It was a hard climb. The loose gravel lining the slope caused him to slip every few steps, kicking up dust that began to cover his new Nike low-tops. It was hard, but worth it. When he reached the top he could see exactly why his brother told him to never, ever climb onto the tracks.
It was a camp and he realized he could smell it. Burnt plastic, mostly, with a hint of sweat. On first glance he'd imagined the camp of a great army full of brave soldiers taking a brief, and surely deserved, rest before marching on to combat, and quite possibly, certain death. But reality set in quickly, and he knew this was no military camp. The tents, if you could call them that, where bright blue or mud-colored tarps like the one his uncle used to cover his boat after coming back from the lake. They hung down from trees, were propped up with pieces of white, plastic pipe and were secured to the ground by rocks, rusty hunks of iron or chunks of concrete block. The ground around each tent was dry, dusty earth with a few tall weeds here and there, but no grass. Instead of neat campfires surrounded by rocks, there were blackened oil drums filled with sharp flames stabbing their way into the early evening air.
When he noticed the man rumble awkwardly and slowly from behind a tattered tarp, he dove down behind the track leaving only the top of his head exposed so he could watch. The man was white and he was old. Really old. Not like the boy's father was old. Older than that. But maybe younger than his grandfather. He had a dusty blonde-gray beard and long kinked hair sliding from beneath an orange cap. He walked like one of those horses the boy's mother had taken him to see at the fair. High and thoughtful, each step a decision of it's own, but with a kind of wobble the horses hadn't had. His shoes didn't match. One was a brown loafer. Its sole had come detached both in the front and the back. The other was a high-top sneaker. It was gray with dirt, but looked to be in better shape than it's mate. There was a long strip hanging down from a hole in the seat of the old man's pants. Through the hole the boy could see stained, yellowed long underwear.
Suddenly the old man lunged forward grabbing his legs above his knees. He coughed in fits, violently, wheezing and bobbing his upper body up and down between each fit. He raised up and spit a dark red spray onto the ground in front of him, then leaned over and began again. The boy, seeing this, felt afraid. This man was sick. Bad sick. What if he died right there? Should he run for help? The boy's stomach began to tingle and swirl. The coughing continued. The sound of wet, rattling death filled his ears. He felt sweat on his palms and on the back of his neck. He should do something. He bowed his head for a moment to pray to Jesus to protect him, then poised himself to leap. He looked up. The camp appeared empty. The old man was gone.
Later that night at the supper table while his father went on, as usual, talking about work, the boy leaned over toward his brother.
“I went up on the railroad tracks,” he whispered.
His brother looked shocked, then angry and concerned. “I told you not to,” he whispered back.
“I saw a man. He looked sick,” the boy said.
“Don't go up there any more,” his brother said. “Ok? Promise.”
“OK, but wha-”
“What are you boys whispering about over there?” their mother asked.
“Nothing, mom,” the boy's brother said.
“Nothing, huh? Sure looked like a couple of thieves to me,” she said. “Plotting something, I bet.”
“No, mom, it's nothing.”
“Oh, honey, let the boys have their secrets,” their father said. “A secret or two can't hurt anybody. And we can't know EVERYTHING, can we? After all, we're only their parents.”
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