Night Train

(7)

          “What about some breakfast,” Jack said the next morning. We went through a hole in the chain link fence and walked out to a little grove of squatty trees. A can opener, a safety razor and a jagged fragment of mirror glass dangled from strings tied to twigs, and a roll of toilet paper perched on a branch. A fire ring, water jugs, a few unopened cans of beans and a blackened coffee pot—it was a regular hobo jungle.

          “Nice, Jack,” I said. “All the comforts of home.”

          “Fuckin’ A. If you wanta shave, there’s the mirror, you gotta take a shit, there’s your toilet paper. If you want coffee we got that too. It’s a fuckin’ paradise, man.”

          Jack told me to sit tight for a bit. “I’m gonna get us some grub,” he said. He walked away. I made a pot of coffee and started warming up a can of beans. Pretty soon Jack came back with two gallon wine jugs and not much else, or so it seemed. But then he unbuttoned his shirt, revealing steaks and pork chops plastered against his body.

          “I hate to turn loose of this shit,” he said, handing me a filet mignon. “Feels nice and cool on my skin, you know? Well, let’s cook up.”

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