Fields (unknown story part 1)

Fields of wheat span for miles within the Americas. Not a sound seems to flow through the air but the clack of the train’s wheels on the old track beneath. The hard planks of wood rumble with each bump the train hits. It’s impossible to sleep sometimes. Cold in the night, boiling in the summer and you can never find a comfortable spot. Ever. If you’re lucky you can catch a car that has hay within it or, if you’re very lucky, rolls of cotton destined for clothes or other uses. It’s a difficult thing to do sometimes, to run after the train (which is already going at high speeds), grab hold of something, anything really, and hoist yourself up into the speeding wooded box. Really the last part is hardest; you’re concentrating so hard on keeping up with the train more often than not you end up on your face in the dirt. Or at least that’s what happened to me the first few times. It’s easier when there are others within the car you’re gunning for, they can help. As odd as it may seems, I’ve made a life for myself running; running everywhere from New York to California. I don’t really want to talk about where I came from, maybe that’ll come later. Ah but where are my manners, must have left them in the last train, my name is Adam Cartwright, its 1932, and I ride the rails of America for a living. I hold no job and I have no family, it’s just me and the open road, or whatever path I might be on. It took a while, to get used to this life. The mannerisms, the secret codes, and more often than not I had to learn on the fly. It may be a lonely life but at least I know it’s mine and not dominated by the ties of corporation or an unhappy life. I enjoy simplicity, it’s uncomplicated.