Philipp Meyer - American Rust

He had not asked for it. He had not asked to go to that machine shop in a rainstorm, a place guaranteed to be a squatter haven. It was because of Isaac they had gone there, because of Isaac that they were sitting in a leaky building in a rainstorm instead of back on Poe's porch looking out over the fields and drinking beer. Poe, he could not afford to be in those situations but that did not bother Isaac, it was a different kind of judgment Poe had, his mind moved differently, he could not just get up and move when a few dripping wet bums came and insulted him, he had pride, he had human dignity, whereas you could say anything to Isaac and he would get up and walk away. And Isaac had gotten them into just that situation and had then wanted to get up and disappear. But Poe was not like that. It was a thing called self- respect and he possessed it and Isaac did not.

He sat up. Nothing had changed, he was in a cell with a yellow window he could not see through, cement and iron bars, downstairs a commercial for car insurance blared on the television, they didn't even bother to turn it down, a thing none of them had any use for. He opened the third package of salmon and ate it, it was greasy and salty, he licked his fingers, a beer would be perfect, it was not bad being here, in this cell, it was safe. But he could not stay in the cell all day and night. The black man he'd choked out was a higher- up, a captain. Poe had gotten lucky, taking him down like that. But it was not some movie where you beat the biggest guy and they left you alone. That was not how things worked. They would have to pay him back and it could not be a beating, payback meant you had to escalate, he knew that from personal experience. You had to get the guy worse than he got you.

He noticed he was breathing hard and his entire body was rigid. His neck was sore from tension and he tried to relax. I'll be fine, he thought. Sort it out. Sort it out fine only you didn't do anything to get here. That dead one Otto was not killed by you. All you did was get your balls crushed and your head nearly cut off from your body. Why are you here for that, he thought. You are here and it is only getting worse, tomorrow you may turn a corner and wham, five guys are on you and that's your end but Isaac is still out there. Walking around free.

All through the night the train kept pulling over, hours would pass waiting on secondary tracks, he'd sit out on the platform, go back into the porthole, climb the ladder and sit with his feet in the mound of coal, looking at the stars. He guessed it was two A.M. If you'd thought to bring your star chart, you'd know. Or put a new battery in your watch. He shuffled his feet in the bed of coke, felt the cold metal wall of the hopper car in his hands. Close your eyes and sense the rotation of the earth. Stars always moving. Change every hour. Big Dipper starting to turn over — springtime. Ursa Major, technically. Makes more sense as the Dipper. Polaris, temporary as all polestars. Used to be Thuban. Eventually it'll be Alderamin. Then Deneb. Ptolemy's full catalog A.D. 150. Namer of stars — a good legacy. Even if no one knows. Learned it from the Babylonians, but all the records lost, burned at Alexandria. Julius Caesar the culprit. More knowledge lost than you'll ever know.

He scanned the rest of the sky. Cancer and Leo. Probably Gemini disappearing. Should have brought something to read. No, should have brought penlight batteries. Stupid to have forgotten. He looked at the ground below him. The temptation was strong to climb down, the train would not start moving immediately. No — in the dark you'll never be able to find this car again, you'll lose your pack. Not to mention you've got no idea where you are. By next week you'll be in Berkeley and you won't remember any of this.

He climbed down and back into the porthole, into his sleeping bag, his head outside where he got a small view of the sky. Try to sleep.

— —

Morning came, hours passed, he rode on the platform as much as possible, up in the air on top until it got too cold. Your clothes all filthy. Probably your face as well.

They were going along a big river, much wider than the Mon, in the distance he could see a factory that resolved itself into an enormous steelmill, dozens of long buildings, blast furnaces, steam rising everywhere. The place had a modern look, the buildings were being repaired. There was a sign: U.S. STEEL, GREAT LAKES WORKS. That is Michigan, he thought. One of the mills they kept open. Parking lot of cars, the way Buell used to look, there's the town behind it. Never seen land so flat.

The brakes grated as they wound through an enormous trainyard, plug your ears, time to get off. They'll dump the coke here and you'll get seen. Get packed. Cramming his things into the bag again he was back out on the platform, crouching down thinking don't wait for full stop. They were near the end of the trainyard and the train was crawling along, he was hanging his head off the side and he saw the Baron climb down a few cars ahead of him. He swung himself down to the ground and the Baron caught up to him.

It was the first time he'd seen the Baron in daylight, his face was red and swollen and deeply creased and his skin looked hard and thick, his nose was bent and one eye hung much lower than the other, bones that had broken and never been fixed properly. The whole structure of his face was crooked and he was covered in coal dust; he gave off the impression of something pulled from a fire.

“Goddamn,” said the Baron, staring at him equally, “someone had their way with you, didn't they?”

Isaac just looked at him.

“Your face got whomped on pretty good, is what I mean. You got a matched pair of shiners.”

“It was four guys,” said Isaac.

They began crossing the other tracks toward the town, dodging quickly to get out of the way of a blue locomotive coming toward them.

“Keep your eye out,” said the Baron. “Won't believe how quiet they roll, I had a partner get cut in half once. Nothing you can do when that happens.”

They crossed more tracks and then climbed down and up through a drainage ditch. They were standing on a small road.

“We in the right spot?”

“Yeah,” said the Baron. “It's called Ekkers. There's your unloading spot for the coke up there.”

“Thought you said we'd be in Detroit.”

“Don't get picky on me. It's only ten goddamn miles up the road.”

As they walked the industrial buildings gradually gave way to a town, they passed a field of tall white storage tanks with the grass around them neatly clipped, then they were on a residential street. There was a big sign that said ECORSE. Ekkers. The name of the town. The houses were larger than the typical millhouse in Buell but most looked just as rundown. This is progress, he reminded himself. You just got six, seven hundred miles closer to California. Won't be wine and roses the whole way.

“Spot me dinner if I find us a place?” said the Baron.

Need to get rid of him first thing, he thought, but he said: “Sure. I've got to get going south soon, though.”

“You will. We passed another yard back there. All we gotta do is follow those tracks back to where we split from the main line. Then you'll find your train.”

They continued down the street, the houses getting better, then worse, then better again. A group of black men were sitting on a porch playing dice in puffy down jackets. They stared at the Baron and Isaac as they passed.

“Get a fuckin shower,” one of them said, and the others burst out laughing. Isaac prepared to take off running, but the men went back to their dice.

“We do have to find a Laundromat,” said the Baron. “Stash our packs and get cleaned up. We can get cleaned up where we get food, though.”