This chapter was kindly beta-read by Rissa back in the day. It was edited/updated on 6/26/2018.
The note Kyle left on the table in the foyer was remarkably crude and untidy – even three hours after dinner, his hand was still shaking enough to make writing difficult. He told his parents not to look for him, to absolutely not call the police, and that he'd be home soon. It felt deviously satisfying make such a promise, for if he did come home at all, it certainly wouldn't be any time before September, three months from now, when he was supposed to start college. He signed the note with his name in staunch, capital letters, not his usual neat script.
He crept out the back door, snuck around the perimeter of the house, and then through the well-trimmed lawn, making a point to trudge right through his mother's magnolias. With trembling fingers, he unlocked the wrought-iron front gate, careful to not let it shut closed behind him with its typical menacing clang. As he disappeared into the darkness of the night, he resolved he wouldn't look back at his house, not even once. The sooner he got away from these imposing mansions and the prosperous people who lived in them, elite nobodies who he had had the misfortune of knowing his whole life, his own family included, the better.
He went up to Wellington then over to Clark, where he waited for a few minutes before the #22 arrived, tapping his foot and biting his lip as he looked up the street for the trolley. After paying his fare, he sat down near the front, that way he could make a hasty exit. He peered out the window, trying to make out the few stars in the cloudy nighttime sky. He was looking forward to seeing real stars out on the road, bright ones that actually twinkled. For the adventurer, the stars were his guide. Damn, should he have brought his astronomy book? No, being on the road meant packing light. Thank goodness he'd remembered to bring his compass though, he thought, patting the pocket on his suede satchel to make sure it was still in there.
Tomorrow morning, his mother would find the note, and she would be furious, possibly even angrier than she had been earlier. Kyle assumed his parents would call the police despite his stated wishes, but he was certain he'd be out of the city by the time any real search efforts were coordinated. If all went as planned, he'd eventually just be brandished another runaway. Over time, his parents would acknowledge every grievance they had pitted against him, realizing they'd neglected to consider his opinion on the decisions they made for his supposed betterment. When he came home – no, if he came home – they'd apologize relentlessly, admit they'd been such uncaring, callous parents, and, grudgingly, he would find it in his heart to forgive them.
The cables above the car hummed mechanically as the trolley headed towards the Loop, the loudest noise in the streets so late in the evening. At almost midnight on a Sunday, even the bars were quiet. For Kyle, the silence was intolerable, inappropriate for the beginning of an adventure: the world should be loud, vibrant, inundated with the clamor of strangers' shouts and the growling of gas-powered automobiles, all back-dropped by the low reverb of Chicago's own voice. Tonight, Chicago was silent, like she was holding her breath, waiting to see if he would really go through with this. With a sigh, Kyle unbuttoned the front pocket of his satchel and examined the compass. The needle couldn't seem to decide on a direction, mustn't be able catch up with the speed of the cable car.
The trolley went over the river, and he got off at Lake. It was only once he was deposited on the street, there in the middle of the city on a cold spring night, that he felt totally alone. His indignation, so fresh so recently, had fizzled out, replaced by uncertainty in the dark. Was he really doing this? The freight yards were nearby, that massive jigsaw puzzle of rectangles he'd seen many times, right by the poor Art Institute. In fact, he could even hear their industrial commotion; he just didn't really know how to get over there, let alone smuggle himself aboard a train.
In his head, his mother's voice suddenly began scolding him, telling him he'd better get home right now, mister. And that was what sparked his rage anew, making him all the more determined to carry through with his plan. Damn her; damn her for everything. This was all her fault. Well, his father's too, but mostly's hers. Today was a turning point – from now on, he was a man of the road, a trailblazing adventurer. His own person.
From what he could tell, the best approach to enter the yards seemed to be to go across the street that spanned the tracks, then down and around. He just hoped no one stop him on the suspicion that he was trying to catch a train. But regular people took that road for regular reasons, right? And it was a city street, right? So he, as a tax-paying citizen – well, the son of tax-paying citizens – had the absolute right to be there.
So he began down that street, a dead-end that ended at the lake, trying not to cough from all the smoke clogging the air. Eugh. There was no one else was around, at least. Beneath him, trains rumbled as they pulled in and out of the yards, whistling and pumping even more black smoke into the air. Heavy thuds and clangs of freight being loaded and unloaded added to the cacophony. Here was that "excitement" he'd wanted so badly just moments ago.
Once he got to the end of the street, his heart was pounding a little and his hands were a bit clammy, but he took a deep breath and crept over into the expanse of land that buffered the yards from the lake. It was extremely muddy here, almost more lake than land, and he hated thinking of the bottoms of his trousers getting muddy. His shoes, he could at least wipe off, his slacks, not so much. Ahh, but why was he caring about such a stupid thing as his pants? Did he want to be a hobo or not!?
But alas, he soon made it onto the tracks, a huge labyrinth of rolling stock.
Here, in this dark maze, his heart began pounding in earnest. Which train should he take? Would he be able to open a boxcar door all by himself? What if he got caught? He slipped between the boxcars, trying to step lightly on the gravel and across the tracks. It was so dark that he couldn't even make out the company names on the boxcars for some sort of clue. God, this was turning out to be harder than he thought. Loitering around like this was no good though; he had better just start checking boxcar doors if he didn't want to get caught.
So he tried the door of a random boxcar, only to find it locked. The same was the case with the next car he tried, and the next. He was just about to try his luck with another when he caught a flicker of light in the corner of his eye.
It was a yellow orb floating in the blackness, a ways up the tracks. He watched it for a moment, mesmerized and confused, until he realized it was no mystical orb, but the light of a lantern.
Oh, fuck.
Immobilized by fear, all he could do was stand there stupidly, helplessly, until he finally got ahold of himself and dove between two boxcars. There, he hid, shaking and panicking. Oh God, they were going to catch him; they were going to arrest him and take him to jail!
"Who's there?" a voice boomed.
That voice, the voice of authority, caused a deluge of fear to rush over him like boiling water, mixing with the filthy air and making him feel sick.
Oh my God, it was a cop! A cop! He had to get out of here, run, hide, do something!
But what if…
It was a stupid idea, but he had no choice. So, as quietly as he could, he scrambled under the nearest boxcar, bumping his head on the metal rods that spanned the underside of the car. Then, he realized something: if he could climb on top of rods, sandwiching himself between the rods and the underside of the car, then he wouldn't get crushed if the train started moving. Furthermore, it might help him evade discovery. Brilliant! Maneuvering himself into that space was no easy feat, however: he was shaking, fretting like never before, his sweaty hands sometimes struggling to grip the metal. But in the end, he succeeded, and not a moment too soon: only seconds later he heard the crunch of gravel beneath heavy footsteps and saw the light of the lantern.
"I know you're over here, bum!" the cop shouted. "Show yourself!"
Barely breathing, Kyle clung to those rods as quietly as he could, literally praying to God to make the cop leave. And for now, at least, God was on his side: the cop began looking around the train on the other track, using his lantern to peer between and beneath the cars. Kyle wondered if he should cut his losses and flee, flee all the way back home. He really, really didn't want to get arrested. God, how did things come to this?
The cop continued examining the cars on the other track, going quite a ways down before inevitably moving onto Kyle's track. Soon, he was only a boxcar away, and Kyle was nearly in tears. This was it, wasn't it? This was how it was going to end, with him in handcuffs and his parents picking him up from jail. The greatest injustice in the world was happening right here in Chicago, to a poor boy who only sought his own freedom, so crushed was he by the tyranny of his own guardians.
Now, the cop was examining the car before Kyle's, and Kyle was almost ready to resign himself to his cruel fate when he heard two shrill whistles. Then, slowly, gradually, the wheels of the train began to turn. They were moving. Jesus Christ, they were moving, and he was under a boxcar, about to get caught.
Yet, by some miraculous stroke of luck, the cop didn't look under Kyle's car. He walked past, his feet illuminated by the lantern, but he didn't flash the light under the car, leaving Kyle hidden, free, and safe. Only once a good thirty seconds had passed did Kyle allow himself a few long, shuddering breaths, still amazed that he hadn't been caught.
But then, Kyle realized he was still in a terrible situation, clinging to the rods underneath a boxcar of a moving train. This wasn't safe – what if he fell and got crushed? He had to get out of here, had to find a boxcar, and fast. But the train was steadily picking up speed as it pulled out of the yards, and he was simply too afraid to risk throwing himself off, imagining himself split in half by the heavy wheels of the train.
Well, great. This was just great. What was he supposed to do now? Well, he supposed the only thing he could do was hold onto the rods and wait for the train to stop. He just wished he knew when it would. He didn't even know where this train was going. There had been a real lack of foresight involved in this plan, which was so unlike him. He was disappointed in himself.
The train continued gaining speed as it left the city, kicking up ashes and cinders into his face. He shut his eyes and just kept holding on. His body was achy and tense from all the effort it required to hold onto the rods, and his head was beginning to hurt, bombarded by the wheels' thundering revolutions. Never in his life had he felt so physically wretched, not even the time two years ago when he'd been so sick he had deliriously accepted his death as imminent. Was it worth it, surviving that brush with death only to end up running away, stowed beneath a boxcar going God-knows-where?
A pebble shot up from the tracks and hit him in the face – right by his eye, too. God, why was he even doing this? Suddenly it all seemed very stupid. Maybe he should just buy a ticket and go home, forget about all this. Maybe he could even get back before anyone woke up. But if they did realize he'd left, oh, wouldn't that be terrible. Thousands of questions: "Where were you?", "Who were you with?", "What made you think it was a good idea to do such a thing?!"
No way was he going back to deal with that. He couldn't go back, wouldn't go back. He didn't want to have to pretend to care about copyright law and certainly didn't want to have to take Adina out to lunch ever again.
Hours passed, and dawn approached, smothering the outlines of the hills in a tentative gray. Soon, it seemed as if the train were beginning to slow down. Kyle watched the wheels until he could count a full second for them to make a rotation. At long last, the train was about to stop. Soon, he would be free of this metal confinement. Oh, thank God!
And, just a few moments later, the train did indeed come to a halt. After so many hours, the stillness felt strange, as appreciated as it was. It seemed they had arrived at a town, judging by the scattered homes he could see beyond the tracks, little houses amid rolling hills, thick trees, and empty fields. Well, he better get out of here and try to find a boxcar. If that didn't work out, he'd have to kill some time here until another train came along.
He was just about to try to extract himself from his hiding place when he heard a heavy, thundering sound right above his head. What the hell was that?! Horrified, he could hardly believe his own eyes when he saw a person hop down from inside the car, planting his feet firmly on the ground.
The person – a man – lifted his arms up over his head, stretching. His hair, topped by a ragged cap as dirty as the rest of him, went all the way down to his shoulders in mangled, yellow clumps. Realizing he was just a hobo, Kyle sighed with relief, regretting it instantly when the man stopped and turned around, looking for the source of the sound. When he finally saw Kyle beneath the car, his eyes widening hugely, his expression almost amused. Breathless with shock, Kyle had no idea what to do.
"Hey, Swarm!" the hobo said in a Southern accent, speaking to someone else. "Look, some kid was riding the rods under our car the whole way here!"
Nearly sick with apprehension, all Kyle could do was stare at the stranger. He had to get away from this guy – he could be dangerous. But Kyle struggled to extricate himself from the rods, eventually falling hard onto the tracks, which hurt, a lot. Feeling like a buffoon, he crawled out from under the car on his hands and knees.
Then, just as he was straightening himself up, another hobo hopped down from the boxcar. Kyle immediately jerked away from him, hitting his back on the boxcar with a weak clunk. This hobo had a patch over his left eye, which was terrifying, especially in conjunction with his gloomy demeanor and sleek black hair, which was topped by a newsboy cap. With his good eye, he peered at Kyle with an expression that was mostly just confused before turning to look at the blond hobo.
That hobo, who reeked of booze, said, "He musta had a pretty good handle on them rods to ride the whole way here, dontcha think, Swarm?"
"Guess so," the one-eyed hobo said, the one who must be Swarm.
Feeling besieged, Kyle desperately tried to decide what to do. Honestly, he should probably just start running, but maybe… Maybe these guys could help him. Assuming they weren't actually criminals, that is. These two clearly knew what they were doing, and they didn't seem particularly antagonistic, did they, just a little annoying, so maybe he could use them, have them teach him the secrets of the vagabond lifestyle, its tricks of the trade.
Yet before Kyle could say anything, the blond hobo was waving goodbye and taking his exit along with the dark-haired hobo, leaving Kyle there on the tracks, alone. At that moment, it was as if a bubble instead his chest popped, spilling sour regret over his entrails – that's what he got for taking too long to make a decision! Now what was he supposed to do?
But then, Swarm turned around, and, as if it were a given, he asked Kyle, "You comin' to the stem?"
"Um, yeah," Kyle answered automatically, and he hurried to catch up with them.
He had no idea what the "stem" was (a secret club? a den of thieves?), and it was very possible these two were planning on killing him there, but at the moment, it seemed better than just standing there on the tracks like a sitting duck, waiting for the train crew to find him. So, perhaps unwisely, he followed them across the tracks and down a quiet street, lined by modest houses and grassy fields. This early in the morning, the world was inert, gray and listless in its somnolence, resisting the imminent light of dawn. That, paired with the unfamiliarity of the place and the people he was with, gave Kyle a feeling of surreality, as if he were only dreaming.
But that was all interrupted when the blond hobo grinned at him, showing his very yellow teeth as he said, "Bravo again on those rods, my dear Handle. One must have real guts to ramble that way, I tell ya."
"What did you just call me?" Kyle demanded, irritated at being mocked.
"'Handle,' seeing as you've got a knack for it 'n all," the blond hobo said.
"No. My name is Kyle," Kyle said firmly, so the hobo would get it through his thick skull.
Unfazed by Kyle's tone, the hobo replied with earnest cheerfulness, "And mine's Kenneth, if we're makin' proper introductions. Everyone calls me Hack though."
With that, Hack offered Kyle his hand, which was probably filthy. Out of an indoctrinated compulsion to be polite, Kyle shook it limply, but Hack clutched his hand heartily, even going so far as to grasp the handshake with his other, equally dirty hand. It was obnoxious. What the hell was wrong with this drunken bastard?
Then, Swarm spoke up: "You a runaway?" he asked Kyle.
"Um." Kyle worried if revealing the truth might be dangerous, but he couldn't think of why it would be, so he said, "Yeah, I guess so."
Swarm's only response was a short "hm."
As they continued down the street, it occurred to Kyle how exhausted he was. How many hours had he been awake now? He tried to count, but his brain faltered in doing basic arithmetic. Or maybe he was just too anxious to think properly. He was very out of his element right now, to say the least, walking around some random rural town with these transient strangers, both of whom were taller than him, and likely older, too.
Swarm touched the back of his neck before asking Kyle, "So, um, you been on the road long?"
"Er… Just since last night," Kyle admitted, trying to sound casual, confident, even though he was actually burning with shame over it.
At that, Swarm slowed his pace to walk next to Kyle, while Hack continued on ahead of them.
"Oh, really? You just left?" Swarm asked Kyle.
"Yeah."
"Well, you're welcome to ramble with us, if you'd like," Swarm said, offering Kyle a half-smile. "We'll pro'ly stick around here for a coupla days, then we're plannin' on catchin' out to New Or'lins."
"Ah, yes, I'd like that," Kyle said, his impression of Swarm instantly changing. "Umm, where are we, anyway?"
"Milan," Swarm answered. "Tennessee."
Swarm smiled genuinely this time, and his teeth weren't nearly as yellow as Hack's, which was a relief. Kyle smiled back. He was still trying to process how incredibly far he'd gone from Chicago in just one day. A few hundred miles? As he deliberated this, it occurred to him that he was still staring at Swarm, particularly his one eye, which was blue, dark blue, like the ocean. Flustered, Kyle immediately tore his gaze away. Ugh, that was so rude of him!
Red-faced, he stared at the ground, ashamed of himself.
The fresh morning sun was inching higher, glowing shyly behind the buildings of the main street. Kyle continued following Swarm (Hack had disappeared at some point), until they reached the downtrodden part of town, where the buildings were battered and unkempt, probably teeming with disease. There was hardly anyone around.
Pointing to a wooden building, Swarm said, "You can get a room there for a nickel if you want a place to flop. The food ain't half bad either."
Kyle bit his lip before forcing himself to say, "Um, well… Are you coming too?"
"Nah, I'm not tired. Slept most of the way here," Swarm said. "I'm gonna go wait for the library to open."
Kyle imagined he must have looked distressed, because Swarm added, "Just come down to the library when you wake up – it's at the end of the main road; s'not too hard to find. How long you think you're gonna sleep though?"
"A hundred years," Kyle moaned, rubbing his forehead.
To that, Swarm snickered good-naturedly. Already, Kyle was beginning to feel at ease around him. He had to admit he was pretty impressed with the library bit too.
More seriously, Kyle replied, "Maybe 'til one. Or two? Not too late, I hope."
Kyle then dug his wallet out of his back pocket, picking through the dollar bills for spare change.
But suddenly, Swarm grabbed his hand, closing around it to shut the wallet.
"Oh, jeez. You can't be wavin' your money around like that," Swarm chided him. "You'll get rolled. Robbed."
Wounded, shocked, and burning with humiliation, all Kyle could say was, "Oh."
He felt so stupid. How could he have been so unaware?
Swarm was still looking at him, his eye wide with worry, as if he weren't sure he trusted Kyle not to get himself mugged. It sent a spark of rage through Kyle, which he resented, because he wanted to like Swarm. They were going to be friends. But Swarm just didn't want him to get robbed, right? And that was a friendly thing, right, not wanting your friend to get robbed.
So, very surreptitiously this time, Kyle extracted a few nickels from his wallet before stuffing it deep into his back pocket. Desperately trying to swallow his shame, he started towards the flophouse, aware that Swarm was still accompanying him.
The place was dingy and old, like everything else in this part of town, but it seemed clean enough. Kyle was trying to keep a positive attitude – he had survived the first night on the road, after all, and now that he had a guide, things would be easier. The road wasn't about things being all polished and new and pretty; it was about grime and roughness and toughing it out because you were a man. A real, cut-throat hobo. Kyle kicked the luxurious memories of his last hotel stay from his mind. Adventurers didn't need room service.
In the lobby, the clerk at the front desk peered over his newspaper and said, "Can I help y'all?"
"Um, yeah. I was wondering if I could get a room?" Kyle said.
"Single, five cents, loft, ten. How long you plannin' on stayin'?" the clerk asked.
"Uh, a loft then, I guess. And I dunno, two days?" Kyle replied, looking to Swarm for confirmation.
Nodding, Swarm said, "Yeah, two's fine."
Kyle placed four nickels on the dingy counter, and the clerk gave him the key to room 308.
"I'll be headin' over to library now then," Swarm said to Kyle. "You want me to come get you if it gets too late?"
"If I don't show up by two, then yes, that'd be fine," Kyle said.
"Then I'll be seein' ya, 'bo," Swarm said with a shy smile, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he left.
The front door clattered shut behind him. From outside, Swarm offered a little wave, but Kyle was too slow to process the gesture, and by the time he managed to raise his hand in response, Swarm was already out of sight. Deflated, Kyle threw his satchel over his back and headed up to his room.
Admittedly, the word "loft" had sort of impressed him, but there was nothing impressive about this room: the striped maroon wallpaper was peeling in multiple places, and the furniture – a single chair, a nightstand, and two beds – had seen better days, to say the least. Apparently, the only thing qualifying this room as a loft was the fact it had two beds, which was just a waste of five cents, but oh well, it was just a nickel. There was a porcelain pitcher and a bowl on the nightstand, and Kyle groaned, suspecting that there wasn't running water for bathing – the bathroom he'd just visited hadn't been a powder room; it was the only bathroom. Sighing, he tried to tell himself he should be glad this place had a toilet at all. Things were about to get a whole lot more primitive from here on out, so he had better start getting used to it.
He tossed his bag onto the bed. They must wash the sheets between customers… right? From his satchel, he retrieved his new bar of Ivory soap and washed his face with the pitcher water. He dried his face with his shirt, because he didn't trust the likes of that sponge. Looking at himself in the dirty, cracked mirror, he wondered if he looked more mature than yesterday. If so, it was only because he was so tired, with dark circles under his eyes. Next, he changed into his red silk pajamas. Although he assumed hobos just slept in their ratty clothes, it felt good to wear pajamas, and he liked them, so he would just be a pajama-wearing hobo, he supposed. The mattress was neither thick nor soft, but he was so exhausted that he fell asleep faster than he had in a very long time.
Someone was knocking on the door. For a second, Kyle thought it was a cop, one from Chicago here to take him home. Oh God, maybe his mother was with him too! But then, he remembered Swarm, how he said he'd come and wake him if he slept too late. Shit, it was almost quarter to four! How did that happen!? He scrambled out of bed and threw the door open.
There stood Swarm, fist in mid-air, poised to knock again.
"Sorry, sorry," Kyle sputtered out.
"What? No, no, I'm sorry for wakin' you," Swarm said.
Then, Swarm's expression was rendered deeply, almost comically perplexed, his thick eyebrows raised high, and Kyle might have questioned him if he didn't realize Swarm was staring at his crimson silk pajamas.
Without even thinking, Kyle slammed the door on Swarm's face.
"Shit! Sorry! Sorry!" Kyle exclaimed, horrified by what he'd just done. "Just give me a minute; I'll be right out!"
Nearly in tears, he covered his face, almost able to feel the heat of his embarrassment in his hands. Why couldn't he have just slept in his clothes!? Did he want to be a hobo or not!?
Stripping himself in record speed, he shoved the night clothes back into his bag. Hell, he should throw these things out. God damn it, fucking pajamas!
As he sat on the edge of the bed, still naked, he resolved that when he opened the door again, he'd be calm and composed, saying something like, "Thanks for stopping by to get me; I really appreciate it. Would you like to go get something to eat now?" Just like that, all mature. Ha ha, as if he could ever be capable of that!
With a deep breath, he got up and changed back into his clothes. They felt very pre-worn now, because, well, they were. Clothes were supposed to feel clean when you first put them on. But you know what? He was a hobo now. Pre-worn clothes didn't bother him.
Once dressed, he opened the door again. Swarm was leaning against the opposite wall, a book splayed open in his hand. He looked up at Kyle, the book's pages collapsing over his thumb.
"Okay. I'm ready," Kyle declared with as much composure as possible.
As he locked the door, he wondered if he ought to apologize again for slamming the door on Swarm's face. Ugh, he couldn't believe he did that!
"You hungry?" Swarm asked as they headed down the hall.
Only then realizing how empty his stomach felt, Kyle said, "Ugh, yes. Starving."
"I don't really wanna deal with this kitchen here though," Swarm said, lowering his voice. "There's a pretty decent place nearby, anyway. Hack oughta be there soon, if he's not already."
Swarm exhaled wearily, closing his eye and then opening it again to catch Kyle's gaze.
Cutting the brief eye contact – it was too unexpected, too intimate – Kyle stared straight ahead, into the lobby, and said, "Sure, that's fine."
If Swarm didn't want to, Kyle certainly wasn't about to insist they stay and eat here at the flophouse, even if he wasn't enthusiastic about seeing Hack again. Shooting a glance down into the kitchen, Kyle wondered why, exactly, Swarm wanted to avoid it. Hmm.
Well, wherever they were going, Kyle just hoped the food was decent. It didn't have to be as good as his mother's cooking, just decent. Remembering her, Kyle imagined her crying on the sofa in the parlor, clinging to his father, Kyle's note crumpled in her hand. His stomach lurched, as if he'd just been punched in the gut. He rerouted his thoughts, replaying an actual, recent scene, also in the parlor: his parents and Adina's on opposite sofas, refilling each other's wine glasses, spewing bullshit about how awkward and adorable Kyle was around Adina. None of it was true! It was all complete fiction! Anyway, that was the night he threw his jade paperweight (a souvenir from China) against his bedroom wall. He had to move the furniture around to hide the huge dent it made.
At this time of day, it was still quite bright out, but the sun looked hot surrounded by dreary streaks of cloud, like it was already tired, ready to set. There were still a good five or so hours of daylight though. The air was much warmer than what was typical for late May. Ah, but he was more south now, so far from Chicago. And what a relief too! They'd never find him so many states away, even if a big reward was offered, even if they hired a private investigator. Even if they sent the whole police force after him! He'd done it; he was a free man now. The world was his oyster, etc.
En route to the restaurant, Kyle tried to discern the title of Swarm's book.
In the end, he decided to just ask: "What are you reading?"
"Um, Five Dialogues," Swarm said, showing Kyle the withered paperback.
"As in, Plato?" Kyle asked, hoping he didn't sound as surprised as he was.
"Yeah." Swarm slowed his pace, staring at the worn lettering on the cover. "I dunno much about philosophy, but I like how it makes you think, you know? I, uh, didn't make it too far with school, so I read as much as I can to try 'n compensate…"
"Well, that's good," Kyle said, wondering how far Swarm had made it in school. "Have you read the first dialogue yet? What did you think of it?"
The rest of the way there, they had a short but lively discussion about Euthyphro. Swarm offered his opinions without the kind of authority that Gregory, Kyle's roommate at school, would have used, because Swarm was not a know-it-all, and that was very refreshing. When Kyle spoke, Swarm listened with utmost attention and seemed very interested in what Kyle was saying, which made him feel good about himself.
The restaurant, a place called "Bix's Inn," was a dingy establishment, which should not have surprised Kyle at this point. It wasn't very crowded, and Kyle easily spotted Hack sitting cross-legged on a bar stool, a glass in hand. He was talking to someone, a thin man with wispy black hair.
Elbowing the black-haired man, Hack shouted, "Hey, Pearly! Look who finally decided to join us!"
"Christ. Craig's here," Swarm muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.
Glaring at Hack, Craig said, "Alright, that's it. I told you if you called me that one more time I was leavin'."
"Aw, c'mon, 'bo, you know there ain't no more dishes to wash," Hack drawled, pawing at Craig's shoulder. "And dontcha wanna meet my new friend, Handle?"
"Not really, no," Craig said, but he didn't otherwise move; rather, he took a sip from his glass.
Hack motioned for Swarm and Kyle to come to the bar. Slumping his shoulders, Swarm went over and sat down next to Hack. Kyle followed suit, sitting next to Swarm.
"They still got Irish turkey here?" Swarm asked.
Mocking Swarm, Craig said, "Yes, they still got Irish turkey here."
"Aw, Pearl— Craig," Hack corrected himself, "don't be mean to 'im."
The bartender interrupted them: "Can I get somethin' for y'all?"
"Irish turkey and a glass of red wine, please," Swarm said.
"Same here," Kyle requested, since they had not been given menus.
Irish turkey sounded delightful, and wine was very sophisticated! Swarm just kept impressing him.
"So you got yourself a lamb, eh, Swarm?" Craig said.
Though he didn't know what that meant, Kyle suspected that Craig was referring to him, and if he weren't so intimidated by the situation, he would have stuck up for himself. But then again, maybe not – Craig seemed scary, with his sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones.
Sighing, Swarm said to Hack, "Why'd you have to bring him?"
"Fuck you, Swarm. I live here," Craig said.
"Awww, can't we all just get along?" Hack said in a stupid sing-song voice.
Tight-lipped, Swarm said, "I'm taking my food and leaving then."
Swarm gave Kyle an apologetic look. Kyle nodding in understanding; he didn't want to stick around here anymore either.
A tense silence followed. In an obvious attempt to change the subject, Hack started going on about "Chi" – that is, Chicago – telling Craig how lucky it was that he and Swarm had found employment in the city during the winter making cigars. Actually, Kyle was intrigued by this, could hardly believe that Hack and Swarm had been in Chicago right along with him, at least for the past three weeks since Kyle had returned from school. Had he ever passed them by on the street, he wondered? Probably not, since Swarm and Hack probably circled the bad parts of town, whereas Kyle only really left his upscale suburb to go shopping downtown.
Soon, the bartender arrived with their food, which most certainly wasn't turkey: there was cabbage involved, and the meat was dark, far darker than any turkey he'd ever seen. Next, their drinks arrived. Fortunately, that was most certainly red wine. So at least one thing made sense here.
They took their food to-go, but before they left, Swarm downed the entirety of his glass of wine in two gulps. Kyle tried to do the same, but the harsh, cheap-tasting liquid didn't go down easily, and he coughed a few times, his eyes watering.
Craig scoffed derisively. Swarm told him to go fuck himself. The whole thing was terribly embarrassing, but at least Swarm defended him.
Once they were a block away from the restaurant, Swarm muttered, "God, I hate that fucker. He washes dishes at the flophouse, so I thought I was smart for goin' to Bix's to avoid him. I shoulda figured he'd be with Hack."
"What did he mean about me being your lamb?" Kyle asked, the burning question escaping his mouth before he'd really taken a moment to consider it.
"Oh, Jesus, that," Swarm groaned. "Hold on, let's get outta the stem first."
Outside town, they found a good place to eat: a fallen log within a shallow patch of woods. It was nice, private. Perfect.
Sitting on the log, Kyle prodded the mystery meat, trying to convince himself it was beef. Fortunately, it turned out to be pretty good, but that may have just been because he was very hungry.
Just as Kyle was telling himself not to eat too fast (he always ate fast; his mother was always telling him to slow down), Swarm let out a long sigh.
"I guess you don't know much about bein' on the road yet," Swarm said, pausing for a good bit before speaking again. "But, um, there are some tramps – bad ones – who take advantage of young kids on the road. They get them to beg for 'em, 'cuz kids get more sympathy. That's not the worst of it, but I, ah… I really don't wanna get into the details. Those bad tramps are called 'wolves' or 'jockers,' and the kids, 'lambs' or 'punks.'" And indeed, Swarm seemed terribly uncomfortable to be talking about this. He went on to say: "Craig was just making a sick joke. He doesn't really think you're my lamb. You're too old."
Kyle's stomach suddenly felt like it was filled with poison, and his appetite evaporated. God, does that stuff really happen on the road? How awful. And how awful for someone to make a joke of it. That Craig really was a sick bastard.
Yet as awful as it was, Kyle couldn't help being curious – he wanted to know more about this terrible practice of exploitation. But Swarm didn't want to talk about it, so he wasn't going to ask.
Instead, he asked, "How come Craig hates you so much?"
Again, Swarm sighed before saying, "Well, two summers ago, back when we used to catch out with him, all three of us got snared down in Kosciusko. Y'know, arrested. He was sore as hell about it – wouldn't let up that it was my fault, even though we both knew it was Hack's for bein' a noisy alkie stiff. But even before that, he didn't like me much. Anyway, he said he was just gonna work for a little while, but it's been a year now and he's still here on the homeguard washin' dishes." To that, he added, "Hack was real mopey when Craig quit. I'm sure every time we stop here Hack spends the whole time tryin' to convince Craig to catch out with us again."
"He sounds like an absolute degenerate," Kyle commented, distracted from his animosity towards Craig by how enchanted he was that Swarm was rather nonchalant about spending a night in jail.
Yet again, Kyle found himself impressed by Swarm, a real, hardened vagabond who still valued education. Not to mention, he was quite attractive for a hobo, with healthy, clear skin and a clean-shaven face. If it weren't for the eye patch, he might even look boyish.
Neither of them said anything for a while. Kyle wanted to ask Swarm lots of things, like how long he'd been on the road, if he was a runaway too, and how he lost his eye, but those questions seemed rude, so he kept his mouth shut.
Then Swarm said, "Hey, Handle – or, wait, you didn't care much for Hack's monica, did ya? You said your name was Kyle, right?"
"Oh, it's fine, I suppose," Kyle lied, "but yes, I'd prefer Kyle."
"Alright," Swarm said. Then, in a cautious, halting voice, he asked, "You don't hafta answer this, and it's awful rude of me to ask in the first place, but, ah… Why'd you decide to leave home?"
"Oh. Um. Well…" Kyle trailed off, unsure where to start.
"Sorry, sorry," Swarm interjected all of the sudden. "Forget it. I shouldn'ta asked. It's none of my business. I'm sorry."
Kyle shook his head and said, "No, no it's okay. I, um, had a fight with my parents. See, when I finish college, they want me to marry this girl. Well, I didn't know they wanted me to marry her until yesterday. She's alright, I guess, I just don't care for her much. Actually, no, the truth is, she's kind of an idiot. I told them as much, and they weren't too happy to hear it."
"You were goin' to college?" Swarm said.
"Err, yeah," Kyle admitted, uncomfortable having his family's wealth highlighted. "But that was the other thing – after undergraduate, they want me to go to law school, so I can someday take over my father's law firm. But I just don't want to. I don't care about the legal system, let alone copyright law."
God, how ridiculous he must sound. Swarm must think he was a fool for running away, either that or completely crazy.
"I guess it must've been pretty bad for you to want to run away. You're not planning on going back, are ya?" Swarm asked, his voice wavering, punctured with hesitation.
"No," Kyle said. "Not anytime soon, at least."
Setting his empty plate down on the log, Swarm said, "That's good for me, 'cuz I like you a whole lot more than Craig. It's been a while since me and Hack caught out with anybody else."
That was a wonderful thing to hear, and Kyle smiled despite himself (smiling could be embarrassing sometimes).
Swarm smiled back for a short, halting moment before shyly looking away, distracting himself by taking a cigarette out of a tin case.
After putting a cigarette between his lips, he offered the case to Kyle, saying, "Want one?"
"Um, thank you, but I'll have to decline," Kyle said, intimidated at the prospect of smoking.
Hopefully one day, he, too, would be a seasoned tramp, smoking cigarettes and catching trains with poise and precision, downing cheap alcohol without so much as a wince. It was only day one though, and he'd at least managed to down that glass of acidic wine, so he didn't want to push his luck with smoking too.
While Swarm lit up, Kyle asked him, "How about you? How long have you been on the road?"
Exhaling the smoke, Swarm replied, "Almost four years now. Time sure does fly."
"Four years! How old are you?" Kyle exclaimed.
"Eighteen, nineteen in October. You?"
"Well, I guess I'm eighteen too now, as of today," he said, having completely forgotten that today was the twenty-sixth of May, his birthday, for which his mother was making his favorite dessert, Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte.
"What? You mean, today's your birthday?" Swarm asked.
"I guess so, yeah."
"Really!" Swarm exclaimed.
"Um. Yes," Kyle said.
"Then we should celebrate!" Swarm said. "You wanna get plastered?"
Though he had never been drunk before, Kyle laughed and said, "Yeah, actually, that sounds pretty good."
On the way back to town, Kyle didn't feel quite like himself, though not in a bad way. At prep school, there were boys who snuck out of the dorms to get drunk at the bars in town, and as much as he hated them, hated seeing them race across the lawn below his window, snickering and laughing in not-so-hushed voices, he could at least admit to himself that he wanted to be among them. After Eric was expelled for rewiring the school's phone lines for eavesdropping purposes, Kyle's only remaining "friend" was his roommate Gregory. People didn't like Gregory because he was a snob, and it satisfied Kyle that Gregory, too, was mostly friendless. But now Kyle was here in Milan, Tennessee, a whole different world, about to divulge in booze-induced shenanigans with an amicable guy who had even said he liked him. He liked him!
The stem was a lot livelier now: a bunch of men outside Bix's were speaking so loudly to each other Kyle wasn't sure if they were just chatting or having an argument; a few tramps were bumming around, one trying to sell something, it seemed; and a boy much younger than himself was, bewilderingly, smoking a cigarette.
"We can get good wine, or whiskey. Or whatever you want, really," Swarm said.
"Wine then?" Kyle suggested, as whiskey sounded too extreme.
"Sure," Swarm agreed. "It's your birthday, after all."
They went to another saloon, not Bix's, where they selected a big bottle of white wine. Swarm was absolutely adamant about paying for it, and Kyle eventually relented, thanking him profusely. Afterward, they stopped by the druggist's to buy powdered doughnuts, which Swarm allowed Kyle to pay for.
They left town, heading back to the surrounding fields. The sky was just beginning to dim, muting the outside world in a vague, sleepy purple.
"Are you gonna stay at the flophouse tonight?" Kyle asked.
"Nah. I'll pro'ly just gonna sleep outside since it should be warm enough," Swarm responded after swallowing a mouthful of doughtnut, his lips covered in powder.
Carefully, Kyle said, "Well, if you want… You could stay in my room. It has two beds."
"Oh? You don't mind?" Swarm said, his brows disappearing behind his long bangs.
"No, of course not."
"Well, that's awfully kind of you," Swarm said demurely.
A little embarrassed, Kyle replied, "It's no problem."
"Alright, then. Thank you," Swarm said, his lips quivering into a small smile.
Soon, they reached the patch of woods where they had eaten dinner. There, they passed the bottle of wine back and forth as the sky morphed into deep oranges and soft pinks. Kyle was getting quite drunk, feeling giddy and overly relaxed. This wine was so much better than the red wine from the restaurant.
"Did you run away too?" Kyle found himself asking.
"Well, sorta," Swarm said, staring into the distance. "My dad mighta been too drunk to even notice I'd gone. After my mom died, my sister left and got married, so it was just me and him. He stopped caring about the farm, then stopped caring about everything else, so… I left."
He put his cigarette out in the ground, not saying anything else.
All along, Kyle had assumed Swarm hit the road seeking adventure. How wrong he had been.
At a loss for what to say, Kyle murmured, "I'm sorry."
"Aw, no, don't be," Swarm said, rubbing Kyle's shoulder, which Kyle appreciated. "My mom's still looking out for me. She's up there, a dolphin in the sky."
"Umm. What?"
"The constellation. Delphinus," Swarm explained.
"Oh, hah, I see. I know that one, yes," Kyle said, having seen it in his astronomy book but never in the night sky.
It was late when they decided to head back for town, following the dim lights of Milan as they staggered through the dark. Kyle was beginning to feel sleepy again, the commotion of the day taking a toll on him. Just before they made it into town, Swarm paused for a moment and looked up at the sky.
"She's easier to see later in the summer," he said.
Kyle looked up too and tried to identify some constellations, but his vision was bleary and mind foggy. Ah, there was the Big Dipper though, hanging idly in the panorama.
By now, the stem had mostly cleared out, those still on the street like shadows, vague shapes in the night. Here, there was no whirring of streetcar cables, no thunder of the elevated railroad, no automobiles charging through the street. Milan said goodnight when the sky went dark. In the night, only the flickers from the candle-lit lampposts would intrude the quiet.
At the flophouse, the clerk was asleep, his head in his hand as he snored.
Drunkenly, they climbed up the three flights of steps to Kyle's room, Swarm occasionally brushing up against Kyle.
"I'm so glad you're gonna be catchin' out with us. It's been gettin' real dull, just me and Hack," Swarm said, slurring his words.
"Me too, me too. I dunno what I would've done if I hadn't found you guys. I would've been fucked. Fucked!" Kyle exclaimed loudly, both of them snickering.
Kyle unlocked the door, and they burst into the room, falling towards the beds. Without even kicking off his shoes, Swarm landed face down on the bed nearest the door.
"This wasn't your bed, was it?" he asked, his voice muffled by the pillow.
"Nope," Kyle said, discarding his boots on the way to his bed.
Kyle crawled under the sheets, pulling the thin quilt up over his shoulder. Moaning, Swarm turned to face him, the eye-patch slightly displaced. He repositioned it immediately.
Whispering, Kyle asked, "What happened to your eye?"
"Had an accident with a spoon," Swarm said jokingly.
Kyle had never regretted asking something so much. He was being intrusive, and it wasn't okay, even if he was drunk.
"I'm sorry," Kyle said, never meaning it so much.
"No, I'm sorry. I lied. I'll tell you the truth someday," Swarm said.
"Alright."
Opening his eye, Swarm murmured with blissed-out fatigue, "Hey, Happy Birthday."
"Ha, thank you," Kyle said, letting his head sink into the pillow, knowing he would be asleep very soon.
His eyelids drooped shut, and he let the steady strum of Swarm's breathing lull him into sleep.