The Boxcar Blues

THE

BOXCAR

BLUES

By

Jeff Egerton

Text copyright © 2012 Jeff Egerton

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This book is dedicated to all of the
courageous men and women who have fought and sacrificed for our
country’s freedom.

Author’s note: This is a story that takes
place well before the Civil Rights Act and the concept of political
correctness. The book contains terms that some readers might find
offensive, but this language was the norm in the 30s and 40s. With
this in mind, I made an effort to keep those terms to an absolute
minimum.

PROLOGUE

In the early 1930s men moved across the land
like an endless trickling stream of humanity. They traveled on
foot, a few by car, but most by rail; packed inside or piled on top
of boxcars. Most of the time they didn’t know where they were
going, but kept moving regardless. It wasn’t out of determination,
it was out of desperation. There had to be a better life out there
somewhere.

The migrant army was predominantly men, but
occasionally women and children tagged along. They could be just as
hungry as the men; they could show you the idle stare of
hopelessness, same as the men. They could suffer just as deeply.
Everyone was different, each suffering in their own way, and yet
they were all cut from the same worn and ragged fabric.

The stream moved in every direction at once.
Men heading north to seek work in the auto factories; south to find
work picking cotton; east to the tomato crop in New Jersey; west to
the hay fields of Imperial, or apple orchards of Washington. The
hell of it was, in many cases, once you got there the work was
over. Again you had made the trip for naught. You were turned away,
usually by armed guards who let you know you weren’t wanted. “Ain’t
any more work, get the hell out of here.”

So, you got the hell out of there, maybe
found a hobo jungle or the cardboard shanties of a Hooverville.
Then you sat and thought the same thoughts you struggled with in
Amarillo, in Birmingham, or Yuma. You pondered your fate at every
stop and came up with the same solution, you had to keep moving.
Work wasn’t going to come to you. Nobody ever walked into a hobo
jungle and offered you a job. But still, you had to keep looking.
All of those rumors of work couldn’t be wrong.

When you couldn’t find a job, you had to
eat, so you begged and if that didn’t pay off, you stole. The great
lesson of the depression was — you can get used to anything. Life
had been reduced to its simplest terms: do whatever you can to stay
alive.

The Great Depression — nothing great about
it.

CHAPTER ONE

August, 1932. Dakota Springs, Texas

At mid-afternoon the brutal west Texas sun
beat down relentlessly on anything not covered by shade. From his
hiding place in the tall field grass Luke Jackson, oblivious to the
heat, had been watching a farm house across the road. They had a
well stocked hen house and he’d been waiting for the right time to
get himself a free chicken dinner.

For the last few minutes, however, his focus
had shifted to a stranger, most likely another homeless soul,
shuffling down the dusty gravel road. When the stranger stopped and
ducked into the corn field, Luke realized that the guy had also
heard the tell tale clucking of an active hen house and his scheme
was the same as Luke’s; to steal one of the hens.

A minute later, Luke heard the rustling of
corn husks. He saw the stranger squatting in the grass twenty feet
from him. He was certain the guy’s intention was the same as his
and he had to beat him to it.

As soon as Curly Levitz heard the familiar
squawking from the hen house, he knew this was too good of a chance
to pass up. He settled down in the grass and focused on the farm
house watching for any activity that would interfere with his plans
to grab a free dinner. He was deep in thought about a plump pullet
when the voice scared the hell out of him.

Luke yelled in a whisper, “Hey kid, wha’chu
doin’?

Curly saw a dark face staring at him from
the field grass. Not knowing what to make of the guy he ignored the
voice and looked back at the house.

Luke tried again, “I said, what are you
doing? Are you gonna hit that hen house?”

“
Yeah! What’s it to
you?”

“
I was here first, that’s
what.”

Curly saw big dark eyes staring out from
under a worn fedora. White teeth glowed against the dark skin like
a candle in a cave. He said, “I don’t care if you was here first.
I’m gonna get one of those hens.”

Luke’s last meal of two stale tortillas had
been two days ago. He was hungry and desperate, a combination that
drove men to do things they’d normally never consider. He
countered, “You stay put. I’m goin’ first.”

Because he was just as hungry, Curly wasn’t
about to give in. He said, “The hell if you are. I ain’t waiting
for no one.”

Luke had sized him up at first glance. The
kid was smaller than him, but had that tough look about him that
anyone on the road quickly acquires. If it came to a fight, Luke
thought he had the edge.

He broke for the house. To his chagrin, the
kid jumped up and ran beside him. Luke jerked a thumb over his
shoulder and barked, “Get back in the field, kid. I’ll get us some
chickens.”

The guy didn’t listen.

Luke stopped beside the farm house.

The other hobo, close behind him, said,
“What’s wrong?”

“
Nothin’. I’m just making
sure there ain’t no one around.”

On his hands and knees, Luke crept past two
windows. He didn’t hear any sounds coming from the house and hadn’t
seen anyone. It was looking better all the time, except for the
pest who wouldn’t go away. He tried to scare the kid. “Farmers have
been known to shoot at chicken thieves. You sure you wanna do
this?”

“
You ain’t gonna scare me
off, fella. I’m just as hungry as you are.”

Luke cursed to himself. Because his odds of
getting a bird were better by himself, he wished the kid would have
waited in the field. That wasn’t to be, so he asked, “I don’t think
there’s anyone in the house. You ready?”

“
Hell yes. Let’s
go.”

Luke thought about the racket chickens made
when you grabbed them. He hoped the kid knew enough to wring their
necks right quick to shut them up. He took off for the hen house
with the kid right behind him. As soon as they ran through the wire
and wood door, the resident hens started flapping about and making
a ruckus that could be heard in the next county.

Luke grabbed the first pullet he could
catch. He started to wring its neck to shut it up, then saw an axe
and chopping block. He laid the frenzied bird on the block and
whacked off its head.

Curly grabbed two pullets. He struggled to
behead one while holding the other.

With an armful of bloody chicken, Luke
yelled, “C’mon, kid. Don’t take all day.”

The door to the farm house flew open. A
farmer looking down the barrel of a shotgun rushed toward them. He
was tall, madder than hell and yelling in a deep voice, “Put them
birds down, you thievin’ bastards!”

Knowing the guy might shoot any second, the
boys stopped and dropped their birds. As if to emphasize their
death, the headless chicks flapped aimlessly around in the
dirt.

The farmer looked at his dead birds, spewing
out their lasts drops of blood, then back at the boys. He roared,
“Already kilt ‘em, hunh? That’s what I ought to do to you two, is
take an axe to your necks.”

The boys backed cautiously away from the
enraged farmer. Luke said, “Mister, I ain’t eaten in two days. I’ll
do some work around here to pay for those chickens.”

Curly picked up on the logic, “Me too,
mister. I don’t mind doing some chores.”

The farmer never softened his demeanor. “I
don’t want your kind around here. Get your low-down hides off my
property and don’t come back.”

Luke and Curly backed away a few steps, then
turned and ran to the field. They picked up their bindles and
looked back at the disgruntled farmer. He was watching them with an
icy stare; the shotgun in one hand and two dead chickens in the
other.

Curly said, “I feel sorry for the next hobo
that hits that hen house.”

Luke said, “Thanks to you, we didn’t get
nuthin’.”

Curly shot back. “God damn it, it wasn’t my
fault.”

“
I could ‘a made it out of
there with a nice fat pullet if you didn’t take so
long.”

Curly countered, “I was trying to get us
another bird.”

“
You ain’t any good at
stealing chickens, that’s for sure.”

“
Shit, I stole more
chickens than you’ve ever seen.”

“
You sure talk
big.”

Silence prevailed for the next five minutes.
It was like the boys knew there was no point to arguing. They were
without a meal and the reason didn’t matter. In the distance a
train whistle cut the late afternoon heat. They both looked toward
the sound that pulled at them like an invisible shepherd, guiding
them toward the tracks that stretched unerringly into the
future.

Luke said, “You gonna catch out?”

“
I don’t know. I might hit
the stem first; see if I can get a meal.”

Luke looked down at the other guy and said,
“I don’t do no begging at houses unless black folk live there.”

“
White people don’t give
you no food?”

“
Not very
often.”

“
There’s some houses up
ahead. You wait out of sight and I’ll see if I can get us
something.”

“
I hope you’re better at
putting the arm on people than you are at stealing
chickens.”

“
You just watch. I’ll talk
them out of their gold fillings.”

“
You sure talk
big.”

From the cover of a hedge row the boys
looked over a recently painted house with a two year old Ford Model
A in the driveway.

Curly said, “This is as good a chance as
we’ll find today. When Luke nodded his assent, Curly left to redeem
himself. He approached the house and saw the man of the house in
the front window lighting his pipe. Perfect. Right after dinner was
the best time. He headed for the back door to catch the lady of the
house cleaning up. If he was lucky he'd get a warm meal. He always
offered to do some work, but most often they'd give him something
just to get rid of him. They didn't want no hobo hanging around,
even if he was just a kid.

Hat in hand Curly approached the back door.
He knocked softly and a lady answered. With a sorrowful look he
stood back and said, "S'cuse me, ma'am. I was wondering if you had
any work I could do in exchange for something to eat. I don't need
much, just a piece of stale bread or something, an' I'm real good
at painting. I'll put a fresh coat on that shed in an hour."

A plump, gray haired woman wiped her hands
on her apron, and said, "Oh, you poor dear, you're just a young
boy. Wait here."

Curly sat down on the stoop. From the smell
in the kitchen, he thought he'd soon be feasting on pork chops and
potatoes, maybe even a piece of apple pie. He’d make that black kid
eat his words.

Then, when he heard the old man's voice, his
thoughts of a warm meal disappeared like smoke in a breeze.
"Martha, was that someone at the door?"

From his tone Curly could tell the old fart
wasn't in favor of handouts. The wife said, "It's just a young boy.
I was going to give him a pork chop and a slice of bread."

"The hell if you are. He can go somewhere
else for his handouts. I work too damn hard to be supporting every
vagrant that knocks on the door. Word gets around we're handing out
food and they'll be lined up down the block, trying to eat us out
of house and home."

Curly had heard this song before. He was
long gone when the guy threw open the door.

He walked back to the field, knowing what
the black guy was going to say.