The Drift - Rilegato

John Ridley, who lives in Los Angeles, is the author of four highly regarded novels, and a former producer on NBC’s Third Watch. He wrote and produced the film Undercover Brother, wrote the story for Three Kings, and wrote and directed Cold Around the Heart. His novel Stray Dogs was made into the movie U Turn, directed by Oliver Stone. He is also a regular commentator for National Public Radio.

George Plimpton was up, angry. Doing work. George was a badass. George was a head smasher. And though some tried, George Plimpton was not to be trifled with.

George's belligerence was necessitated, this time, by a weepy-bitchy scream in the night, shrill enough to be heard above the steel wheels rolling across the joins of the rails and the diesel-electric GE Unit some fifteen cars up hauling us eastward across the Ameri- can Middle West. The scream was weepy-bitchy shrill enough you'd almost think it was a woman doing the "please, oh God"-ing. Almost. Not quite. Not quite weepy-bitchy shrill enough for that. It carried just enough bass to be the cries of what passed for a man; the cries of Yuppie Scum. Some day-trading, dot-com-ing bastard who was bored with his Benz and instant millions and figured–for whatever reason logical only to Young, Upwardly Mobile Scurf–that hopping Old Dirty Face, riding the rails, would be a romantic, nostalgic way to see America: swapping harmonica songs and open fire–cooked canned beans with some white bearded hobo who regaled with recountings of endless travel over wide-open spaces.

Yeah.

The screams were most likely courtesy of a romantic dick to his ass. Maybe the product of an old-fashioned shank to his ribs.

Fine.

Not my problem.

Yuppie Scum's in the wrong place, Yuppie Scum gets what it deserves. I was just trying to make Iowa.

Except

All that weepy-bitchy screaming . . . it's just got a way of edging you up.

Others, the other tramps and 'boes in the car–catch-outs to Iowa were always heavy the second weekend in August–kept to themselves. Others were smarter than me. I made for the commotion.

A full moon cutting through slits in the metal of the box- car helped me read the situation. Fetaled up in a corner of the car was a floppy blond-haired white guy still "oh, Jesus. Oh God, please, God don't"-ing. He was sporting Dockers–actual honest-to-Christ Dockers–and a shirt that had previously been another color but was now blood-reddish from the red blood that flowed from cuts and slashes, defensive wounds, decorating his arms and upper body. Standing over him were a couple of 'boes. Black bandannas on their necks. Could still smell the piss.

Fuck.

Not 'boes. Freight Train Riders of America. FTRA. Meth-snorting peckerwood gangers. One was demonstrating a blade, the other the smile of a patron enjoying a show.

To the both of them: "Knock that shit off."

Real-life violence is not like movie violence. Movie violence is most times preceded by lots of snappy dialogue from $20 million action star #14 concerning how he's going to do some nasty things to the stuntman who's paid union wages to go down on cue. Real-life violence is mostly unescorted by tough-guy remarks about driving somebody's nose bone up into their brain. In real life, violence is just very suddenly with you.

Suddenly the FTRA with the blade was slashing for me.

And it was then that George Plimpton got up, angry. Did work. George greeted the FTRA where his arm and hand joined. The wrist, technically speaking. George greeted the FTRA at the wrist, and the FTRA's wrist replied with a squeal and a deafening snap and a fountain of blood from where flesh got torn open by breaking bone. George swung around, catching FTRA in the face, across his cheek. What teeth weren't smashed from his mouth were driven through the skin of his jaw.

FTRA One was done for the day.

FTRA Two, who'd come to the party without shank or sharp object or goonie stick, gave me and George some fearful looking- over.

I said to him: "Got money?"

The FTRA's head–poked like he'd tried to block buckshot with it. Brittle skin peppered with a beard that wouldn't grow right–shook his head no.

"Got food stamps?"

The head with its shitty excuse for a face gave me "no" again.

My eyes shifted away from the FTRA. In a flinchy style he looked to where I was looking: the open door of the boxcar. Not a word spoken, but my meaning was clear.

FTRA number two started in with some begging. "Please. . ."

One pitiful word, but at least he didn't sound the bitch Dockers Boy did.

Didn't matter. "Get out."

"Plea–"

George raised up.

That was it for FTRA Two. He'd seen George Plimpton doing work.

George Plimpton was not to be trifled with.

Using what was left of his free will, FTRA Two sailed himself into the dark that waited just beyond the door.

The boxcar now de-FTRA'd, my attention was pulled by the sick whimpers of the yuppie scum.

"Th–thank you."

Those goddamn Dockers. And I'm pretty sure his shirt was Banana Republic.

"Got money?" I wanted to know.

On the floor of the boxcar, Yuppie Scum was just a little ball of confusion. ". . . Wha . . . ?"

"Got money?"

". . . No . . ."

"Got food stamps?"

"No, I don't."

He was lying. Not about the food stamps. Yuppie Scum didn't know a WIC coupon from a welfare check. But money . . . Those FTRA fuckers hadn't had time to roll him properly. They hadn't had time to get to his wallet; his cash or his traveler's checks. Yeah. Believe it. Goddamn Yuppie Scum caught out with traveler's checks. And this one had to go and pretend like . . . I save his less-than-useless pink hide, and he doesn't have the decency to compensate me?

I grabbed at Yuppie Scum, grabbed his wallet, pulled it free, taking a swath of Dockers with it. Gripping his bloody-moist BR shirt, I hauled him for the boxcar door. Knowing what was coming, he went spastic–flailing, clawing at me. All that gift-wrapped in more of his girlie yells. He'd made his choice. He'd picked lying over truth-telling. Couldn't he just take what was coming?

George helped him with that. George knocked him limp.

Out the door with Yuppie Scum. Into the night, into the howling air that swept past the rushing train. If not for the noise of the Unit, the constant chatter of the couplings, it would have been quiet enough in the city-free nothingland west of Iowa to hear the coo of tall weeds petted by the night breeze, the hum of crickets and power lines as they sang at each other. It would have been quiet enough to hear if Yuppie Scum bitch-screamed as he flew groundward, if his neck cracked when he hit terra firma from a train doing sixty-plus, or if he just smacked earth, picked himself up, and hollered "To hell with you, you nigger tramp!" as he dusted his Dockers off. Not knowing which was true, I imagined my reality of favor. I imagined Yuppie Scum's neck to be shattered beyond repair. Not killing him. Leaving him a quad for life. And I was happy for it. Yuppie Scum reproduced at a rate just slightly below fungus in a dark cellar. He would be replaced. He would not be missed.

I know.

I had been Yuppie Scum. I had been replaced in the world. No one missed me.

With George I returned to my corner of the boxcar, the other tramps and 'boes not even daring to look our way. I went through Yuppie Scum's wallet.

Shit.

No money. He wasn't lying.

Anyway.

I was jangled and I needed some of Lady K to set me straight. Needed her, just wanted her. Didn't matter. I had some of her. Calmed down, George and I curled up together. I did not sleep. As always, I was scared to death of what waited for me just the other side of being awake.