Read Online The Dirty Parts of the Bible: A Novel by Sam Torode - Free Book Online
Authors: Sam Torode
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ain’t gonna break my neck.” I looked to see if Craw had heard, but he was already lumbering towards the train. I threw my pack over my shoulder and followed.
The ground shook below and rain pounded down from above. Boxcars and tankers whirred by with increasing speed. Smoke and steam billowed out in thick clouds that clung to the damp air. I could barely see Craw and had to run my fastest to keep pace.
We ran alongside of a boxcar till Craw got even with the ladder. Then he leapt up and hooked it. Hand over hook, he climbed up the bars to make room for me. I came as close to the spinning wheels as I could bear, then lunged for the ladder with all I had.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have much. I snagged a low rung and my legs flew out from under me, whipping my body to the side and slamming my gut against the edge of the car. With all the wind knocked out of me, I hung there limp as a ragdoll, my toes kicking against the gravel and raindrops pelting my face like nails.
I reached for the next rung with my right hand. My fingers slipped off the cold, wet bar and my arm fell to the side, sending my pack tumbling under the train. I hung by only one hand now, and my arm felt like it was tearing out of its socket. I pictured that lone arm riding all the way to Texas, still holding on long after my body had been ground into hamburger.
On the bright side, no one would call me the Remus Kid ever again.
CHAPTER 11
T HE next thing I remember, my whole body was laid out flat and shaking on a boxcar floor. I couldn’t see Craw’s face in the darkness, but his voice was unmistakable. “Congratulations, my boy—you made it aboard with all your parts intact. So far as I can tell, that is. Whether or not you’ll be able to have children is an open question.”
I scooted back against the side of the car and rubbed my hands together, trying to bring some feeling back. “How did I get here?”
“Well,” Craw said, “I was going to compose a ballad in memorium of your demise, but I couldn’t decide whether it should be called ‘The Remus Kid’s Last Ride’ or ‘The Remus Kid’s First Ride’—so I gave up and rescued you instead.”
What I didn’t understand was how he could have dragged me all the way up the ladder and into the car, especially with only one good hand.
Craw slid over next to me. “Hungry?”
“You bet—I haven’t had a bite all day.” My stomach growled to second the motion.
“Be grateful you had one yesterday,” Craw said. “That’s better than some folks.” He pulled a silver tin out of his coat and peeled back the lid. With his hook, he speared a strip of pale, flaccid meat and dangled it in front of my face. The scent of lye burned my nose.
My stomach stopped growling and tightened into a knot. “What is it?”
“A Hoover steak.” Craw slurped it down and fished me another piece.
I nibbled on the edge—it tasted like a piece of bologna that had met a violent death and been embalmed. “I take it you didn’t vote for Hoover.”
+ + +
Sleeping in a boxcar was enough to make me miss my berth. When I woke up the next morning, I had to piss through a crack between the planks and hope that Craw’s tastes were limited to women. But I wasn’t in a position to complain about the accommodations.
Thankfully, the cracks in the walls were wide enough to let in some sun and provide a glimpse of the countryside, too. Missouri in May: it was the most beautiful land I’d ever seen—lush and green, with dew-drenched hills. We rolled on over mountains (maybe they were just hills, but they felt like mountains to me) and through cut-rock gorges. Craw called out all the stations from memory—Rolla, Lebanon, Joplin, Springfield.
After a while, he slid over next to me. “If I were your father,” he said, “I’d be worried about you. Of course, I speak only hypothetically. I have no children—to my knowledge, at least.”
“I didn’t run away,” I said. “My father’s the one
The ground shook below and rain pounded down from above. Boxcars and tankers whirred by with increasing speed. Smoke and steam billowed out in thick clouds that clung to the damp air. I could barely see Craw and had to run my fastest to keep pace.
We ran alongside of a boxcar till Craw got even with the ladder. Then he leapt up and hooked it. Hand over hook, he climbed up the bars to make room for me. I came as close to the spinning wheels as I could bear, then lunged for the ladder with all I had.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have much. I snagged a low rung and my legs flew out from under me, whipping my body to the side and slamming my gut against the edge of the car. With all the wind knocked out of me, I hung there limp as a ragdoll, my toes kicking against the gravel and raindrops pelting my face like nails.
I reached for the next rung with my right hand. My fingers slipped off the cold, wet bar and my arm fell to the side, sending my pack tumbling under the train. I hung by only one hand now, and my arm felt like it was tearing out of its socket. I pictured that lone arm riding all the way to Texas, still holding on long after my body had been ground into hamburger.
On the bright side, no one would call me the Remus Kid ever again.
CHAPTER 11
T HE next thing I remember, my whole body was laid out flat and shaking on a boxcar floor. I couldn’t see Craw’s face in the darkness, but his voice was unmistakable. “Congratulations, my boy—you made it aboard with all your parts intact. So far as I can tell, that is. Whether or not you’ll be able to have children is an open question.”
I scooted back against the side of the car and rubbed my hands together, trying to bring some feeling back. “How did I get here?”
“Well,” Craw said, “I was going to compose a ballad in memorium of your demise, but I couldn’t decide whether it should be called ‘The Remus Kid’s Last Ride’ or ‘The Remus Kid’s First Ride’—so I gave up and rescued you instead.”
What I didn’t understand was how he could have dragged me all the way up the ladder and into the car, especially with only one good hand.
Craw slid over next to me. “Hungry?”
“You bet—I haven’t had a bite all day.” My stomach growled to second the motion.
“Be grateful you had one yesterday,” Craw said. “That’s better than some folks.” He pulled a silver tin out of his coat and peeled back the lid. With his hook, he speared a strip of pale, flaccid meat and dangled it in front of my face. The scent of lye burned my nose.
My stomach stopped growling and tightened into a knot. “What is it?”
“A Hoover steak.” Craw slurped it down and fished me another piece.
I nibbled on the edge—it tasted like a piece of bologna that had met a violent death and been embalmed. “I take it you didn’t vote for Hoover.”
+ + +
Sleeping in a boxcar was enough to make me miss my berth. When I woke up the next morning, I had to piss through a crack between the planks and hope that Craw’s tastes were limited to women. But I wasn’t in a position to complain about the accommodations.
Thankfully, the cracks in the walls were wide enough to let in some sun and provide a glimpse of the countryside, too. Missouri in May: it was the most beautiful land I’d ever seen—lush and green, with dew-drenched hills. We rolled on over mountains (maybe they were just hills, but they felt like mountains to me) and through cut-rock gorges. Craw called out all the stations from memory—Rolla, Lebanon, Joplin, Springfield.
After a while, he slid over next to me. “If I were your father,” he said, “I’d be worried about you. Of course, I speak only hypothetically. I have no children—to my knowledge, at least.”
“I didn’t run away,” I said. “My father’s the one
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