I walked along the railroad tracks with him, this kid I really just met. Craig. He was cool. He was rich, too, or at least his dad was, I mean, a surgeon? Shit, that was some serious money. I knew about that, I mean, I knew about money other people had and my family didn't have. Growing up poor in a trailer in Wasaga Beach, you learn this shit. You learn the social stratosphere. I bet I knew it better than Craig did. Why did he need to know it? He had everything he wanted.
But I knew something was wrong with him. I knew he wasn't exactly getting along with his dad. I'd heard him yelling at him over the phone. So we walked along, and I thought of my brother, Tracker. Tracker went his way and I went mine, and we were barely paying the bills. Or Tracker was barely paying the bills. I didn't work. I probably could, doing something. But Tracker said not to, that he'd take care of the bills. And I'd seen the piles of bills, the ones to pay now and the ones we could pay later. Craig, man. His dad was a doctor and everything. I bet they didn't even have any bills.
Craig balanced on the tracks, leaning to one side and then the other. He was tall and skinny. Taller than me. That was okay.
"Where are your parents?" he said, balancing himself with his bag in one hand and leaning to the other side, "you live with your brother, right?"
"Yeah," So I went into it a little bit, my pathetic drunk parents who just didn't get it. What I wouldn't give for one of my parents to be a professional. Or at least a somewhat useful member of society.
"Did they hit you or something?" he said, and this question was a red flag. I glanced at him quick and I saw it, that almost hidden hopeful look. He wanted my parents to have hit me because his dad hit him. That was his problem. That was why he freaked out on the basketball court when I kind of slammed into him, accidentally, of course. But it was basketball. Maybe he didn't like contact like that or maybe he was hurt. I squinted at him. Yep. That was it. He was getting hit.
So I told him no, they were too much of lazy losers to do anything like that, and then I saw the hidden disappointment. What do I do with this? Anything? I mean, I guess some kids get hit. Maybe it's a matter of degree. He'd packed a bag and he was telling me how him and his dad fought.
"But I'm thinking of going solo," he said, sitting on the tracks so I sat, too. He took out this wad of money and fanned it.
"I've got the money," he said, and there was this desperation. I was betting the hitting was pretty bad.
"You can't run away. You'll end up on the streets," I said, but who was I to tell him that? He might end up on the streets, probably. Most likely. And that could be worse than whatever was going on at home. I sort of felt like the devil's advocate. I sort of wanted to force the truth from him.
"Before, you asked if my parents hit me," I said, looking at him. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the money in his hand.
"Did I? So?" he said, and then he looked right at me, kind of challenging. I felt kind of out of my league. Whatever was going on with him, abuse or whatever, it was beyond me. What was I supposed to do with it?
"So, does your dad…hit you?" I said it, and the look on his face. Like he was ignoring me but like he was about to cry. That look was answer enough. Then I heard the train. I shrugged, not getting a verbal answer from him but oh well. I stood up, brushed myself off, moved off the tracks. I just figured Craig would do the same thing but when I looked at him he was staring at the train with this sick kind of happy look.
"C'mon," I said, trying to grab him, reach for him. He shoved me off of him and I fell onto the little sharp rocks that lined the tracks. I laid there in the pile of dust, not expecting that. The train was getting louder and coming closer and still he stared at it coming, and I got real scared. Shit. This kid was gonna commit suicide right in front of me. No. No doing. I stood up and I grabbed him around the waist and I yanked him off those tracks as the train came barreling by us, and I could feel the backlash wind of it pushing my hair off of my forehead, and then he's laughing. He's laughing and I'm staring at him, horrified.
"What the hell? What is wrong with you?" I said, but kind of yelled. I still had a hold of him and he tried to get away but I wouldn't let him.
"Let me go," he said, trying to push me off of him. He might have been taller but I was stronger, a lot stronger. I held tight as he struggled.
"No. You were trying to kill yourself. Jesus, Craig! You can't kill yourself just because your dad hits you or beats you or whatever, god! What is wrong with you?"
"You don't understand! You can't understand! Get off of me!" He was really yelling at me and really trying to get away from me, twisting and turning, but I had him. I was a wrestler. He wasn't into sports, maybe, or didn't play them that much. It was useless struggling, but I was careful not to get punched or kicked. I'd never fought with someone like this to keep them safe. It was like this twisted inside out fight. It was weird.
He calmed down, somewhat. He wasn't really struggling against me anymore, but I was afraid to let him go. There was no real way to protect people from themselves.