Rock Island Line David Rhodes (ereader iphone .txt) 📖

he had escaped. I’m sorry for what happened, he thought. I’d have stopped it if I could have. I didn’t want it to happen. I . . . I don’t care. He’s of no importance to me. And to prove it to himself, he went back into the men’s room. The victim was gone. The floor and walls had been cleaned. He was vaguely disappointed, but very relieved.

The train came and he nestled in among a large family as they boarded, and sat among them until the conductor had passed, making sure not to look at any of them. (Children at that time rode free when accompanied by their parents.) Then he separated himself and got a seat of his own. In the middle of Pennsylvania the family got off and he thought it best to find another seat. He chose one next to an old lady, who let him sit by the window. Right away she began to talk to him about arthritis and sewing kits and he felt safe.

He got off in Philadelphia at an underground terminal, 30th Street Station, and walked up to Walnut Street. He felt a mixture of excitement and agitation at being at his destination. He listened to the noises and watched people walk by him. It seemed like a good place. The river was not too far away. He walked for a long time.

He went into a diner opening on to the street and bought a sausage sandwich for forty cents. A large sign above the grill said no tipping. He didn’t know what that meant and decided he’d have a lot to learn. But it certainly seemed good. The sense of being on his own filled the sausage and he ate it as he walked along the street, looking into the shops and offices. He saw a couple sitting on the steps of a town house, judged from that that it was legal and two blocks later sat down himself. Several people passed by who smiled at him. As it began to get dark he found himself in a park sitting on a bench. He went up to a pleasant-enough-looking man sitting across from him to ask where he might find a place to spend the night, but only was able to get out, “Say, mister, I wonder if you couldn’t—” before he was cut off.

“Beat it, kid. Write to your Congressman for money.” The man got up and walked briskly away.

July watched him sit down again in a different part of the park. Then later, as it grew darker, he watched him walk away and enter a very tall building. Because of nothing better to do, he followed, but was stopped from entering by a doorman in a blue, brass-buttoned suit and hard-billed hat. “Go on, now,” he said. “Only people who live here can go in.” He seemed kind, however, and was old, as though held together by the very uniform itself because it was so tight and stiff.

“I need a place to sleep,” said July.

“Holy cow!” said the doorman humorously, and July smiled. “Get on home quick as you can while they’ll still take you. Parents may be terrible, but they’ve always got spare beds to sleep in.”

“My parents are dead.”

“I’m sorry,” said the old man. July could see a change come over him, a look of sinking back into his tough, wrinkled face. “Get on away from here now. I can’t have you standing around, the people don’t like it. Get on, now. Go down to the YMCA. Over there—” He pointed. All of the kindness had drained from his voice, and July realized he’d been shut out. He’d seen the look before. In fact, his father had worn it once or twice while listening to the news and reports of accidents and calamities, and July had realized that the announcer could say anything and his father’d think nothing whatsoever about it.

He walked in the direction the man had pointed out, repeating over and over again the letters YMCA, having no idea what they stood for. Naturally, he didn’t find it right away and, it being after dark by then and few people about, he went into a bar and asked the bartender.

“Why, a young fellow like you should be after the YWCA!” There was great laughter. July didn’t understand and his look conveyed that. “OK, I’m sorry. Just go out and turn right. Go two blocks and make a left. It’s right there.” July followed theinstructions and, to his surprise, found just that—a building with the letters YMCA running down the side. He went in.

There was a little bell on the counter to ring and he touched it gently. Three boys, older than himself, came in and went by him, up the stairs. One of them had his shirt opened halfway down his front, revealing a dirty T-shirt. He wondered if that boy would know what had happened in the men’s room in Cleveland, or know the person who was almost killed. Right away July wanted to leave, and was just beginning to when a heavyset middle-aged man came in-from somewhere and, in a voice sounding as if he had a hole in his windpipe, asked what he wanted. July told him. The charge for a room was $1.50 per day; provided he would stay on the second floor (the other rooms were more expensive), which gave him the use of the common bathroom and access to the Ping-Pong table, magazine room, television room and cafeteria. Before he could take out his money to pay, the man began reading from a list of new regulations, explaining as he did that these new inexpensive rates, facilities and advantages were only available to those who were making a considerable and conscious effort to better themselves: no drinking, lights out after ten thirty, no smoking, no fighting, meals were served at regular times in the basement for money, going to school was an absolute, income from after-school jobs had to