What’s your story, Morning Glory?” she cooed.

Her bare shoulder leaned into my mine, her pretty face turned up two inches beneath my chin. Big sultry blue eyes rolled up, giving me that sizzling Bette Davis look. I liked her light colored hair, natural, curled just so behind a small ear. I motioned to the bartender. “How about some giggle juice for the little kitten?”

The place was quiet, and the bartender caught my drift. I chose one of the tables on the dark side of the room. She followed, hesitant. Her face was unspoiled and looked out of place in the low-down sleazy joint.

I leaned forward, up close to her young face. “You got a name, Dollface?”

She sipped her drink and gave me a sassy look. “The name’s Flo. Don’t like it, but it’s the only one I got.”

The gamers at the table started shoving and cussing at each other. I looked at them through the smoky haze. “How come a pretty little thing like you keeps time in a place like this?”

Flo stared through the glass in her hand and pursed her lips defensively. “Bert’s my brother. I help him out, he helps me out, spots me a little green now and then.”

I leaned away and eyed her as she sipped her drink.

Her eyes clamped on mine. She said, “How ‘bout you, Hot Shot, what’s your story?”

I gave her my best side, wanting to impress her. “The name’s Mick. The ladies call me Killer. I work for the railroad.”

Her innocent voice blew her tough act. “Hmm, you’re a looker, alright! Betcha got some dough being with the railroad and all.”

I leaned over, kissed her, and felt her body under the thin dress. She reached down and grabbed my crotch. Her lips intoxicated me like the whiskey we sipped. Her capable hands moved over me, smooth as silk. There was no one but her, nothing but her, the loud men behind me forgotten. She pulled away and broke the spell. I knew I was hooked like a fish on the line. I lifted a finger to the bartender for another drink and left a sawbuck on the table.

I stumbled out into the cold. Snow covered the steps leading from the hidden speakeasy. The rush of pleasure I’d found slumming ignited a small fire in my gut as I made my way back to the YMCA.

I rose early the next day and drove thirty miles to Lawrenceville where I found comfort in my mother’s warm house and my lonely sisters’ attention. In their eyes, I was always King. They held me in their hearts as their own, but I felt that I had betrayed them. I couldn’t get the little kitten out of my mind. She was a natural beauty, not like the other broads in town. She was young and fresh, and I was keen on her.

The heat of my desire led me back to the dark alley the following Friday night. I kept a tight grip on my wallet as I hurried down the five steps. A soft red glow framed the unmarked frosted glass. Inside, a low lamp hung over a group of tough guys parked at a game table.

The hard-scrabble bartender caught my eye and flicked his head for me to come over.

“
You here to see Flo?” he asked.

“
Maybe,” I answered.

He held out his hand and said, “Slip me five, Pally, and call me Bert!”

I accepted his handshake but wasn’t ready to dance with the likes of him. He penciled a number on a jagged piece of cardboard and said, “She ain’t here tonight, but here’s her number if you want to give her a blow on the horn.”

I walked until the neighborhood started looking up and dipped into one of my regular haunts to borrow a telephone. She answered on the first ring, “Yeah?”

“
Hey, Mick MacDonald, here. I picked your number off of Bert, the bartender.”

She put up a tough front, answered in a deep southern drawl, “I don’t know nobody named Mick.”

I put on my smooth groove. “Come on, Dollface, sure you remember me from last Friday night.”

A tart voice clipped back. “Oh yeah, you’re the one with the fancy clothes! You skedaddled pretty fast.”

I looked around the joint and said, “Hey, how about you come over to the Gold Digger? I’ll buy you a drink. We can talk and visit awhile.”

“
Uptown, eh? Swell, I’ll be seein’ ya in a few,” she said and cut the line.

I bought a bottle of bathtub gin and waited. I had to admit that the booze was better at the lowdown speakeasy. I watched the door until the blue-eyed blonde walked through it. She wore a respectable red and white polka dot dress with a sailor collar that brought out the school girl in her. She looked lost and vulnerable. I lifted my hand.

She cracked a cute smile.

I offered her my chair and said, “Glad you could make it.”

She eyed me seductively. “It’ll cost you thirty cents for the cab over.”

I handed her a drink. “Gottcha covered. Where do you come from?”

“
Eastside,” she said, looking around.

“
Have you been here before?” I asked.

She threw her head back and laughed. “Are you kiddin’? I’ve been around, but I ain’t got the moolah to check out in this place.”

I moved in close and sweet. “You’re cute as a bug’s ear, you know that?”

Flo finished her drink in one gulp. I poured her another drink. Flo finished the second drink and watched the people milling around the busy bar.

She took my hand and ran her finger down my palm and asked, “You got a place, Killer?”