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10 GROUNDCOVER NEWS CREATIVE Travels with Dreamer: Riding that train STEVEN Groundcover vendor No. 668 Editor’s Note: This article is a prequel to the “Travels With Dreamer” pieces in the March 7 and March 21 issues of Groundcover. I met Dreamer for the first time at a Rainbow Gathering. Dreamer, unbeknownst to me, would be instrumental as a wingman for me with The Girl in the Shiny Green Dress. We got to talking and smoked tons of weed (no booze in the gathering — only in the parking lot. One of the few rules. I liked the parking lot a lot, too). I knew I wanted to go to New Orleans; Dreamer knew he would find just the mushrooms he'd been looking for in New Orleans. If I'd known at the time that his main mission was mushrooms, I would have walked less than 100 yards in any direction and probably got him some ... Sigh. After a few awesome conversations with some older Road Dogs, we picked up enough know-how to hop trains, we thought. A couple nuggets I still remember: If you're trying to grab a moving train, don't if you can avoid it. If you really feel like you need to get on that train, look at the bolts on the wheels. If you can see individual bolts you might be okay. If you can't make out individual bolts, it's going too fast. It may seem to be going slow enough but if the bolts are a blur, it's going too fast. Whether true or not we took it as sage advice. The other useful tip I remember proved to be important. While walking the tracks, pick up a couple of railroad spikes to carry with you if you think you might climb into a boxcar. When riding in a boxcar, take one of those spikes and wedge it into the bottom of the door to jam it open. The idea is that if the train car jerks suddenly or stops, the door could slam shut. Some of those cars go months between uses and you'll be a skeleton when they find you. That was a good nugget, or at least not a bad one. Whatever other advice he gave us is lost to me except for the tip that was bad advice. He told us the rail Switchers don't care about hobos so you can ask them where the trains are going. If possible, you get on a train at a switchyard while it's not moving, and after you ask a Switcher where it goes. Cool, no sweat. We found a stopped train. I think it was grain. No inside available to climb into, nothing realistic to ride on top of. At the ends of the cars were platforms just big enough to sit on so we got on those. They were small platforms and we had to sit separately. It was nice just relaxing with my thoughts. Of course we had to wait until the train moved. We rode that way a while, into the night. I can’t say for sure how long we rode that way, but not really very long compared to the other rides we had. It stopped at a rail yard and we were able to just get off without any cowboy-type gymnastics. We quickly found a coal car and climbed up. Coal cars were open to the sky like big rectangular buckets. The coal stopped a bit before the top so we could hunker down out of the wind. We waited. The train started moving before dawn so we got to see the sun rise from the top of a raised moving platform. It was amazing. The sun turned the dew-laced tops of the verdantly crowned trees below us into dazzling sequin-gloved jazz hands as we came to a bridge over a lake. It was a long bridge and I felt privileged to be able to see the lake this way. I wasn’t privileged; I was breaking the law. Pfft semantics. Off to the left, below on the lake, were a couple of dudes fishing from a modest boat. I hollered down to them, knowing it's a fishing foul, “Hey guys, where are we?” They raised their breakfast beers together and shouted through laughter, “Virginia!” I responded, also laughing my ass off, “It's beautiful!” It was beautiful. The coal train stopped at an actual switching yard. What luck we figured. A bunch of stopped trains, lots of open cars. Holy shit, there’s even a switcher guy. We mosey on up, ask him about destinations and make some small talk, then bid him good day. I was 6’3” at the time with long, filthy red hair past my shoulders. I’m pretty filthy in general, at this point we both were. Ratty torn jeans patched with safety pins and random swathes of cloth and a sweet-as-hell tight red leather jacket that had been my uncle’s in the 70s. Oh, and of course Chuck Taylors on my feet, shoes known for their amazing support for all the walking I was doing. Dreamer was shortish, kind of built but not bulky. He had brown dreads past his ears with beads and whatnot affixed to them randomly in a few places. Jeans and a tie-dye shirt and a gray hoodie. Both with overstuffed backpacks, we looked like a couple of dirty hippies. We climbed on a train the old guy said was going to Panama City, then we waited hours. We did a lot of waiting for trains. In unmoving trains and trains yet to arrive. In my brilliance I figured if the train is going to South America it's going generally south west, so close enough to the direction of New Orleans. I wasn’t a big spring break scholar so I had no idea there was a Panama City, Florida. Dreamer put his complete faith in me — I’m not sure why. Out of the blue the giant metal began making tentative sounds, not little sounds, far too much iron and steel for little sounds. So long, Illinois. It became dark not long after the Pennsylvanian Behemoth began its slow creep to cruising speed. Dreamer and I were soon conked out. I slept the sleep of salvation. The noises — the clickety clacks, the chunk chunks, the banging lights of intersections, the steamy banshee wail at the will of the engineer, the whooshing wind, the constant drumming of my friend and the rhythmic rocking motions — the smells of timber and tar, the clear autumn sky giving up its stars, the wild fantastic whimsies of my goofy musings combined to form a singular momentous sleep. The morning's gloaming woke us early. The train was stopped; we were cold and hungry. We poked our heads about to see what's up. It's not a railyard per se, but I guess another switching station. Out we climbed, stretching our bones. Sleeping on the wood floor of a boxcar is less comfortable than it sounds even though the train's lullaby is so soothing. We clambered over the car connectors between the cars. Well, I clambered; Dreamer, with the grace of a percussionist, threw himself in some way at this hurdle. He crashed. Kind of bad. He sprained his ankle like it-may-aswell-be-broken sprained ... This effingguy. Come on man. Did I think of walking off and ditching his ass? I can't remember but it would have been on brand. I’m a living crutch now. We hobbled to the edge of the tracks and holy shit there's a walk-in clinic like, right over there. Its parking lot abuts the train company's private property, where we were. Were we lucky? I mean, no sprained ankle would have been better but okay, this works. I've had sprained ankles and all these years later I sympathize with him but at the time I wanted to slap the shit out of him. Not really of course but it was a hassle to crutch him and our gear over to the clinic. We left with his ankle wrapped up and actual crutches. I guess they thought one of us was going to pay them? The lady at the counter was not a fan of ours. After a short walk back to the train we were in decent spirits, all things considered. As we approached I noticed something. "Dude, Dreamer hang on man. - Dude this isn't our train.” "Whaddya mean man? This is where we left it isn't it?” "Well yeah man this is totally where we left it but look at it man, there's like no boxcar that we wedged open.” After he casts a slight glance around, I swear I heard a bell ring somewhere, Dreamer says, "Damn dude this isn't our f***ing train bro.” "That's what I'm saying man.” I let my frustration play on the nefarious train-swap and not all the crap that would hurt his feelings. "What are we gonna do?" "Well," I took off my hat and scratched my sweaty head, squinted my eyes thoughtfully for a minute then continued, "Well this train is pointed the same way, let's just jump on this one." It was in fact the same train. After waiting many hours it moved again. Really we were lucky we didn't wait much longer for any of the trains. We had spent a very long time at the clinic and we were tired and went to sleep in a boxcar. No wedged open door this time. We had been in thinking it was a different train, so we risked getting on the one with no spikes. We woke in shock and confusion to bright lights in our eyes. Emanating from the darkness was belligerent twangy shouting. It took very little time for me to realize this was the cops and we was getting busted. We were arrested in Panama City, dragged off the train, cuffed and taken to the station for processing. We were searched thoroughly and kept separate, of course. By the time I went in front of a judge via teleconferencing I’d been in jail three days. The older judge actually laughed when the charges were read, saying he hadn't heard these charges in a long time. He gave us three days time served and we were kicked loose. As the judge was asking what our plans were, with the very real hint they should include leaving town, I said we were headed to New Orleans. The arresting officer pokes his head into the camera view and tells us, also laughing, to hitch and stay away from the trains. Paying cash for LP Records, CDs, 45s, large and small collections. Also buying guitars, amplifiers. Call or Text: 734.476.3355 APRIL 18, 2025

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