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I swear, I didn't forget you guys. I've got school, though, so you'll have to forgive me, this isn't the best. But you can thank my history class for this one.
I'd like to recognize some people:
Butler The Awesome, for her wonderfulness in looking this over.
Skylark the Fantastic, for her review of coolness.
JP the Fanficcer, for completely supporting this crud even though it's not fanfiction.
Reviewers of Fictionpress, for all your support and coolness. Really, I can't imagine this without you. Major Thanks for reading and commenting. Your words make this all worth it (no, really).
At the age of fourteen, Walter’s father came home from work and told him to get out. Nothing personal or anything, just that he’d lost his job and he couldn’t support the family as it was. Four girls and one little boy, he’d be lucky if he could feed everybody and keep the house. Walter understood. Times were hard.
Well, no, he didn’t really understand. He just knew that the Depression would make it very hard for his father to find another job. And it had something to do with Hoover, and all that stock they’d spent their savings on a while ago. He didn’t really get it. He just kept hearing people say "Times are Hard", and he went with it. But that wasn’t the point.
Point was, if he could get to New York, he’d find work. He just had to get there.
So he did what everybody thought about doing. He waited by the railroad tracks in the dead of night, watched as a train unloaded and switched staff. When it chugged to life again, he and about twenty other guys rushed for the open car. It was dizzying that first time. He could barely see, and there were so many people. He got there a second after the first guy, and somebody grabbed him by the seat of his pants, threw him into the car like they knew exactly what he wanted.
There were a bunch of guys in the car already. Most of them were sleeping, but some of them were awake, talking lightly. One of them had a thick southern drawl. Another one, he was just nodding and humming. There was a black boy in the far left corner with his arms huddled tight around his legs. They were all so skinny, they’d become the bare bones of men.
The one nodding, he looked up and spotted him. "Where you headed, boy?"
"New York." He replied, eyes searching the car for a place to sit. He settled against the far right wall.
A snapping laugh surprised him, and he turned to look at a dark-haired boy leaning by the door. "Ain’t no work in New York for no man, if that’s what yer lookin’ for."
"Got that right." The black boy sneered. "Got nothin’ for nobody in New York."
Various others hummed in agreement. His stomach fell, and he stood stock still as a foreboding feeling jutted through his nerves. He’d made a mistake. He’d done something stupid. He wanted to go home, right then. Right that very second. But he turned toward the door and saw the ground moving under them, so fast he couldn’t see the tracks.
The boy by the door grinned wide. He had dark eyes and freckles and hair that lay uncombed under his hat. The grin he sported reminded him sharply of the cats who hunted mice on their neighbor’s farm. "Ya should stay on ‘til Chicago. Get off there, search for a job. That fails, there’s always the West."
"California." The southern drawl piped up. "They needs fruit-pickers."
"They stiff ya, though." The freckled boy cut in. "Work a whole day, make ten cents and an apple.""A rotten apple." Snorting through his teeth, the black boy rested his arms on his knees. "Don’t like it when ya beg out there, neither."
"Chicago’s got good beggin’."
"You got a name, son?" The nodding man asked, looking up at him in curiosity.
He let a slow breath crawl between his lips. "Walter."
"Bobby." Freckles slapped him on the back and offered him a seat beside him. "You new to the rails, Walter?"
"Yeah." He nodded dumbly, unsure of what else he could do.
"You should get off in Chicago, then." Bobby continued to grin.
Nodding again, he took the seat that was offered and found himself suddenly very tired. That first night, he slept through everything. Even when the bulls came down, waving their sticks at every shadow, and Bobby pulled his ratty old blanket over their heads.
There were days Walter thanked God for Jungles. Usually these days were the first days off a train.
You’d go to a town, find the nearest jungle, make use of the facilities and go job-hunting. Jungles were always the best part, because they had everything you needed. You could wash your clothes in the river nearby, you could warm your hands by a fire. Riders before you hung mirrors and razors from the trees so you could shave, and they usually left some newspapers to use as blankets if it got too cold at night. The jungle-buzzards were usually pretty nice. If you did stuff for them, they let you stick around for a while.
Bobby, somehow, knew almost every jungle-buzzard on the planet. He’d talk and joke and laugh with them, introduce Walter, and soon everybody loved him. He didn’t even have to say a word; Bobby did all the talking for him most of the time.
They’d give him the easy jobs, because he’s so shy. They’d tell him, "Go get coffee and you can share breakfast tomorrow", so he’d go find some grocer willing to let him scoop trash out back for a can. Bobby’d always go job-hunting or begging, and he’d come back with maybe fifty cents on a good day. He’d always split it between them, though, and sometimes Walter wondered why.
Begging was a humbling thing. Took a helluva long time for him to get over his shyness. But when you’re starving, you get over being shy pretty quick. The first time, he was looking to the ground, stuttering all over the place. He can’t remember what he said, but he got a nickel out of the deal, which bought him a cup of coffee with cream and sugar, the best he’d ever tasted.
One night, he and Bobby sat around the fire with the buzzards and listened to the stories. People from everywhere; farmers, factory workers, big business men. And they all looked dirty, hopeless, downtrodden in the worst possible way. They’d go around, pass their childhoods back and forth. And as Walter listened, he scraped a hand through his honey-blond hair and turned toward his traveling companion.
"What got you here, Bobby?" He’d asked, pulling his knees up to bring back the warmth in his bones. "You’ve been all over, seems like."
He smiled mysteriously, much different from his normal grin. The freckles on his cheeks danced in the movement. "Rather not say."
He left it at that, content to curl up next to him and listen as Old Soapy told them all about Oklahoma and the farm he once owned. It surprised him then. Two years since he started, and he’d never seen Oklahoma. Or New York, for that matter.
"Hey," He mutters, slipping closer to the man who’d shared his blanket with him every night since the beginning. "We should go to New York."
"Nah." Bobby sighed, wrapping the blanket over his shoulders. "New York’s got nothin’ these days. Not worth it."
"Okay." He rested his head on his shoulder, letting out a tired breath as he allowed his companion to share his warmth and company. It’s the least he can do, and sometimes he feels like it’s all Bobby really wants.
Bobby loved playing with the children. Hell, he was like a kid himself. Not that either of them could say much else, being only just shy of seventeen. Almost all rail-riders are kids anyway. You start young, learn fast, and by the time you’re eighteen you’re a pro. But Bobby, he’s got a thing about kids. Sometimes you’d find him, all gunked up with mud and grime, pulling worms out of their holes or trying to catch a fleeing toad. The little boys were crazy over him. They’d play pretend and he’d be a scary ogre or a grand king. They liked these games best.
There was a little girl named Madeline, and she was in love with him. And every day, right as soon as he saw her, he’d ask her to marry him. She always turned him down flat.
"Now, li’l missy," He called one morning as they spotted her coming out of her shack. "I’m gonna keep on comin’ after ya, ‘til you tell me you’re gonna marry me. ‘Cause you know I can’t go another day, not another second, with you hangin’ me on a line."
She tucked a strand of white-blonde hair out of her face and smiled like a princess. "I can’t marry you." She reached for his hand and took it. "I’m marryin’ Walter."
Bobby’s eyes grew comically wide, aghast. Turning toward him, he pointed an accusatory finger his way. "You been makin’ time with my lady, Walter?"
Raising his hands in mock defense, he shook his head. "My love has been chaste and pure from afar."
"Awe, that’s alright, then." He grinned, slapping an arm over his shoulder. "But me and Walter, we’re a package deal. Marry him, you get me too."
She giggled, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress. "Okay."
"Yes!" Bobby jumped like he’d just found a crisp new dollar on the ground. Then, he yelled so loud he woke the whole ‘ville. "Me ‘n’ Madeline are gettin’ married!"
Walter found himself laughing, still holding Madeline’s hand. "Me too, me too!"
"Awe, you don’t count, Walter." He hugs his shoulders. "You’ll be like the family dog or somethin’."
Madeline giggled again, letting go of his hand to scamper away. But Bobby kept hold of his shoulders all day as they strolled through camp, regaling the success of his courtship.
They wind up staying at a mission the first night they’re there. It’s always good to have a mission around. Free food, free bed, all you’ve gotta do is sit through the sermon. Sometimes Walter feels guilty about it. All around him are people who truly believe. People who are really looking to save his soul. And all he wants is a decent meal and a place to sleep.
But he listens anyway, just to give Jesus the respect he deserves. Bobby always gets antsy, kneeling in that pew all still and silent. He’ll bump an elbow against his, sending him funny faces during the speech, trying to get him to laugh. It always winds up working a little. He has to bite his lip to keep from making a fool of himself.
That night, they’re in the common bathroom cleaning up. After a week of hopping, they damn well deserve it. He combs his soaked blond locks back, only to glare at the mirror when Bobby reaches up to muss it. Smacking his hand away, he looks toward him and tries to figure out what to mess with on his end. He settles on the suspenders, reaching behind his shoulder to snap the left one. Grinning wide as he hears the yelp, he’s barely able to put up defense before his victim initiates war, tossing his razor to the side and throwing soap suds at him.
"Awe, c’mon!" He wipes some of the soap off and flicks the rest back at Bobby. "Knock it off!"
"A’right, a’right." Sighing lightly, he picks up his razor again. That could’ve been a good fight.
His eyes never leave his companion as he combs his hair again. The white shirt he’s wearing needs a washing, but the dart of neck and collarbone its flimsy buttons have revealed is clean, save the freckles that dust every inch of him. Smooth heat rolls down his spine and he straightens, turning away. Hell.
Maybe his soul does need saving, thinking thoughts like that in a mission of all places.
They slide into their respective cots twenty minutes later, trying not to make much noise. The place is packed, but there’s a couple left in the back and they take them. He kicks his boots off before he gets in, and lays them between their cots, just to make sure they don’t get nicked. Bobby doesn’t care. He throws his galoshes aside and rolls into bed like it’s all he needs.
The next day they get kicked out after breakfast. See, there’s this new policy in mission houses and the like: If you’re eighteen or older, you can stay for two nights and get six meals. If you’re below eighteen, you get a night and two meals. All a part of Hoover’s plan to make runaways go home.
Fuck Hoover.
Bobby voices it as they stroll toward the tracks. Spitting on the grass, he sidles his knapsack higher and pulls his suspenders higher. "Fuck Hoover."
"Bet we can find a couple places in New York that would take us."
"What’s with you and New York?" It’s an old argument, one they both know the script to anyway. "Told ya a thousand times, there’s nothin’ worth it there."
"Yeah, but..." He sighs a little. "I’d like to see it. I’ve never been there. And it’s been, what, three years since I started?"
"Three next Thursday."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
He slows a little, blinking incredulously at him.
"What?" Bobby asks, rolling his eyes at Walter. "I remember these things."
He laughs a little. "Okay, Ethel."
"Shut your mouth and let’s go." He grins, turning back toward the tracks.
Walter follows, still laughing.
Sweet Mary in Heaven, it’s been too long.
Picking at the strings with his fingers, he remembers a fonder day. When he was twelve and they had barely a care in the world. The girls, his sisters, they were playing piano at Aunt Lucy’s house every other day, and Walter wanted to play music too. But his mother told him no. She said, your fingers are too thin for piano. She said, son, you’re meant to play guitar. So she took him out and got him one for two dollars and fifteen cents. He remembers spending that whole night in the attic, plucking at the strings and feeling them hum into his fingers. Sat up until dawn, writing a song for his little sister June.
He still remembers the day they sold it. Seventy-five cents, and he felt like they were giving half his soul away.
Sliding his blond uncombed mess behind his ear, he strummed once, then set about tuning the thing. Bobby watched him from the other side of the car. "You play then?"
"I used to. A while ago." He’s grinning to himself now, plucking a string or two and nodding at the sound. "When I was little."
"Do ya know any songs?"
"One or two. If I heard somethin’, I could pro’lly figure out how to play it." He strummed again and smiled a little, feeling for the first time since he left that all was right with the world. Then he started picking out a tune. "I’mma make my way to Missouri…Find a girl ta treat me right…"
It was slow, bluesy, and his voice was still funny from the change. But he liked this kind of music; he’d listened to talented rail-riders entertain their train-cars all night with stuff like this. More often he’d hear it in jungles, where the buzzards would offer a plate of scrounged food to the man who could lift their spirits. Songs would travel faster than their singers, and soon lyrics would morph to suit the moment. It would get to a point where everybody knew the tune, but the words were anybody’s guess.
Walter loved listening. He loved it. And so many nights, he wished he’d had his old six-string, just so he could hear the good songs again. Now here it was. "I’mma make my way to Missouri…Find a girl ta treat me right…"
Looking up at his companion, he found himself captured in a dark, serious stare. Bobby did that to him sometimes. Stared so hard he thought he might break right through his skull. Usually he paid no attention. But tonight he has his guitar. Tonight, he can shoot a blue-eyed grin his way and keep on playing. "She got dark eyes, dark hair, an’ a body ta keep good men awake at night…"
"Ya sound damn good, Walter." Bobby threw in, nodding his head as he watched him slink his fingers through the strings. "Why didn’t ya tell me before?"
"Not important." He closed the song with a sweet strum and leaned back against the rickety steel of the car. "I haven’t played in a long time, either. So…"
Sliding closer, Bobby pulled his blanket over their legs and moved his arm behind Walter’s head. It was comfortable. But he still couldn’t break from that devil-eyed stare, and it made his nerves spark with the chills that followed him from the night before. "You’re good at it, though."
"Thanks."
It felt like they were hanging in that awkward place where there was something more to say, but no one willing to say it. They left it there, curled into each other to capture heat. Both were asleep by midnight.
Bobby was funny. He’d always sit to one side of him, content to listen to him speak. But he never failed to move closer when he played. Part of him really liked that, because an even bigger part of him really liked Bobby. But part of him couldn’t stand it, because he’d always get distracted.
Bobby loved distracting him, and that never helped. He’d drop a hand to his knee or say something and make him jump, or even worse, just sit there in silence. Let that static between them eat the air. Walter hates when he does that, because he swears he knows what he’s thinking sometimes, and that’s never good. Especially when he’s thinking about him.
The guitar slung over his shoulder, they made their way up the hill toward the border, only to spot a line of haggard hopefuls waiting at the gate. Bulls walked up and down the street, picking people out of line and yapping their cigar-plumped lips off. They look at each other, confused. That’s when Officer Taylor spots them.
Walter will never forget Officer Taylor for as long as he lives.
He saw them first, then carefully broke away from the other cops to meet them before they reach the line. Walter wanted to spit on his shoes. He’s tall, broad, All-American Apple Pie. They’ve been around cops like this before.
But instead of screaming at them, the man looked down and smiles sadly. "You boys tryin’ ta get to California?"
"Yessir." Bobby nodded, eyes wide like he swears they’re going to get jailed. It’s happened before. "What’s with the line, sir?"
"Well…" He sighed a little, scratching the back of his head. "They ain’t lettin’ people in. Governor’s tryin’ ta keep the Okies out. Won’t let ya in unless you’re eighteen an’ ya got a hundred dollars in your pocket."
They looked at each other, then back up at the officer. They had neither.
"Tell ya what," Officer Taylor sighed. "There’s a freight headed cross-country to New York in an hour. Nobody’s gonna look at it. Why don’t ya go back home, kids, huh? Your mothers must be worried sick."
Bobby blinked a little as the man turned on his heel. "New York."
With a grin, Walter nodded. "I thought we were gonna get jailed."
"We did." He smiled a little but didn’t elaborate, passing a hand through his brown hair and turning back toward the tracks.
When they jump off, they have to dart through a crowd to escape waiting police. But by the time they got to the city, they were happily blending with what felt like a thousand miles of men exactly like them. Walter’s eyes went from ground to sky, corner to corner, taking in everything. Bobby kept walking, pulling him past the crowds. God, he’d never seen anything like it! Never in his whole life!
Bobby’s walking fast, out of the slums and into the swankier part of town. Right past those Wallstreet bastards, those ladies in furs giving them strange looks. He kept pulling Walter along until they got to a row of apartment buildings that looked like movie stars could feel comfortable inside. Then he started to walk slower and pulled his hat down.
"Hey, Bobby, where’re we goin’?"
"I-"
"Robert Clairmont?"
He stopped, turned, and took off his hat. A woman in a long fur coat blinked amazed from her place on the curb, short dress riding up her knees as she clapped a gloved hand over her bright red lips and leaned over to get a better look. "Little Robby Clairmont? Is that you?"
Robert Clairmont?
Robert Clairmont!
It took a second for the name to register, and he stared at Bobby in disbelief as the woman calling his name slithered up to them and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "Oh! Oh my goodness, your mother will die!"
"She hasn’t already?" He asked dryly, refusing to return the stare Walter threw at him. "I was actually going-"
"Where have you been?! The police tore up Manhattan looking for you!"
"I-"
"Oh my goodness, your mother will throw a fit! Here, here, let me get my bags and we’ll go see her! I have to borrow her red shoes anyway…"
Walter followed silently. He had no other choice.
Jesus H. Christ, Robert Clairmont. That missing kid, heir to Clairmont Real Estate. Shit, they tore up half the country looking for him.
And he’s been with him. All this time.
Why the Hell would a millionaire need to ride the rails?
"Would you like some club soda, Walter?" Mrs. Clairmont asked politely. She was a very pretty, very proper woman. But he got the sense that she would’ve been happier cooking, cleaning, and busying herself with a day’s work. Doing nothing all day was killing her, he could see it in her eyes. So he nodded and let her fetch him a drink. It was the least he could do.
"So it’s alright if we stay?" Bobby asked from his spot on the couch. He set down his drink and wiped his fingers down the dress slacks his mother had sent for. She got a pair for Walter too. He doesn’t want to mess them up, so he’s not going to touch them until he’s clean.
"Of course." Handing him his drink, she sat down beside him. Nervously, he moved over a little for her and shot Bobby another look. "I’d hoped you’d stay. In fact, your room is just how you left it."
"This won’t be like before," He trailed off a little, watching his mother lounge on the sofa. "I mean, I’m gonna get a job. I’m not gonna live off your money."
"Oh, I know." She smiled. "Your uncle just fired his regional assistant, so I see no reason-"
"Mom, I told you, If I’m gonna become some Wallstreet button-down, I’m gonna live first."
"Well I didn’t think you’d run away!" Her harsh whisper was as much a yell as Bobby’s was. Walter could already tell. This family didn’t get angry the way his did. This was quiet anger. Deadly anger. "Get a dog, maybe find some woman to tear a hole in your pocket, but run away? Robby, how could you!"
"I didn’t want to hurt anybody…" He wasn’t mad anymore. Just guilty. Walter itched to touch him, comfort him, but he didn’t know what to say. The freckles on his skin stood out as he became paler and paler. "I just wanted to get away from it."
"Oh, don’t you dare try to tell me it was about that." She hissed, dark bob swaying a bit as she shook her head. "Your father was a good man, bless his soul, and he left everything to you."
He stayed silent, sipping his drink and refusing to look at Walter. Part of him couldn’t take the absence of his eyes. The other part of him just wanted to be near him again.
He felt so far from him now…
"I’ll show Walter to the guest room." Mrs. Clairmont stood. She was still stiff, but God, relief sunk through him at the thought of getting away. He stood with her.
His stare refused to leave Bobby alone, even as he left.
Bobby’s pajamas are just as nice as his, and he wears them comfortably, even as he looks bashful. But Walter’s not sure why. Hell, the man has more money than God, and he has the nerve to look humble while millions of others out there are starving…
… Just like him.
"You, um…" He pauses a minute, dreaming up an excuse a minute too late. "You doin’ okay in here?"
"C’mon, Bobby." Cocking his head to the side, he smiles and sits down on the bed he was given. "You know this is the best place I’ve ever seen."
"Yeah, well…" He trails off, looking to the floor. "Just thought I’d-"
"Why’d ya do it?" He heard himself ask, leaning back on his pillow and watching his face. The freckles stood out harshly in his flushed, apple-red cheeks. He looked like a child. God, he was a child! Barely a year older, just shy of nineteen. For a second, it struck him just how young they were. Where had their childhood gone? "You were twelve when they started lookin’ for you. All that talk on the radio, goin’ on about you bein’ kidnapped. And what, you just ran away?"
"I had to." He sighed, crossing over to sit next to him. "If I’d stuck around, they would’ve handed me the company. I don’t wanna be my father. He wasn’t no good to anybody." Looking up at him, that dark-eyed suffering seeped through, heating Walter’s bones and shaking through his skin. "I was only supposed to be gone a month or so. But by the time I made it around the country it’d been three years. I was headin’ home when I met you."
His mouth went dry and he swallowed. "You should’ve gone."
"Let you fend for yourself?" He shook his head. "You looked scared enough to jump."
"I was going to."
"Aren’t ya glad ya didn’t?"
And in that moment, he was. Somehow. After all the crap they’d taken together, somehow...
It wasn’t even about being poor anymore. It was about being alive, in the hardest possible way.
He was about to reply when Bobby’s fingers touched his face. He turned, found those eyes coming closer and sliding closed, those lips descending. It was like nothing. Just a brush of lips on lips that could confound a man until the day he died. And when he pulled away, Walter blinked, stunned.
"Bobby?"
He’d never really thought about this before.
The way Bobby’s dark eyes softened into him, it was like a revelation. All those little touches, all the talk, the hours and days and months of just knowing each other so well, those times when they were alone and a little patch of freckled skin kept him dreaming for an entire ride, the smiles that made his body want nothing but that feeling…
Bobby’s body leaned again, and this time Walter leaned too. And the kiss was magnetic and hungry and shocked at its very center. Because no, he didn’t know he could have this. He didn’t know the world would let him have this, and God, he didn’t care how cruel life could be, this makes up for everything.
Their lips rolled together and fingers shredded the lines between them. He touched Bobby’s leg, and Bobby moved a hand up his thigh. And he knew where this was going, they’d been trying to get there since Chicago, but it didn’t really register until he stopped kissing him just to gasp his name.