Maybe this is what it means to be humble. Or maybe it is just a rationalization, a compartmentalizing of the situation, to make it somehow palatable. If nothing else, it labels me as American. And in my sheltered world, my worst nightmare revolves around becoming a teenager in Chicago…
I woke up again with that same tight feeling in my spine. The cartilage between my vertebrae seems to have the consistency of three-day old pita bread. The same dream. Or a variation of it, anyway. I am a teenager again. Back in Chicago. Spider is usually there. Sometimes Fletch, but more often, one or two cousins. Curious. Judge is never there. The dream usually involves trains. Often, my aunts and uncles turn into something hideous, or dead — or undead.
Of all the things in my life, why is this the dream that haunts me? A childhood experience? In Chicago? There should be lots of other things to give me bad dreams. I come from a long line of people for whom the word, persecution, is a definition of life. It’s normal.
Not that I experience any of this. I was born in Chicago. I have lived here all my life. I now live in a big house in a quiet, suburban community. I have a good occupation, make a substantial living and provide a good life for my children.
Sure, my family is from the Mid-East. I guess that makes me a terrorist, in the eyes of many. At least suspicious. I have been called, rag-head. I was beat up when I was young. I have been followed. One woman spat at me.
But over there, my relatives have had it much worse. So much worse that it is completely beyond my capacity to identify.
I am Assyrian, and proud of it. My family comes from Northern Iraq. Before I was born, my father and his brothers and sisters moved here from our home town of Mosul, in Iraq. It’s not as big a city as Chicago. But big enough. We are Christians. We have always been. One of the oldest towns in the Bible, Nineveh — at least, its ruins — was just across the river from my Father’s house. The native language of my father and mother is Chaldean, modern Aramaic. My father never tires of telling the people that we speak the language that Jesus spoke.
But Nineveh, Mosul, Iraq — they are all foreign places to me. I have never been out of this country. I am American. Furthermore, I am a product of the Chicago Public Schools system, which has a way of pulling kids out of their cultural communities.
On the other hand, my parents and the elders in our church community all live as if we had never moved from Iraq. They want to go back. They want to be with their loved ones. I don’t blame them. I hear stories of the wars, the persecution, the suffering faced by our people. It has happened all throughout history, as well as in the present. My relatives suffer every day. And die. For their Christian faith.
Christians in the first century were crucified because they would not disavow their faith. But this last year, seven of my relatives were killed for the same reason. One of them was crucified. Children were beheaded. Women were stoned to death. Disavow Christianity, or die. They chose the latter.
But all this seems not to affect me deeply. I feel guilty about that. I would never admit it to my parents, but I don’t feel any deep compassion or anger. The stories bounce off me, just like the constant news headlines from the Mid-East bounce off other Americans. Maybe I am numb to all the stories. Desensitized by too much information. Or maybe I just don’t care. It’s too far away.
But maybe all this comes out in my recurring dreams. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe my dreams are all about the event that happened in Chicago, all those years ago.
It was 1988. I was with a group of kids that I didn’t know very well. It wasn’t the first time that I had hung with them. I had tagged along before. But this time, they actually asked me to come with them.
“What are you waiting for?” they said. “If you stand there too long, the birds will think you’re a statue and shit on you!”
They were walking down the alley-like road which ran beside the L tracks. “L” stands for “elevated.” In most of Chicago, the trains run on tracks on steel and wooden structures, overhead. At some points, mostly downtown, the same trains go underground, becoming the subway. But at this point, the tracks ran at ground level.
I spent most my earlier years playing near the tracks. My family had lived in several different apartments, but they all seemed to be near this stretch of tracks. The October sun was peeking from between buildings over our right shoulders, as it did most autumn days after school.
Fletch was a walking string bean. At least that is how I would draw him if I was a cartoonist. Judge was short. His light colored hair was doomed to go in all directions, no matter how much he combed it.
Fletch was digging at Judge in his usual boisterous voice. “You couldn’t even…! She wouldn’t even be looking at you…” He jumped on Judge’s back and wrapped his arms around his head. Judge just bent down, and Fletch slid off his right shoulder.
Spider was cowboy-like. He reminded me of the Marlboro Man — without the hat. He kept walking, eyes straight ahead, as if not to notice.
When I was young, I always felt like an outsider when I was with any non-family members. Whether it was kids at school, or this group. It didn’t matter. Though I speak English and I have no accent, I was never completely sure of what these guys were saying. Especially Fletch. Even more when he was jumping on Judge, or hanging from his shoulders, which seemed to happen about every five minutes. He would alternate between whispers and loud laughs. I had to work hard to keep-up with the conversations.
“Hey Spider!” yelled Judge. “Did you see Rafael in Pee-Wee’s class yesterday?”
Pee-Wee was the name we affectionately gave to Mr. Herman, our Math teacher.
“Yeah,” groaned Spider. His thoughts seemed always to be somewhere else.
Fletch laughed, “Man, he was loaded. Pee-Wee asked him if he felt sick. He was just sleeping.” He laughed some more.
“Sleeping, alright. They couldn’t even shake him awake.”
I saw my chance. I timidly chimed in. “Man, I was sitting in the principal’s office when they called in the cops. He didn’t even know he was getting busted.”
I didn’t look straight at them, but I was very aware that no one seemed to hear me. Judge was already taking-off after Fletch in retaliation for some unseen jab. Judge was no match for Fletch. As Fletch sprinted along the alley laughing, I knew that Judge would not be able to catch him.
I kept walking with Spider. We had already traveled a couple of blocks. As we passed the Kedzie L stop, I saw my cousin on the platform. I knew he would see me, so I yelled first. “Hey Daniel, where ‘you off to?”
The stocky kid yelled back, “I’m supposed to meet Jacob at his store. He has some work for me. Where are you going?”
I should have been prepared for that question. I didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that I wasn’t with my normal group of friends, made up mostly of family members. I thought quickly. Giving him a big grin, I said, “I’m going crazy, man.”
After crossing the street beyond the L stop, our path was blocked by a big three-story, 13-unit courtyard apartment building. It bordered the tracks, cutting-off the service road that we were walking down. On the other side of the building, the alley resumed its parallel course with the tracks.
There was a small cyclone fence going from the building to the opening, where the tracks crossed the road. Guarding the entrance to the tracks was a series of parallel jagged logs, angled and sharply cut. A barrier to humanity. Of course, the others knew as well as I that we could have walked around the building to the right, in order to rejoin the alley… But that’s what adults would do.
Glancing back, and seeing the L-station attendant wrestling with a newspaper distribution box, Judge skillfully traversed the twelve-foot expanse of wood barriers, designed to keep people from doing exactly what he was doing. Fletch followed, slipping only once and yelping from the sharp pain to the ankle.
I was suddenly faced with a dilemma. Feeling my cousin staring at me from the L-platform, I could not bring dishonor to my family by doing one of those things which bad kids do. Besides, I didn’t even want to go onto the tracks, in the first place. Not only did the trains pass every few minutes, but the tracks also included that dreadful third rail, which carried the mega-volts of electric current used to power the trains.
As I stood in indecision, I noticed Spider walking away from the tracks. He was apparently going to walk around the building. Thankful for the removal of the embarrassing situation, I followed Spider. As we turned the corner of the building, I caught the feint sound of the attendant, yelling at Fletch and Judge. But having to stay at his post, he was apparently not in a position to do anything about it. I was glad that it looked to my cousin on the platform that I was not walking with the two on the tracks. A thing like that would travel through my family communication lines faster than any train going down-hill on icy tracks.
Spider and I shuffled down the alley behind the courtyard building.
“Hey Spider, where we goin’?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
Spider didn’t talk much. But I felt a certain comfort with him. Spider was a sort of quiet person, who seemed content with what life had to offer. He seemed somehow to rise above those circumstances that so often attend youth. He seemed more mature. I didn’t feel the need to “perform” when I was around Spider.
“How long have you known Fletch and Judge?” I asked.
“I grew up with Judge. Fletch just moved onto our street last year. He hangs out at La Fuenta.”
La Fuenta was a fast-food taco place. It had some video games. Fletch and Judge, along with a host of other kids, often spent their few precious quarters and after school hours there. I had only had been there a couple of times.
The four of us met up again on the far side of the building. Judge and Fletch had already scaled the fence and were back on the alley side of the tracks, out of harm’s way.
Judge was examining an audio cassette tape that Fletch had produced from his pocket. “Yeah, those guys are OK. I like their first album, better,” he said.
Spider never walked fast. Maybe just more efficiently. He always seemed to be ahead of us. He looked back. “Hey Patrick! Have you gotten that new tape player yet?”
I looked around. Patrick?
“I’m using my sister’s,” answered Judge. I could barely hear him. “My brother says that he can get one for me from a friend of his who sells them. He says he will take me out there to get it next week.”
Spider laughed. “You always say that. Your brother was going to get you one last year. And your mom was going to get you one for Christmas.”
“Next week, man!” Judge’s face was turning red.
It felt strange, thinking of Judge as having a real name. Patrick, no less. I began to wonder how he got the nickname, “Judge.” It seemed that a lot of kids I knew had nicknames. Members of street gangs always had street names. But Fletch and Spider weren’t part of any of the street gangs, as far as I knew. “Fletch” was short for Fletcher. Eugene Fletcher. And Spider probably got his nickname because it naturally fit him. He was tall and stringy, like a spider.
I never did know his real name.
But Judge… Could he be in a gang? I heard that his older brother was. But I had never seen any tattoos on Judge. And he never wore any “colors,” the sure give-away. Besides, Spider hung out with Judge… And Spider was definitely not in a gang.
Fletch started rapping the words to the familiar hit song on the tape cassette box that Judge was examining. Judge quickly joined in, loudly rapping alternating lines.
As we rambled down the alley, their chanting was suddenly drown out by the sound of an approaching L train. I was always fascinated by them. Though there was no engine noise, the train’s fifty-six solid steel wheels — how many times had I counted them? — gliding along the tracks… Their loud rumbling drone could be felt in the stomach. At this section of its route, the train-full of commuters was slowing from thirty-five miles per hour to its full stop before the street intersection.
The engineer blew the whistle, which sounded much like a rock-quarry whistle at quitting time. It was not very threatening. This was especially the case as I noticed that Judge was the intended object of the engine’s whistle. Judge had climbed-up onto the cyclone fence and was hanging his upper torso over the top, waiving both arms in front of him.
“Patrick, get down,” yelled Spider.
Judge was oblivious to Spider’s concern. “Think I can make him stop?” he laughed, as if to himself.
“Do you think we are going to shovel you up?” yelled Spider. “We got better things to do.”
Spider kept walking, not even looking back.
Fletch, who had been walking with Spider, ran back and started to climb the fence beside Judge. But I stood, frozen by the whole event. It was clear that Fletch was not about to hang over the top of the fence, like Judge. Fletch gave only half-hearted efforts to climb the fence, all the while poking verbal jabs at Judge. “You’re too ugly for him to stop,” he mocked. “He probably figures he can do the world a favor by squashing you before you multiply.”
The engineer kept blowing the whistle, but the train didn’t appear to be going much slower. I felt a surge of dread well up from my stomach. I started to form an instinctive shout for Judge to get down. But I held back. After all, I didn’t know these kids that well. I didn’t want to appear to be afraid.
I could see the engineer making gestures through the window with his arm. I felt as if the engineer was looking at me as well. I suddenly felt dirty. I wanted to run and hide.
I looked back at Judge. He was not even looking at the train. Judge was focused on Fletch. He would bat at Fletch with his arms and grab his sweat shirt hood, as if he was trying to pull him up onto the fence with him.
The train was now beginning to reduce its speed. Fletch was busy, trying to tie Judge’s shoe laces to the wire fence. Judge alternately kicked one foot, then the other, trying to keep Fletch from accomplishing the task, cursing at Fletch the whole time.
Judge was holding the horizontal bar that ran a few inches below the top of the wires, using both hands to hold his torso off the top of the fence. The wires were obviously beginning to hurt. Suddenly, one of his hands slipped. His weight fell. Still holding the iron bar with one hand, his other armpit hooked the top of the fence. He gave a sharp curse and tried to wriggle down. His open jacket caught on the jagged wires and tore as he finally fell to the alley.
Fletch doubled over in laughter.
Judge cursed and screamed, “My brother is going to kill me! This is his jacket.”
Fletch started to roll on the ground, in laugher. I, on the other hand, felt a great sense of relief wash over me when Judge hit the ground.
Still forty yards away, the train engineer lowered his window. As the train finally passed by, the engineer yelled-out the window a few well-chosen curses of his own. They fell on deaf ears. Judge was bent toward the ground, looking for something to throw at the train. All he found was damp papers and assorted fast-food drinking cups which had blown up against the fence.
Spider was standing now, further ahead, watching the antics. As I approached him, he lit-up a cigarette and offered me one.
“Sure,” I responded.
I had smoked a cigarette on some previous occasions. But I never did like the taste of the things. Spider tossed me his lighter. I took a quick glance around. No relatives in sight. I lit up. Though I didn’t inhale the smoke, I tried to look like he was. On the first drag, I successfully held-back the involuntary spasm-cough. After a few puffs, I guess body had resigned itself to the fact that I was doing it again.
Fletch and Judge caught up to me and Spider. “Did you see that?” laughed Fletch, who now had tears in his eyes. “The human-fly!”
Judge was not amused. His face was red and the veins on his left temple were noticeably fatter. He examining the rip in his jacket more closely. “My brother’s going to kill me. He doesn’t even know I got it on.”
The four of us continued to walk down the alley, trading barbs at one another. I even joined in, once or twice.
Another train passed by. The sound overtook our voices for a few seconds. At this time of day, there were seven cars in each train. We could see the blurred heads of sardine-packed commuters as they glided by. As for myself, those solid steel wheels, surrounded by lines of battery packs, always filled me with a sense of awe. I always liked to examine the electrical skids between the wheels, gliding along the third rail, providing electricity to the train. I could see the blue flashes, even in broad daylight, as they passed over joints in the tracks. The sound the wheels produced, along with the sudden blast of wind in my face, was always a bit thrilling. It seemed I would never lose my appreciation of the power of those trains.
I had ridden the train many times. That previous summer, I rode with my uncle on Saturdays. My uncle was involved in a research project in low-temperature physics at the University of Illinois, on the south side of Chicago. I often got to help him in his project. Whenever I could, I would sit at the very front of the first train car, so I could see the approaching tracks, just as the engineer saw them. Sometimes, the engineer would leave the inside door open, allowing me to observe small cabin where he or she sat. I would watch her control the speed of the train, watching the assorted lights on the control board. There were small signs posted along the tracks which gave the speed limit for the trains. The speed limits varied between curves and straight sections of track. The highest speed I had ever seen this train get to was forty miles per hour. But I also knew that the trains that ran in the middle of the expressways, in different sections of Chicago, often went faster than the cars traveling next to them.
There seemed to be some sort of electrical monitoring system built into the tracks. Whenever the train went too fast, an alarm would start beeping. The engineer would then let off on the hand accelerator until the beeping stopped. It seemed that on some curves, it would start beeping when the train went over seven miles per hour.
I quickly reeled-in my thoughts when I heard Fletch calling my name. “Hey Huey, go get that glove.”
“My name is Louis.”
“So, Louie…”
No use. “What glove?” I asked.
Judge joined in. “Over there. By that garage.”
I looked toward the garage that we had just passed. It was in the little back yard of a two-flat. On the other side of its fence was a baseball glove. It was lying in the grass, next to a puddle. It was partially covered with mud.
“It probably belongs to them,” I answered, pointing to the two-flat just beyond the garage.
Fletch whined, “It’s abandoned, you idiot. They had a fire last spring.”
I now noticed the bricks above the two first-floor windows on the side of the building. They were charred black from smoke. Still, I had no intention of taking a baseball glove that was not mine.
I answered, “I don’t need a glove. I got one.”
“Well I need one,” said Judge.
“Then you get it,” I said.
I worried about arguing with Judge and Fletch, but I knew that it looked better that cowering under to them.
“Come on!” Fletch and Judge groaned. “Besides,” Fletch continued, as he caught the end of Judge’s jacket, “Rubber-man, here doesn’t want to climb any more fences.”
“Stop it!” Screamed Judge. “You’re going to rip it some more!” He knocked Fletch’s hand away.
Fletch and Judge stood, staring at me, as if this was some sort of test. Spider kept walking, not seeming to care.
I knew that I had only two choices. Either I would go get the baseball glove or risk alienating Judge and Fletch.
“OK, I’ll get it for you. I suppose it doesn’t belong to anybody.”
I was glad for the chance to throw down the remainder of my cigarette. I walked over to the chain link fence. I eyed the porch windows of the two-flat, looking for signs of movement. Two of the windows were broken and the porch was in obvious need of repair. But the building didn’t look abandoned. There was a tricycle on the porch and a rusted barbecue at the base of the stairs.
The gate had rusty wires tangled around. I knew it would not be worth trying to get through. So I hoisted myself on the top bar and swung my right leg to the top. I wasn’t aware that Fletch and Judge were holding back laughter to the point of hysterics. I pulled my other leg over and proceeded to jump to the ground on the other side.
No sooner had I hit the ground when the normal street sounds were deafened by the thunder of ferocious barking. A dirty white, rat-terrier-looking thing, about the size of a rhinoceros, bounded from the cement pit leading to the basement door. It headed for me at full speed, barking like it was at a ceremonial sacrifice. My eyes must have been as big as train wheels. I whirled around, feeling the breaths of the mongrel, as if it was at my back already. A giant dose of adrenalin surged in my veins, and I instinctively leaped back over the fence, touching it with only one hand.
Judge and Fletch immediately broke out in heavy laughter and jeering, pointing at me. “Did you see that? Just like a cat! He never even touched ground!”
Fletch was again bent over, holding his stomach. “He flies better than Rubber-man! Did you see the look on his face? We are going to call you, Super-fly!”
All I could hear was the jagged roar of the dog’s barking. But I felt every word that Judge and Fletch were saying. The shot of adrenalin made me feel like I was made of steel. I felt lighter than paper. I yelled a few universal epitaphs at the two antagonists. It only made them laugh harder.
I was filled with rage. It was obvious that Fletch and Judge knew about the dog. They had probably done the same thing to some other unsuspecting jerk. I wanted to jam their noses through the backs of their heads, with my fist. I could have been hurt. And all they saw in it was humor — and a chance to show me that I was a clown. I felt embarrassed. I felt like a fool for falling for it.
My rage died down and I turned and started stomping down the alley toward Spider, who was again, further in front of us. The other two wouldn’t let up. They followed, laughing just as hard. Even harder than before.
The laughter was a condemnation to me. Fletch and Judge had broken through my facade. What a fool I was to think that I could hang out with kids from outside my family. Who was I trying to kid? I may have grown up in Chicago, have no accent, dress like the rest of them. But I was an outsider, and always would be.
As I and my mockers approached Spider, I was careful not to let my emotions show on my face. My tears may have run freely inside. But I had mastered that stone cold, relaxed look of any street kid in Chicago. I even forced a smile. “I guess that dog will never try that again,” I said to Spider.
Spider smiled and said, “You had him on the run.” His words and reassuring smile were like cool water. I found strength in them.
“Hey Spider,” cried Judge. “Remember when we got Domingo? He just froze when the dog came out.”
“The dog had him pinned against the garage like he was a piece of meat,” added Fletch. “He was like a statue, man. It took them a week to carve that look off his face.”
Judge muttered to himself, “Yeah. We got him good.”
Spider seemed annoyed by what they had done. He looked at Judge. “What about the time me and Ozone got you to throw your pants down the garbage chute at the YMCA swimming pool.”
“Yeah.” That’s all that Fletch needed. He let out a playful grunt and started laughing at Judge, and put his arm around his head. “You should have seen it,” he cried. “Spider and Ozone found two shirts and some pants under one of the benches in the locker room.”
Spider took it from there. “We were just changing clothes to go swimming. Ozone waited for Patrick to walk by.” He smiled at Judge. “Isn’t that right, Patrick?”
Judge again looked sheepish.
Spider continued. “Just when Patrick walked up, Ozone opened this door in the wall and threw down the pants and shirt. Patrick says, ‘What are you doing that for?’ Ozone says, ‘Throw them in here and they will wash them while you are swimming.’”
Fletch began howling.
Judge objected, “How was I supposed to know?” He was obviously embarrassed by this story. I could see him starting to turn red again. I have to admit that I took a little pleasure in this.
Spider didn’t let up. “I walked by with the other shirt and threw it in. So Patrick went and got his pants from his locker and threw them down.”
Judge was talking to himself again. “They were brand new white pants. I wanted to get this stain off the leg.”
Fletch broke in. “There was a group of us there. We all agreed not to tell him that he had just thrown away his pants. When we were done swimming, we started changing clothes. Judge says, ‘Where did you get your clothes?’ Spider says, ‘They put them back in our lockers while we were swimming.’”
Fletch cut in, “Judge says, ‘They didn’t bring mine back.’”
As Fletch was saying this, he tried to wrestle Judge to the ground. Judge pushed Fletch’s arm off his head.
Fletch went on. “We all waited in the lounge by the desk. We could hear the locker room guy on the phone, saying that some idiot just threw his pants down the garbage. They had to get the janitor to go to the basement and get them.”
I thoroughly enjoyed this story. But to them, I let out only a slight smile. I didn’t want to appear like I was on Spider’s level. But I did start to think that maybe the dog incident was not so bad after all. At least I didn’t appear to be brainless to a group of my peers.
The four of us crossed two more intersections and another L-platform. At this time of day, commuters were mostly getting off the train. On the other side of the intersection, the tracks began a slight incline. A couple of blocks down, the tracks would cross a bridge which spanned the north branch of the Chicago River. I knew the area well, as I used to play on the banks of the river, below the bridge. I wondered if that was where we were heading. I was getting a little worried about getting back home, before my father got home from work. It was a rule that none of the kids in my family dared violate. If I started back now, the sun would probably be down before I got home. I hoped they weren’t going any further than the bridge.
But I found myself saying, “I know where we can find some rats. A mess of them live under the bridge. I used to throw rocks at them.”
“I hate rats,” Fletch asserted. “They remind me too much of that jerk, shackin’ up with my mother.”
Spider said, “Patrick lives just on the other side of the river. His mother works ‘til six-thirty. His sister and her boyfriend are usually there.”
Judge cut in, “You just like to go there ’cause he lets you drink his beer.”
I didn’t want to go to some strange apartment — especially when I didn’t even know who would be there. Besides, I had to get home. I started working on a plan to gracefully get out of going over to Judge’s apartment. Maybe I could tell them that I had to meet my brother at the drug store which was on Lawrence Avenue, a few blocks from the other side of the bridge. I could then call my brother from there, to come pick me up. Or maybe I could say that I forgot that I was supposed to pick up some pita bread from the store.
As we approached the bridge, we could see the end of the alley that we were traveling down. The alley took a ninety-degree turn to the right, paralleling the river. Beyond the turn was a chain link fence, guarding entrance to the river. It connected up with the fence that we were walking beside. In the corner, where the two fences met, the wire had been cut and bent back, forming a hole, about two feet wide and four feet high. Every few years, Park District crews from the city would repair the hole in the fence. But it was always a matter of weeks before the hole was back in its proper place.
I pictured the river banks in my mind. The ends of the bent-back wires which formed the hole in the fence were worn shiny by countless young river explorers. I couldn’t possibly think how many times I had been through the hole. But it led to a world far different that the one in which I had to spend most his waking moments. This world was green and tropical. Not brown and noisy. There were lots of trees and that ever alluring, moving water.
Yet it wasn’t a Garden of Eden, like the pond in my uncle’s suburban back yard. This river world had the smell of rotten eggs. The grass on the banks was often worn to clay and mud. There was graffiti under the bridge and on some of the stones. Beer cans and bags full of garbage were scattered here and there, along the banks. The brown water was sometimes littered with tires or old refrigerators. But to me, it was a boundless, timeless. I knew every tree root for a mile in each direction.
I knew that, about twenty-five yards to the right of the hole in the fence, there was a tree which had fallen, perpendicular over the river. I had often walked across it to the sand bank in the middle of the lazy water. There were two boulders in the middle of the water on the other side of the sand bank. I knew that they could leap from the sand bar, using the boulders, to the other side.
I was about to share this information when I saw Spider crawling up the side of the fence which bordered the tracks. I was a little stunned by this. “Where are you going?” I asked.
Before I got an answer, the other two were also climbing the fence.
I said loudly, “There’s a tree that crosses the river a little ways down. We can go across there.”
“We always go this way,” Judge responded.
“What about the trains?” I asked. I could almost hear my heart pounding.
Spider answered, “You can see all the way to the Western L stop. The next train is way down there. We got plenty of time.”
I had lived around these tracks my whole life. I had played along the river below the bridge a thousand times. But in all those years, I had never gone out on the train tracks.
“What about the third rail?” I asked, responding to the flashing red warning light in my mind. Every kid in Chicago knew about the third rail — that rail on the outside of the other two, on which the train wheels run. The third rail carries enough electricity to turn a cat into toast.
“If you’re going to come, you better do it now,” warned Fletch. He vaulted to the ground on the other side of the fence. The other two were already on the ground, walking along the tracks.
I stood for a second, in indecision. Then, as if a force outside myself was taking control of my legs, I found himself walking toward the fence. Throughout the twelve-yard walk, I could feel every cousin, every aunt and uncle, my beloved mother and my stoic father staring at me in shocking silence. I found no avenue of escape. I felt that I had already shamed them when the moment of decision passed. I didn’t even remember traversing the fence. My only image of the moment was that of the gravel lying directly on the other side, providing a couple of feet of buffer between the fence and those rails. I landed skillfully, ever conscious of the distance between my feet and the third rail.
I stepped gingerly on the stones. With every step I tried to look passive, as I latched onto the wires of the fence securely with my right hand. I looked behind me. From the incline of the tracks, I could see the two L-platforms that we had passed. I could see the tracks all the way back to the yards, about a mile down. There were no trains. I turned again to survey the tracks ahead of him. The bridge ahead of me was partially blocked my view. But I was able to see far enough down the tracks, beyond the bridge to estimate that it would be three or four minutes before the train would start getting close.
I picked up my pace. The others had stopped in the middle of the bridge. They stood, looking out over the water. Judge was pelting rocks at an overturned five gallon bucket on a sand bar in the middle of the river.
Fletch, in turn picked up a few projectiles. “I could hit that thing with my eyes shut,” he taunted Judge. He was just about to throw when he noticed the weeds move, on the far side of the river. “Hold on,” he said to Judge. “Check it out.”
Both of them got into position. “On three,” Judge whispered. “One… Two… Three.”
Two rocks cut through the air at their target. As they hit, one near the weeds and one squarely in the middle, a medium sized rat shot across the clearing toward a gully in the bank. Judge and Fletch followed with a barrage of more stones. They fell harmlessly on the far bank.
“I got him,” screamed Fletch. “I saw blood.”
“That was my rock,” Judge retaliated. “You didn’t even get near him.”
The two were still arguing when I reached the group. I stopped near Spider, who was leaning against the waist-high concrete barrier that held an iron railing. I gazed at the water, twenty feet below. And I nervously kept one eye on the distant train which had gotten significantly closer. Its headlights were on, as they always were. It had never occurred to me until that how strange it was that their headlights were always on, even in the daytime. I looked at the sun, resting on the jagged roofs of the buildings beyond the trees. “We better get going,” I said anxiously.
Spider turned and retrieved his slow, but steady pace. I followed. I looked back to check the status of any trains that might be approaching from the rear. I could just make out the headlight of one that must have just left the yards. But what also caught my attention made my nervous breathing all but stop. Just as I was looking back, Judge hoisted himself up onto the iron railing above the concrete barrier and balanced himself on top. I had instant visions of him falling and beaking his neck in the water, which couldn’t have been more than a couple of feet deep. I lost the ability to restrain my own comments. “C’mon, get down! The train is coming,” I yelled.
“Go on ahead! I am going to wait up here while the train goes by,” replied Judge.
While he was saying this, Fletch hoisted himself to a sitting position on the ledge. “He wants to fly again,” he laughed.
Spider stopped, turned around and yelled at Judge. “You do this every time. Get off that ledge!”
As usual, Judge was oblivious. He started jumping up and down, and walking back and forth on the ledge, rapping the words to one of the songs on his cassette tape. At one point, Fletch looked like he was going to join him. But then he appeared to change his mind, kneeling down to tie his shoe.
“Patrick, I’m not playing anymore!” yelled Spider. He turned again and resumed his gate toward the other side of the bridge.
I joined him in his pace. I had reached my limit. No more worrying about Judge. I wanted to get off that bridge and go home, now!
Fletch, too seemed torn. But only for an instant. He started to follow Spider and me, slowly at first. Then he, too picked up his pace. “He’s crazy,” he muttered loudly. “That fool wants to die.”
All I could think about now was getting off the bridge and back over the fence. As the two others approached the other edge of the bridge, I could clearly see the front of the approaching L train, pulling away from its last platform.
Spider yelled one last time at Judge, and started to cross the tracks toward the fence on the other side. As he was stepping over the rails, he looked back toward me and nodded downward. “Watch out for this rail. Don’t touch it,” he said to me. Then he carefully strode over it.
Fletch looked back and yelled to Judge, “Hey, C’mon, man!” Then he stepped across the rails, as if he had done it a hundred times.
“What’s your hurry?” replied Judge from atop the bridge railing. “The train will be on the tracks on the other side. Not these. I might even wait ’til the train comes from the other way.”
The whistle of the approaching L train blew in urgent iterations. I could see the Engineer waving his arm out the window, in agitated motions. The three of us reached the wire fence about the same time. The train didn’t appear to be slowing down.
As we were climbing over, I could hear Judge alternate between loud condemnations — you little girls — and milder cackling, which I couldn’t hear very well. “I should’ve brought a fishing pole,” he jeered. “I wonder if you can use rats for bait.”
The three of us were now safely on the other side of the fence. We stood at the top of the bank, by the cement footing of the bridge. Each of us was hanging against the wires of the fence as if we were outside a cage, looking in.
I looked quickly down the tracks. The train was starting its incline toward the bridge.
Spider pleaded with Judge again. “Patrick, the train is just gonna stop and wait for you.”
Judge was clearly in his own world. He was also looking down the tracks. As the train was starting to slow down, Judge just smiled, and dared it train to come closer.
All of our attention was focused on the train, which finally came to a full stop. The conductor stuck his head out the window and yelled, “You little shithead! I’m calling the cops!” Judge just stood on the ledge.
Then I heard Judge mumble to himself, “This is getting boring. I’m going over to the other side.”
The decision was made. Judge jumped back down onto the gravel, landing harder than he was apparently prepared for. He lost his balance and fell backward. His shoulder landed on the inner rail which bears the weight of heavy train wheels.
“Patrick!” I screamed. He had just missed the rail on the outside — the third rail, which carries the six-hundred volts of electricity.
The others instantly let out instinctive verbal warnings. This time, Fletch was the loudest. “Hey, man. That rail can fry you into a hot dog!”
Judge just gave a strange grin. He got up and stepped over the death rail. Ignoring the repeating whistles from the train, crossed the tracks again and stopped between the two sets of tracks and stood there.
I noticed that the train from the other direction had already left its last platform and was also heading toward the bridge. Judge took a few more strides across the rails, back toward us. There was also a high-voltage rail for this track. It appeared to me that Judge purposely stood on the closest rail to make some sort of point.
It seemed to have worked. The second train was slowing to a stop, the whistle still blowing in frantic intervals.
The stand-off lasted for what seemed like hours. Judge waved his arms, daring the train to come. He made all sorts of bodily contortions and gyrations. Seeing the morbid dance, I was reminded of a National Geographic special that I once saw on TV. In it, a male musk ox, or some sort of creature, went through a courtship dance to win over a partner who could potentially do him in.
Spider again yelled at Judge. “Patrick, he’s just waiting for you to get off the tracks! Let’s get out of here before the cops show up!”
I peered into the front window of the second the train, which had now come to a complete stop. Indeed, the Engineer was not to be seen in the window. I looked on either side, expecting to see the engineer or some train personnel climbing down from one of the cars.
Spider continued, “He’s not going to move while you are on the tracks.”
Fletch joined in. “C’mon jack. You made your point!”
I felt sick to my stomach. I didn’t even know why I was still here. I had passed the point of caring about these folks anymore. I wanted to go home.
Suddenly, Judge yelled. “Hey, watch this!”
Before any of the boys could take a breath, Judge leapt onto the third rail in one stride, and leapt to the ground in another.
“Patrick!” screamed Spider.
Judge laughed and pointed at his shoes. “They’re made of rubber! I’m Rubber-Man. I can walk on lightening!”
I had about all I could take. I made the decision to leave the group and get to a phone.
Fletch was frozen.
Judge hopped back up on the rail which carried the electric current, balancing on it. “My brother said you could do this,” he yelled.
A man from one of the houses near the bridge was running across his back yard, yelling. “Hey kid. Get the hell off of there!”
Judge started cat-walking along the high-voltage rail toward our end of the bridge. I had already turned and started making his way to find a place to slide down the embankment.
Spider’s face tightened. “I’m going up after him.” He started to climb the cyclone fence.
What happened next will forever be etched on the backs of my eyes. I took one last look at the scene before I was going to slide down the bank. I saw Judge, still balancing on that killer rail. Then suddenly, one of Judge’s feet slipped from the rail. To keep from falling, Judge reached out his arm and grabbed the iron railing. As he touched it, his body gave a violent jerk and his other arm flew up and back, as if it had been hit by a baseball bat. His shins slid onto the rail as his body arched backwards.
I can still hear the echo of Spider’s guttural scream: “Patrick!” Judge’s body hit the ground.
Spider shot over the top of the fence, onto the tracks. “Patrick!” He kept screaming, in bloody howls. He never broke his stride as he hit the ground. “Patrick!”
The engineer of the second train, having just appeared alongside the train, yelled at Spider, “Stay away from him! Get off those tracks. Don’t touch him!” He too was running toward the scene.
Spider arrived at Judge’s side, screaming, swaying.
I yelled at Spider. “Don’t touch him. You’ll get electrocuted!”
Spider appeared to hold himself back from touching Judge’s convulsing body. He then ran down the tracks, appearing to be looking for something. Probably something he could use to pry Patrick away from the rail.
The engineer of the first train was running toward us, carrying a big yellow rod. It looked like it was made of plastic or fiberglass.
Fletch and I were already crawling over the fence. As I landed on the stones next to the tracks, I could hear the squawk of the engineer’s two-way radio. The engineer was yelling into the device as he was running.
Spider was back at Judge’s side, having found nothing.
“Don’t touch him!” yelled the engineer.
I could see Spider’s eyes, red and filled with tears. I felt tremendously hot.
Fletch came up from behind and almost knocked me over. He bent down toward Judge.
I instinctively grabbed Fletch’s hood and gave a giant pull. The hood tore. But I successfully pulled Fletch backwards, away from Judge’s quivering body.
“No!…No!…No!…” bellowed Fletch.
The engineer was barking intermittent orders into his squawk-box, “Shut-down three-twenty!” And he kept warning us, “Stay back! Don’t touch him! Get off the tracks!”
A squad car pulled into the small vacant lot below the fence that the boys we had just traversed. One policeman stayed by the car, while the other climbed the fence onto the tracks. Their hand-held radios added to the background garble.
I realized that they were having trouble getting the electricity to the tracks shut off. Judge’s body was still gruesomely arched backwards. I couldn’t tell if Judge’s left leg was still touching the rail. The leg of Judge’s sweat-pants was partially burnt. His flesh was exposed. His skin was all black and charred. One of his tennis shoes was lying next to his feet — blackened also.
But what stays with me, in my dreams, is his tennis shoe, with the smoke rising from it.
We all stood in a line, now, focused on Judge, saying nothing.
The others were alternately issuing orders and responding to scratchy voices on their radios. Another squad car arrived, followed by a Chicago Transit Authority car. I could see a fire truck turning the corner, a couple of blocks down. The roar of the engine sounded as if it was right next to us.
A police woman who had climbed onto the tracks joined the group. After talking a little with the other officer, she told us to come with her. Fletch and I followed, not saying a word. But Spider just stood there, his arms wrapped around his own torso. His eyes stayed transfixed on Patrick.
The police woman went back and grabbed his arm. Spider walked, his eyes to the ground, seeing nothing but his fallen friend.
People from the houses below were already gathering by the fence. As I approached them, I heard someone say, “If they don’t get this rail turned-off, there won’t be anything left of him to clean-up.”
* * *
The other day, I listened to our exiled Archbishop tell of the destruction in my family’s city. Biblical artifacts, tombs and statues from Centuries before Christ have been destroyed. Torture and killing continue. For the first time since the time of Jesus, there are no Christians or Jews in Mosul. And Muslims, not of the “correct” persuasion, have long been persecuted and killed as well.
Looking from afar, and not having directly experienced the slaughter, I am able to offer my learned opinion. I would never be so cruel to say this to my family. But I can acknowledge that, in the times of the Crusades, we Christians persecuted, tortured and killed men, women and children “over there,” for similar reasons. Believe like us, or be killed.
Maybe this is what it means to be humble. Or maybe it is just a rationalization, a compartmentalizing of the situation, to make it somehow palatable. If nothing else, it labels me as American. And in my sheltered world, my worst nightmare revolves around becoming a teenager in Chicago.
