Sacramento Boxcar
by Johnny Allina

 

 

“Sam’s too good for $18 an hour. While I foot the bills.”

“I’ll talk to him. Push the merits.”

“Plus, he’s not painting. Even though we’re renting studio space.”

“Once he’s employed, that’ll change. His outlook will improve.”

“Better.”

Amanda had found work managing an organic farm.  That’s why Sacramento - a cow town that grew up - according to the locals.

Why not join them? Lower East Side squat torn down, meagre dishwasher wages, draining rather than energizing city streets. I wanted a new adventure. Be among friends.

Traveling inland from the Oakland airport, Amanda’s rickety truck jostling our insides, the landscape changed over; lush green to desert beige. Replace the shocks, Amanda? Save for a real-life Van Gogh sunflower field, the only constant on the 200-mile trek was shimmering black-top.

As we pulled into town, a bank’s digital readout—106 degrees—I reminded myself that Death Valley was the hottest spot on earth, not Sacramento. Streets on a grid-plan, tree-lined, offered feeble protection against the all-powerful Sacramento sun. Houses resembling Monopoly pieces predominated.

Amanda’s truck came to a squealing halt outside a construction site. Check the brakes, Amanda? A one-car couple, Amanda dropped off and picked up Sam, after daily rounds of job inquiries. Hopping out, she waved to Sam, shaking hands with an orange-vested hard-hat.

Sauntering over, we hugged. “Any luck, man?”

“$18.65…”

“Not bad…”

“Too low…”

“Go back and take it!”

“It’s about self-respect.”

“Then respect me.”

Reading Amanda’s malevolent look, Sam threw his hands up in mock defense and arched back, as though, a rabid dog had leapt towards his throat. “Okay, okay, I hear you.”

“Well…?”

Sam stayed put.

“At least take the bus. I’m not a shuttle service.”

“This is easier.”

“On you.”

Trudging back to the truck, I spotted a crumbled bill. Reaching down, I unfurled a $10.

“I saw it first.” Amanda at my back.

“How do you know?”

She held out a hand.

“Nah… it’s mine.” And I pocketed it.

 

 

I slept like a baby, until Sam shook me awake.

“What’s up?”
“You’re moving to the studio. Amanda wants you out.”

“Huh…”

“Should have let her keep the money…”

 

 

Suitcase by my side, I watched Sam speed off. Last words: “Crack the door open.”

After unlocking the complex’s gate, I stood before two jackknife-configured boxcars, and porch step-ups. Across the courtyard, a shed and descending staircase. Sliding open boxcar No. 1’s side door, a blast of heat escaped. Windowless, semi-dark, abstract paintings hung on nails. Paint tubes, unwashed brushes and mixing cans lay about, and a kick-stand propped bicycle. Amenities included: a futon bed, nightstand and mini- fridge.

 

 

Imagining spinning off the globe, so heat-dazed, I watched the gate split open, and a moon-shot-era glasses dude guide a rumbling pickup truck, pixie-fairy blonde behind the wheel. In an instant, they unloaded gear - ropes, scythes, etc. - for what purpose?

Gear stored inside boxcar No. 2, moon-shot ambled out, sparking a cigarette.

“Who are you?” Smoke rings bridged the distance.

“Elwood.” Said in a smooth, late night radio voice to set this man at ease; no telling his intentions.

“Makes two of us.”

“Ha…

“Sam’s friend?”

“From college.”

“Painter?”

“Writer.”

“Don’t read much. I’m a tree man.” I nodded, as if, all too familiar.

At this point, Jesse, introduced, offered beers, sides ice flaked. I tipped my bottle, as a form of appreciation.

“Best way to cool down.” Elwood said flatly.

“Or pour cold water over your balls.” Elwood’s face went blank. Jesse stared at the ground. Ah oh… would there be consequences, repercussions? Closed, boxcar discussions? Shit… what was wrong with me?

“Elwood here… yup, two of us… is Sam’s friend…” And tossed in, “from college,” arching an eyebrow.

“We just trim trees.” Jesse’s response.

“I would have thought people let their trees grow until they formed canopies over the entire Sacramento region, preserving the brains of its residents from the incessant, skull-baking heat,” I offered. Elwood and Jesse exchanged looks.

I was a dead man walking.

Tossing their beers in the back of the truck, Elwood stepped close. “Careful of Frank.” Jesse slow-nodded agreement.

 

 

On the porch, thinking about getting more beers, the incarnation of X-Men’s The Beast emerged from the stairs, bounding towards the shed… an outhouse? I half-expected he’d sniff the air and charge me.

After quite a while - evacuation struggle? - Beast re-emerged, whipped his head around. “Beer?”

Thirst trumped safety concerns. “Sure.” I hopped down and descended below to....

… a time-capsule mid-century-modern pad. Cool jazz spinning on a turntable.

Beast motioned towards the couch. “I’m not gonna kill you. If that’s what you’re worried about.” I waved him off, as if, he was being ridiculous.

Lightly stepping to the beat, Beast aka Frank, lit a joint, dragged, and coughed like a TB patient. Handing over the joint, I faced a dilemma. Get high and pick up an infectious disease or insult my host…

What was I vaccinated against? When? Fuck it! An even draw and TB coughs ensued.

Frank beamed. “Shit’s strong.”

And then Frank took another hit, lungs spewing out unseen pathogens. Now, immune-compromised, I went ahead and together smoked down the joint. Imported beers followed. I’d judged this man on appearance. Yet, Frank displayed absolute taste and courteousness. Most likely, owned a library card.

“… relaxing down here...”

“Know how I really relax?”

“Clueless…”

“Go to Chinese restaurants… those fish tanks… reach down and stick a finger in a koi’s mouth. Stroke it. Eases both our minds.”

I made a child forced to eat liver face.

Frank laughed. “We’ll go…”

“Sure.” Never.

“Tree man carrying?” Frank flipped over the record.

“A gun?”

Frank looked at me like I was special needs.

“Not that I saw.”

“But brought that smoke belching truck in here again.” Frank’s eyes blazed. “Avoid the shitter tonight. I’m shooting anything that moves.”

“You mean, Elwood…”

“Never recycles. Or, reuses shopping bags.”

“The planet’s dying!” I shouted. Quite high.

 

 

Low-oxygen studio, paranoid, I undressed. Heeding Sam’s advice and cracking the door, odds increased I’d catch a stray bullet, should the feud boil over. Air seeping through the wooden planks would have to suffice. And then, a grappling hook vision. Frank’s?

Stretched out, sleep proved elusive. Delirium set in. The boxcar became a Nazi transport train, mimicking Dad’s journey to Auschwitz - faces forced against wooden planks, bodies crammed together, a cacophony of tongues… Frank’s finger inside a koi’s mouth, Jesse’s heart-shaped face… had to pee. Bad.

Disoriented, I staggered to what I thought was the sliding door, groping for the handle. But faced the wrong side. Unaware. Unable to raise full consciousness. Knowing that. Stuck on the train.

Slapping hands - mime-like-to wood, a shout. “Frank?!”

I imagined Elwood’s eyes had popped open, as if, hearing a caterpillar chewing on a leaf. Frantic footsteps. Hushed whispers. I reverted to echo location.

“Who’s there?”

“Elwood!”

“You calling me out?”

Fuck! Name confusion.

“Elwood, no…” Ugh… stop saying that name.

“Back off!!”

That was it. Elwood thought Frank was trying to break in. For what? The unrecycled bottles? Those were on the truck.

BOOM! A half-dollar-sized hole. And I still couldn’t wake up!

If I were killed, would anyone pick up on the fact that I’d died in a boxcar, a Jew, while Dad hadn’t, and marvel at the irony. Doubtful. Had Amanda considered the symbolism, I wouldn’t be here. The cursed $10!

Desperate to stay alive, I dropped to the floor, crawled, triggering thoughts of Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, which halted my progress, as I tried to remember the story’s significance. I’d be grateful for a pair of antennae to replace my malfunctioning brain.

Kill shot imminent, I contemplated the late Czech author’s entire oeuvre. Wait… post-mortem… could a forensics team explain how I’d ended up naked, plastered to the boxcar floor, gaping wound? Yes. But no way, ever, make the Nazi/cockroach connection - unless my sister, informed of my passing and the attendant circumstances, pieced it all together. Likely!

Further ruminations were cut short, when Frank yelled, “You’re not the lone gunman, Elwood!” An inadvertent Kennedy assassination reference?
Hmm… if Frank prevailed, what happens to the tree cutting paraphernalia? Jesse’s? A distant relative? Creditors? TBD.

The situation must have bewildered Elwood. Was he being robbed? Hit? How then Frank within boxcar No. 1 AND outside? Chalked up to an alcohol-induced psychosis? A twin?

“I ain’t leaving, Frank! I have rights!” So, a murderous eviction rather than robbery was the thinking.

“Damn truck! The fumes are awful.” This from weed-stink-Frank?

“It’d get stripped on the street.” A pleading tone had entered Elwood’s voice.

“Then recycle your bottles!” Frank implored.

Divine intervention allowed me to rush the door, fling it open. Cool night air woke me up, and I glimpsed Frank, confused look. The naked interloper. He brandished a shotgun.

Elwood and Jesse turned. Also, mystified. Realizing I was on the clock, and there might be thoughts bubbling up, of me being a sexual deviant, I sputtered a frantic explanation, “I couldn’t find the handle to get out. Frank wasn’t busting in!”

Framed in boxcar No. 2’s doorway, Elwood lowered a massive gun, Frank following. All parties paused. Elwood acted like he was hearing that distant caterpillar.

“Okay… okay… just don’t idle the truck…”

“We’ll recycle,” Jesse placated.

“Re-usable shopping bags?” Frank pressed on.

A brief nod from Elwood.

“Get dressed,” Frank voiced.

“Right…” After this, I’d consider nude drawing classes, as a way to earn cash.

“Enough for one night.” Jesse led Elwood back into boxcar No. 2.

As Frank descended the basement stairs, darkness engulfing him, I swear he said, “Kafkaesque, man. Fucking Kafkaesque.”

Next morning, I slid the $10 under Amanda and Sam’s front door and took a bus to the Oakland airport.

 

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