Drift

George Plimpton was up, angry. Doing work. George was a badass. George was a head smasher. And though some tried, George Plimpton was not to be trifled with. George's belligerence was necessitated, this time, by a weepy-bitchy scream in the night, shrill enough to be heard above the steel wheels rolling across the joins of the rails and the diesel-electric GE Unit some fifteen cars up hauling us eastward across the Ameri- can Middle West. The scream was weepy-bitchy shrill enough you'd almost think it was a woman doing the "please, oh God"-ing. Almost. Not quite. Not quite weepy-bitchy shrill enough for that. It carried just enough bass to be the cries of what passed for a man; the cries of Yuppie Scum. Some day-trading, dot-com-ing bastard who was bored with his Benz and instant millions and figuredfor whatever reason logical only to Young, Upwardly Mobile Scurfthat hopping Old Dirty Face, riding the rails, would be a romantic, nostalgic way to see America: swapping harmonica songs and open firecooked canned beans with some white bearded hobo who regaled with recountings of endless travel over wide-open spaces. Yeah. The screams were most likely courtesy of a romantic dick to his ass. Maybe the product of an old-fashioned shank to his ribs. Fine. Not my problem. Yuppie Scum's in the wrong place, Yuppie Scum gets what it deserves. I was just trying to make Iowa. Except All that weepy-bitchy screaming . . . it's just got a way of edging you up. Others, the other tramps and 'boes in the carcatch-outs to Iowa were always heavy the second weekend in Augustkept to themselves. Others were smarter than me. I made for the commotion. A full moon cutting through slits in the metal of the box- car helped me read the situation. Fetaled up in a corner of the car was a floppy blond-haired white guy still "oh, Jesus. Oh God, please, God don't"-ing. He was sporting Dockersactual honest-to-Christ Dockersand a shirt that had previously been another color but was now blood-reddish from the red blood that flowed from cuts and slashes, defensive wounds, decorating his arms and upper body. Standing over him were a couple of 'boes. Black bandannas on their necks. Could still smell the piss. Fuck. Not 'boes. Freight Train Riders of America. FTRA. Meth-snorting peckerwood gangers. One was demonstrating a blade, the other the smile of a patron enjoying a show. To the both of them: "Knock that shit off." Real-life violence is not like movie violence. Movie violence is most times preceded by lots of snappy dialogue from $20 million action star #14 concerning how he's going to do some nasty things to the stuntman who's paid union wages to go down on cue. Real-life violence is mostly unescorted by tough-guy remarks about driving somebody's nose bone up into their brain. In real life, violence is just very suddenly with you. Suddenly the FTRA with the blade was slashing for me. And it was then that George Plimpton got up, angry. Did work. George greeted the FTRA where his arm and hand joined. The wrist, technically speaking. George greeted the FTRA at the wrist, and the FTRA's wrist replied with a squeal and a deafening snap and a fountain of blood from where flesh got torn open by breaking bone. George swung around, catching FTRA in the face, across his cheek. What teeth weren't smashed from his mouth were driven through the skin of his jaw. FTRA One was done for the day. FTRA Two, who'd come to the party without shank or sharp object or goonie stick, gave me and George some fearful looking- over. I said to him: "Got money?" The FTRA's headpoked like he'd tried to block buckshot with it. Brittle skin peppered with a beard that wouldn't grow rightshook his head no. "Got fRidley, John is the author of 'Drift' with ISBN 9780375411823 and ISBN 0375411828.