Two Sides of the Tracks – You Can Only Choose One
The railway tracks split the town clean in half. Those worn ropes of rusted steel were more than just a means of transportation, in this town, they decided what you were worth before you ever opened your mouth, heck even before you was born. On one side, the city pressed in on itself. Concrete and steel, bricks stacked on bricks, alleyways slick with the runoff of yesterday, and dirt-poor men drifting through the shadowy spots. Nowadays they seemed to be everywhere, and they all had the same hollowed-out look, like someone had sucked all the life out of them but somehow, they kept on moving. Men who were used up, permanently exhausted, spirits broken beyond repair. That was the city. While on the other side, the land stretched out as far as the eye could see. It was hard and stubborn ground, a patchwork of failing farms, broken down buildings, and dust that never quite settled to the ground. The boy walked between the rails; that no-man’s land where claims went uncharged, certainty was vague, and time held its breath.
Fourteen long years behind him, though he looked a lot younger, shoulders all narrowed up and legs that hadn’t caught up with themselves. Hunger will do that to a kid. Up close, the truth showed even more. The sharp angles of his face, the way his eyes shifted, quickly, taking in everything without appearing to, like he was being hunted but couldn’t say why. The worn wool coat had once been his father’s, sleeves rolled up but still too long, dirty, just like everything else. After so many years, the grime wouldn’t wash out anymore. His shoes were too small, split along the seams, the leather curling back just enough to show dirty pale skin when he moved too fast.
Most every day, he walked the rails, always keeping an eye and ear tuned to the sound of a freight passing through. There were times when he looked down the tracks for so long that he could almost forget the real world. The empty cupboards, the way his ma tried to stretch tiny handfuls of flour and anything else she could muster into something resembling food, the silence that had settled in when his pa never came home again. In times like these, men disappeared all the time. Some went looking for work and never found it. Some found it and never came home anyway. Some still drift through the shadowy spots on the other side of the tracks.
The sound of metal on metal broke stabbed into his thoughts before the voice did.
“You’re gonna get hit one of these days, pulled under a fast train and sliced into pieces” an older boy called out, pushing himself up from a shielded spot on the city side of the rails. The metal sound again, coins rattling in his closed hand. There was a loose confidence in the way he moved, kinda like he knew something that everyone else wanted to know and he was not in a hurry to share it.
“Hasn’t happened yet.”
“That ain’t the same as it won’t.”
The older boy moved closer. From that same hidden spot, two others emerged, watching their leader with that particular kind of attention that didn’t feel like curiosity so much as expectation. They were a few years ahead of him, faces still smooth but better dressed, and obviously better fed. City boys for sure.
The sound of rattling coins kept things from getting too quiet. Likely his regular thing; shake some money and people would stop and listen. It was a rare thing these days, especially for a kid to have. But showing it off, even if no one else was around, well now, that came with risks. This kid didn’t seem afraid though. He was a boss boy for sure.
“You eat today?” the boss boy asked, as if it were nothing, as if it didn’t carry weight.
The younger one shrugged, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. “Enough.”
“Don’t look like enough to me. Not today, or all the days behind it.” The older boy’s gaze dropped to the tight, worn-out shoes, the threadbare coat, and mop of hair on this head. “Looks to me like you’re running on fumes.”
A snickering laugh came from the henchmen. The boy played it off, tried to ignore it, even though it stung hard. He had learned not to show too much, not to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing where it hurt. When you let them see weakness, it usually brings a thumpin or worse.
“I get by,” he said, his voice crackling.
“Yeah,” boss boy replied, hand shaking the coins harder. “That’s what everyone says, right up until they don’t.”
Suddenly felt different, not tense, just different. The wind shifted west, the smell of cattle, coal smoke, and kerosene wafted in from the rail yard. It settled heavy in the throat, familiar in its own nasty way. Afternoon had long since passed, the sun was beating down on what was left of the few farms still eking out a crop. A single bird called out in the distance and then silence.
“There’s a place,” the boss boy said after a long moment, his tone changing just enough to draw attention, more serious, like it was time to get to the business of whatever business he was trying to sell. “An old warehouse, run down place, near the edge of town, just a few skinny guys on the job. Trucks bring stuff in, not a lot, but enough, not all the stuff goes back out, if you know what I mean.”
The skinny boy on the tracks heard him. He even understood the implication but didn’t respond right away. He kept his gaze fixed beyond the others, found a spot where the land opened up and focused on it. In his gut, he knew where this was going. Everyone did. It was never said straight at first. It was always eased into. Prime the pump before getting water.
“So, how’s that got anything to do with me? That old warehouse with counting problems?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Could,” the boss boy said. “If you want it to.”
“And if I don’t?”
The coin shaking stopped. He opened his hand, four shiny circles glowing against his white skin, held them like that just long enough for a good long look, and that was it. As his fingers slowly closed, he said a matter of fact-like, “Then you keep doin’ what you’re doin’. See how far that gets you.”
And that was it. The offer was made and the waiting game began. An uncomfortable silence settled between them, no threats, nothing more than an offer on the table, broken only by the distant clang of metal from the yard and the low murmur of the wind moving through dry grass. The seconds ticked by.
“What kind of place?” the boy asked, the question coming out quieter than he intended.
The boss boy smiled, not like joy, but like the smile you can’t help when you have a fish on the line. Now, the careful process of reeling, waiting, line playing out, and so on. “Groceries,” he said. “Not the scraps they leave out back. Real groceries. Cans of meat, dried beans, sacks of flour, the big ones, sugar, molasses, and more. The good stuff.”
The boy swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, stomach tight. He pictured it without meaning to. The rows of freshly stocked shelves, the weight of food that didn’t have to be rationed down to almost nothing. Eating as much as he could eat and not having to share. The image came sharp and clear, but then just as quickly he pushed the thought away.
“There’s a watchman,” he said.
“There’s always a watchman.”
“And, what if we’re seen?”
The boss boy shrugged, casual in the kind of way that didn’t quite sit right. “The old man drinks. Half the time he don’t know where he is, don’t care about anything but his next bottle. We ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”
The boy let that sit for a moment, turning it over in his mind for a few. “That ain’t the same as trouble not finding you.”
One of the henchmen boys chimed in from the back, “you think too much, kid. It’s not that hard.”
“Better too much than not enough.”
The boss boy held up a hand, stopping the others from saying anything more. His attention stayed fixed on the kid, not reeling but still working the rod. “You don’t have to do anything dangerous,” he said, voice softer now, almost reasonable. “Just stand outside. Keep an eye out. If someone comes, you make a noise to let us know, then we’re gone. Simple as that.”
Simple. The word just hung there, heavy with everything it didn’t say. Nothing was simple in these times. There was always a catch.
Instinctively, his fingers curled tight into small fists, luckily still hidden in the deep pockets of the jacket. He could feel the rough lining of the coat, the tear in the left side, the pebble in the right. He thought about his mother, about the way she avoided his eyes when there wasn’t enough. He thought about how quickly things had changed, how fast a life could narrow down to a handful of choices that didn’t feel like choices at all. Survival was about doing whatever it took. He desperately wanted to survive.
“And if it goes wrong?” he blurted out, his mouth running before he could stop the words from spilling out.
The boss boy didn’t answer right away. He turned and looked at the two behind him, stalling, as if deciding how much truth to offer. He turned back and laughed. “Then you run. No one will follow; I guarantee it.”
That rehearsed answer settled somewhere deep in his gut, not comforting, not surprising. It just laid there and began to marinate.
The boy lifted his head, meeting the older one’s gaze. There was something different in it now, not quite resolve, not quite surrender. Something caught in between.
He looked past the three once more, out toward the open land that promised nothing but still felt like something he could hold on to. Then he looked back at the tracks, at the line that cut everything in two. One side or the other, in or out.
“I’ll think on it,” he said, suddenly fearful that they might suddenly decide to give him a thumpin for saying no.
The older boy studied him for a moment longer, then gave a small nod, as if that was enough for now. He shook the coins in his hand once more before pulling out the smallest one. He held in up, shook it for a few seconds and unexpectedly tossed it forward.
“Don’t take too long,” he said. “World don’t wait.”
The coin landed at his feet. He knew that time was running out. He’d known it for a while. He waited until they moved off, the sound of their voices fading into the low hum of the yard, before reaching down for the coin. It was real, this was real. They’d be back, soon he suspected. No one just gives money away without getting something in return.
He stood between the rails, between the two side of the tracks, turning his head, taking in the hard dirt, and then the grimy concrete jungle. What to do, what to do…
Additional Reading
R.J. (Ralph) Schwartz is an American poet, author, website owner, and online publisher. His writing spans several poetry collections—ranging from spiritual and romantic to fear-driven explorations—and even extends into science fiction. Notable works include:
- Normal Was the First Casualty – A Collection of Dystopian Poetry
- Hope – Inspirational and Spiritual Poetry
- Things That Go Bump in the Night – Poetry of Fear and Fright
- The Lover’s Thread – Poetry for Couples
- Poetry of the Human Condition – The Ups and Downs of Modern Living
- The Secrets of the Moon (a sci-fi novel co-authored with his son Sebastian J. Schwartz)
Schwartz’s work is described as purposefully wordy, richly descriptive, and thematically grounded in nature, romance, antiquity, and forgotten histories. He writes regularly on platforms he manages, including The Creative Exiles, a collaborative venue for writers, and The Gypsy Thread, which delves into offbeat histories, pagan lore, and poetry.
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