Waking Tracks

The young man studied the orderly pattern of steel, wood, and gravel beneath his navy blue lo-tops. The remains of a beer bottle winked at him in the late morning light, its contents long since passed through the guts of a nameless vagrant. A thousand trains had passed over these tracks since it had been delivered to this unseemly grave, bearing other stowaways to nowhere in particular.

He absently kicked at the broken brown glass, letting his thoughts stagnate on its gleaming edge. The soles of his shoes were wearing thin, and sharp rocks had pocked their shallow treads into patterns never conceived by the designers. His torn blue jeans and faded Velvet Underground T-shirt would have gotten him through the doors of any hipster party in the country. An ordinary grey duffel bag slung over his shoulder bore his faithful water bottle, several cans of beef jerky, and an extra pair of socks.

He wasn't a hobo. He had family, a few friends, a steady if uninteresting job, and a modest apartment in the low-rent district. He owned a TV and a mattress. Monday through Saturday, his routine was reliable. A casual observer would even say he was doing fairly well for a kid his age. After all, how many 18-year-olds have their own place? Most are still living with Mommy and Daddy or in a dorm somewhere receiving care packages twice a month. He was a step beyond that, even if he didn't have a university degree mounted on his wall in a handsome plastic frame. Monday through Saturday, he was a productive member of society.

Sundays were different.

Railroad tracks had always mesmerized him, even as a kid. A line had run not far from his house, and he'd always go down to watch the trains go by. He'd chase the cabooses until they vanished beyond where the parallel steel rails met, then run on for awhile longer. His mother worried, as mothers do, fearing he might get lost if he went too far, but he always had the tracks to guide him back home.

Only now, he wanted to get lost.

His feet were ready to run down those endless steel rails, leaving the weight of reason strewn across the gravel like so many empty bottles. He wasn't chasing the horizon but leaving it behind. He kept trying to find the moment when he could look behind him and not recognize a thing, a sublime instant when he could think to himself, "I don't know the way home." Part of him knew the way home would always be a simple 180-degree turn from whatever direction he was facing, and he always surrendered to this cold reality before his feet took him too far from his mattress and TV.

He was a prisoner trapped behind roads of eternal steel.