Another Pathetic Derailment
by Calendar Hacksaw
Last month, ol' Calendar had the good sense and good fortune to take a ride
up through the Central Valley aboard Amtrak's San Joaquin, then back
down to Bakersfield two days later. And for anyone whose knowledge and
appreciation of California's 'heartland' and 'breadbasket' is based on
high-speed, cannonball runs up Interstate Five and down ol' Highway 99, the
sights to be seen while voluntarily imprisoned aboard a railcar can be a real
eye-opener. Herewith is a firsthand accounting of what I witnessed, along with
appropriate commentary, where necessary.
Highballin' north toward Wasco on a Friday morning can be a joy, unless
you're seated next to one of the last leftovers from the drug wars of the
sixties, a relic who's desperately trying to carry on some semblance of what you
and I would call a 'meaningful' conversation. The dang thing went something
like this:
"I don't know who got here first, man, us or them," the amateur
pharmacist pondered, before losing all track of where he was. "I don't
know why there's a 'Northern California' and a 'Southern California.' Is it
pronounced "Oh-HIGH-oh," or "Oh-HEY-oh?"
Well, "heck-and-Oh-HEY-oh," it was time for ol' Calendar to head
on down to the bar-car at that juncture! I could bear no more!
From my new cellblock, I was much better able to enjoy the sights: restored
and gilded streetlights, main drags of small towns where diagonal parking is
still encouraged, and new sub-divisions being built on prime agricultural land
or in flood plains. One in particular, I named "Floating El Nino Estates."
I saw plenty of fine folks like you and me who had made good use of their
2-1/2 acres, and many others who had nary a clue, wasting it terribly. There
were yard sales that looked interesting, and yards that looked like yard sales,
but weren't.
Things I hadn't seen in some time: people fishing in streams and rivers
without having to pay an admission fee. Freshly laundered clothes blowing in
the breeze. Well-tended backyard 'victory' gardens, a boarding house, a tent
revival, labor camps with 8'x12' 'homes,' some equipped with swamp coolers.
From Fresno to Madera to Merced to Riverbank, onward we rolled, passing
along the way those burgs created by the railways and then left in the lurch,
left in the void, left in the wake created by the infamous Lurch, Void and Wake
Act of 1932.
At every station there were sights to see, but none quite as interesting as
Hanford on the return trip.
It struck me as unusual on a Sunday afternoon to see a dozen or so young men
of mixed ethnicity boarding at such a small town. Until, that is, I noticed the
three prison guards on the siding, loitering over their Cokes-n-smokes. Yes, it
was another "release day" at California State Prison, Corcoran. It
struck me as somewhat strange that the guards would truck these guys up to
Hanford to board the train, when the southbound San Joaquin's next stop
is back at Corcoran, where they just came from. Maybe the deja vu is
intended to lessen the likelihood of recidivism by once again giving the
offenders a peak at what the "Big House" looks like to the outside
world.
In any event, wearing pants that didn't fit, cheap new tennis shoes, and
carrying all their worldly possessions in brown grocery bags (just like me),
they were 'free' men again, as had once been their birthright, and now headed
for Los Angeles and beyond. Once on board, a few still engaged in the vulgar,
obscenity-laced dialogue and bravado typical of life behind bars.
All but one. He was an older gentleman of about 30, head shaved, sporting a
well-scripted tattoo of some lover's name on the side of his neck. He remained
apart from his former roommates, purposeful, composed, peaceful, facing the
future. Something in his bearing told me that his days of living at taxpayer
expense were over now, and he was ready to become a contributor. He had learned
his lesson, and learned it well. I sidled right over.
"Ever heard tell of Walker Basin," I asked. "I think you
might fit right in. Do you know anything about shorin' up a snow roof? Would
you like to meet my granddaughter? How about buyin' ol' Cal a beer? Wanna meet
Wayne Moody?"
I sure hope he decides to settle around Twin Oaks somewhere. We wouldn't
have to worry about him stealin' anything; you don't get to Corcoran by just
stealin' stuff. On the contrary, his reputation might just deter a few of the
local thieves!
All aboard!
Calendar Hacksaw can be reached via e-mail at <calendar@usa.net> or <twistedsisters@hotmail.com>,
and he'd love to hear from you. On his next train trip, he hopes to stop at a
women's prison on release day.
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