West With Giraffes(8)

WHOP


—whacking the Old Man’s thigh so hard, it sent him and his fedora flying.

I cringed. Giraffes kick. That could’ve been me the night before. A kicking mule can kill or cripple a man for life, much less a kicking two-ton giraffe, so I expected the Old Man to either be dead or wishing he was. While a mule has one kicking gear, though, the giraffe seemed to have plenty of gears to express its displeasure that weren’t so deadly. Because instead of being dead or worse, the Old Man was grabbing his hat and scrambling out of the pen. If a mule kicked Pa, Pa’d let him have it with an ax handle. Not the Old Man. He didn’t even utter a harsh word toward the giraffe.

The driver skittered over to help, but the Old Man waved him away, like he got kicked by a giraffe every day. “I need to send a telegram,” he grunted, popping the fedora back on his head. Then, trying not to limp, he headed for the barn doors.

Hearing the barn doors’ squawk, I knew it was my chance to go. But then I felt the rig jostle and I peeked out. Earl was standing on the running board again, reaching into the truck cab. He came out with a flask. He took a mighty swig, then stashed it back in his hiding place. When I heard him flop down on the cot out of sight, I eased open the trapdoor and crawled out backward, searching for the ground . . .

. . . just as the squawk of those blasted barn doors filled the air.

And I met the Old Man.

“WHAT the––!”

As my boots hit the dirt, I felt him grab my arm, and I did what I always did when I got grabbed. I threw a punch. The Old Man saw it coming and slapped it away. So I did the only thing left to do—I rushed right at him, knocking us both on the ground.

Scrambling up, I ran out the barn doors to the sound of him bawling out “Earl!” at the top of his lungs.

At my raccoon hole, I slid under and ran until I couldn’t see the quarantine station anymore. Then I leaned on a broken tree trunk to catch my breath and think. Following the giraffes to California wasn’t going to be a cinch any longer. The Old Man had seen me. I was at a loss for what to do, so I started walking, the sort of aimless kind of walking that drifting, vacant-eyed joes did back in the Hard Times, putting one foot in front of the other, over and over, until I wandered into a country store and tried snitching a loaf of bread.

“I saw that, you piece of road trash!” the grocer hollered, grabbing my shirt and ripping it clean off my back at the door, sending the bread flying into a puddle. I kept moving. But not before scooping up that muddy loaf.

“That’s it!” yelled the grocer. “I’m calling the sheriff to clear your kind out again!”

With the word sheriff thundering in my ears, I stuffed both cheeks with soggy bread and ran until I felt safe. Feeling as low as a snake, my bony chest now bare to the wind except for my holey undershirt, I wandered into a tramp camp near a side track as a freight train was passing by—and I knew this was what the grocer meant when he said “your kind.” Gulping down the last of the filthy bread, I watched a tramp running for a boxcar already full of railriders, high-stepping to keep from being dragged under, and my stray-dog future hit me in the face. Who was I fooling thinking I could buck it?

Yet I couldn’t shake the longing for milk and honey the Californy-bound giraffes had given me, and I felt my flickering hope turn flaming do-or-die. That’s what the tiniest speck of hope did to you back then. Got you making plans and dreaming dreams in the face of a fool’s folly that hung on a couple of giraffes. You clutched it, nursed it, kept it safe and warm, because that was the only difference between you and the vacant-eyed joes aimlessly walking, dead before their time.

So, soon I found my way back to the deserted depot in front of the quarantine station’s gate, where nothing had changed at all, including the hurricane-whopped cow. Even my thieved cycle was where I’d hid it behind the big toppled oak.

What I didn’t expect was the green Packard.

Red and the duded-up reporter were stopped exactly where I’d last seen them. I snuck within a few feet of them again, crouching behind the oak. They were standing by the Packard, and I didn’t much like the way he was talking to her.

“Lionel Abraham Lowe—Life magazine!” she was saying as she reloaded her camera.

“For the love of God, will you shut up about it? Now let’s go. I did you a favor driving you out here again. But no more.”

“You know I can’t drive,” she answered, lifting her camera, “and I have to have more. It’s Life magazine!”

“Augie, I’ve got to go!”

When she didn’t stop, the reporter did something I couldn’t abide—he grabbed her arm. Before I knew I was even doing it, I’d run over and punched him.

Howling, he fell back against the Packard, grabbing his nose. “You! You’re going to jail, you little shit!” he sputtered. “Augusta, take his picture and then get the guard to call the cops!”

Red, though, was staring at me still standing there staring back, fists up. I was so besotted with her, I’d punched but forgotten to run.

“Dammit, my shirt’s ruined!” the reporter moaned, whipping out a handkerchief to staunch the blood. “Augie, I said snap this sonuvabitch!”

But instead of taking my picture, she mouthed Go!

And I finally remembered to run.