The Caboose

1996

At eight-thirty in the morning there was breakfast, but he was already awake, just lying in bed. After fifty years, it was hard for the man to readjust his internal rhythms and workings to getting up so late. Mornings he lay in the darkness and quietude wanting for something to do. But there was nothing for the old man and he lay in bed remembering the times he had always gone to work in the mornings, before the Japanese merger had caused cutbacks which forced him into retirement. All the old friends he used to work with, they were already gone, half of them dead from hard work or chemical exposure, the rest in Florida or homes or hospitals somewhere. The old man was over seventy, they had told him, and he should be relaxing and spending his remaining years with his wife and family. And he had tried to enjoy it, the retirement. They had moved out to the country house they had long been saving for, he and his wife, but then she died three months later, leaving the old man sad and forlorn. He couldn’t stay out there by himself, due more to loneliness than physical dependence, and so he had been placed into a home by his family.

For the past five years, his son had importuned to him that it was time for him to rest. "After all," the son had said, "you have worked all of your life. You’ve done enough now, it’s time you took it a bit easier." His son was quite adamant, and the old man was very reluctant, but he didn’t want to be of any trouble, and so consented. The old man had reached that age when he began to obey his children. I am not sure why the son wanted to put his father in the home. Maybe he was worried about the old man out there all by himself, maybe the old man would be an inconvenience to his own household. I have never cared to ask.

But when he consented, the old man had had no idea that it would be anything like this. He hadn’t any notion of what idleness would be like. The old man lay silently wide-eyed, but dutifully in bed, as the sky outside grew lighter and lighter. But never did he see the sun rise, for the old man lived on the wrong side of the building. Used to be, he would always see the sun rising, maybe on his walk to work, maybe he was already at work by then, but see it rising up, bringing with it the new day. No longer. Instead, every day now, the old man stood at the window watching the burning orange circle slipping hopelessly down into the horizon as if it were quicksand. The sun does look much the same as it sets from day-to-day, but the man watched it with apparent novel interest every day. It was about the only thing he ever did.

Finally, it was eight-thirty. By the time the attendant entered with breakfast, though there was no sun, the sky was light and blue and the old man ate. And it wasn’t that the meals didn’t agree with him – he had gotten by for half his life on much worse than they served there – and it wasn’t that his bed was uncomfortable, or that his room was too small, or that the lights were too bright. All of those things could be easily accommodated. It took the old man some weeks to figure out exactly what it was that bothered him about it, for he was not a thinker. I intend no insult, but perhaps even compliment, for the old man was a feeler. But, anyhow, it seemed to the old man that everything should be fine at the home, where his needs were provided for in an efficient manner. Yet maybe it was all that impersonality, see, no longer was the food cooked with the thought that it was especially for the old man, now it was prepared identically for everyone. Could the love with which his wife had cooked his food have had a taste? His bed also was made the way they made every bed in the home, and his schedule was the same as everyone else’s, and the white walls in his room were just the same.

And since he had become a man, the old man had never been a burden, a suck of resources, as he knew he was now. On the contrary, he had always been the one to provide for others at his own expense, even if it meant his life. Being in this impersonal home, being served, maybe that was what bothered the old man. But I won’t go so far as to speculate that the old man was depressed. I am not a psychiatrist; I am only recording the indisputable evidence.

While the old man uneasily sipped his orange juice, the nurse came in to rotate his incapacitated roommate. The old man did not have quite as much of an appetite as he once had. He was at a great crisis in his life, perhaps the first he had ever known. Oh sure, there had been hardships, he had grown up, had become a man in the Age of Hardship. Yes, child of the Depression, young man in the war – he was of the same litter as hardship. But these things, he had known and shared with those around him, and above all, understood their meaning. For though they were difficult struggles, underneath, they were simple things to which instinctive solutions applied. But this crisis now struck him so deeply precisely because his instinct failed him. In the war, he knew he had to fight the Nazis, and during the Depression, he knew he had to keep his family fed any way he could.

But now he was lost, utterly, helplessly, for nothing in his arduous life had ever prepared him for the inactivity and feeling of worthlessness which were now imposed upon him and which began to upset the old man. And it wasn’t that the old man couldn’t do anything. There were books and magazines and he had a television and he could go and stroll around the courtyard whenever he wanted – but after sacrificing his pleasures and desires to support his family his whole life long, he considered such things trivial and self-indulgent. And he only watched the sun fall and fall and his health also began to deteriorate.

Several months passed, and the old man no longer awakened according to his erstwhile fashion. He now conformed to the new routine of his surroundings. The sky brightened and yet he deeply slept without dreams. He was awakened by the attendant at breakfasttime and ate drowsily and without care.

The old man had grown apathetic and the staff of the home worried and tried everything to cheer him up and get him to read or paint or just to fraternize with the other residents, but every effort was repulsed and they were running short of ideas and hope. People like the old man, it seemed, were always the ones who died the quickest – the ones who had lost their will. A month before, he had been capable of independent life, but now the enfeebled man only got out of his bed when the attendants prodded him or when the sun slid low in the sky. And the sunsets began to make the attendants think the old man had lost his sanity, for he had watched them incessantly since his arrival.

In truth, the old man had long admired the sun, its ‘lifestyle’, if the term may be applied. Early in the morning it rose, and it worked all day providing light and warmth for the fragile and dependent life on earth. It always did its job, regardless of whether or not the clouds were interfering, and when its shift was over, it went to sleep, leaving the moon and stars watch over the planet until daybreak. And though his more-educated granddaughter had cautioned him that one day the sun would burn out, he didn’t truly believe that it ever would.

And as he watched the sun this day, something in the old man’s head must have clicked or sparkled. Perhaps he was staring a little bit too closely, or maybe something inexpressible had been building up inside his brain for some time. At any rate, I am fairly certain the old man wasn’t thinking in a linear progression. None of the signs point to rational, developing thoughts which follow and build on each other. It was more of a realization; sort of the type when you stare at an insurmountable problem for a while and all of a sudden, see the answer, and it is obvious and as if you’ve always understood.

The old man turned from the windowsill and left the room and his stricken roommate. He walked past the desk and out into the yard as everybody else was still finishing supper. And the old man just kept walking – nobody is certain how he left the grounds, for all parties that could potentially be held responsible for the negligence are practicing steadfast denial. But the old man made it to the outside, walking sadly and wearily with irregular but careful steps down the sidewalk as the gathering darkness descended on the world. The sun was yet a deep peach and the clouds were reddish purple, but the old man was completely absorbed in watching the cracks and uneven spots in the sidewalk as he hobbled slowly along in his faded green hospital slippers.

As usual, Plymouth Road was busy. The cars whizzed by, the bicyclists rode past, and the joggers ran by, but perhaps they thought the old man was just another freak or maybe they were in a hurry because they had tickets to the show or their heart rate might drop. It would seem that somebody would have sensed something amiss about an old man hobbling down the street wearing only a hospital gown in forty-degree weather as night was beginning to fall. But all I know is that the old man went unsteadily onward.

As he passed further along, the patient river ran slowly beside the road and it was a pleasant brown color, wide and shallow. Across the street, the autumn air chilled the beleaguered flower gardens in front of the houses, and the wind whistled up over the rooftops and splashed brown fallen leaves against the old man. Unaccustomed to it from lying in a warm bed for months, the coldness seeped in the old man’s fingers and toes and nose and up his legs and arms until his body was completely saturated with it.

The old man probably couldn’t have continued much further as he passed under a grafitiied bridge and railroad trestle. It was, perhaps, a small miracle for him to have made it even that far. The old man had turned off Plymouth and was walking now along a different set of railroad track, illumined now only by the bright yellow streetlights. The sun had set as he was walking, but today, the old man had not noticed. Nocturnal clouds left the purplish-gray sky vacuous and gloomy. The weakened old man slowly picked his way through the flattened soft drink cups and broken glass which littered the area and fought through the tall weeds which sprouted through and in spite of the pea-gravel surrounding the tracks.

After walking for a time with his eyes focused down along the tracks, being careful not to cut his feet open, the old man stopped and looked up. The caboose was right in front of him. It was an older model, perhaps out of the late nineteen twenties, sitting by itself on an abandoned side-track. It was painted in the fashion of about fifteen years ago, but more of the purple and green paint had peeled than remained, revealing the bright orange-red rust that was infecting the thick and sturdy caboose like a cancer. Cabooses are often thought to be diminutive (I can remember a story from my own childhood called The Little Red Caboose), and maybe relative to the other railroad cars, they are slightly smaller, but trust me, you still wouldn’t want to butt heads with one!

The old man gaped in awe at the colossus in front of him. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt in many years and, for a second he couldn’t recognize it. But bygone memories reemerged from a forgotten vault as fresh as when they had been entombed. And though he could no longer recall specific instances or years, those few precious images were still undistorted in the old man’s mind.

……………………………………………..…

He was young then, it seemed to him. Had there really been a time when he had bent over without a thought for his back or knees? His eyes began to moisten. Oh, it had been a long time ago! He had eaten candy and made mischief then, too, knowing no responsibility, and not fearing anything more serious than his father’s spankings. And he mostly remembered now the times they would take the train to visit Grampa and Grandma in Chicago. He couldn’t recall too much about Chicago or his grandparents, except the camaraderie of that old neighborhood, the peculiar way that everybody spoke Italian, and the delicious smells of cooking which never seemed to leave his grandparents small apartment.

And, perhaps most of all, the young boy had always enjoyed the train ride to Chicago. While his father and all the other men played cards and talked loudly in the smoking car, the impetuous boy and his mother would hurry back to the caboose and stand at the railing, watching the scenery pass behind them and look down at the tracks over which they clattered. And he always held his mother’s hand and he would announce to her when he saw a deer or a squirrel or interesting sights when they passed through a town, and she would do the same.

The boy would talk to his mother. Nothing of much importance, perhaps, but just about his adventures and desires mainly. And his mother heard him and encouraged him, as parents do. The boy loved his mother dearly and one day, as they stood at the railing watching the terrain go by, the young boy had said, with childlike earnest, "When I grow up, I am going to buy you a caboose." And the proud and flattered mother couldn’t restrain her mirthful laughter at something that was at once so touching and yet so absurd. The young boy’s pride had been damaged. "I will! I will!" insisted the child, looking into her pretty, laughing face with his youthful and innocent eyes which then knew nothing of life or money or what adults call reality. And the mother bent and picked up the little boy in her gentle arms and kissed him. "I know you will," she had softly whispered to him, and then clutched the child close against her breast and the boy could not see her moist eyes. Oh, but the young boy who had become an old man had tried!

…………………………………………………….…

"Hey, buddy, what are you doing up there?" said a policeman coming up along the tracks to the old man at the back rail of the abandoned caboose. The old man didn’t turn or make an acknowledgement. ‘He must have heard me’ the policeman thought, ‘for he is well with vocal range.’ But how could he have known how far away the old man was?

The policeman recognized that this was the man they were searching for, and spoke something into his walkie-talkie. Thirty seconds later, his partner came running out from under the bridge, his rapid breath visible in the cold night air. They climbed up onto the caboose and easily pried the old man’s bony fingers away from the rusted iron railing. The old man was entirely drained now. Yes, the cold had finally taken it’s toll, and maybe his exertions this night, had contributed, but I believe there was something more also.

"Wonder how the old guy got up here," said the policeman as they brought the exhausted old man down from caboose. It seemed impossible that the frail form they carried down could have climbed up onto the caboose on his own strength. They draped several blankets over his shivering body and drove him back to the old home where his son and family were waiting. They were relieved that the old man was all right, but a bit peeved about being awakened because of a crazy old man, even if it was their patriarch. With forced good humor they told him they were glad he was all right and to keep safe, but as they were driving home they wondered aloud, and not without rancor, what was the matter with him. Why couldn't he be manageable like all the others?

And the presses were stopped and the story made all but the early edition. And for those who missed the papers that day, the television news crews all told the story again, and the pretty female news anchors smiled warmly for the cameras and were glad that ‘at least some stories come to happy endings.’

So they have lain the old man back down in his bed, and let the warm blankets over him. They are so heavy that he can’t even twitch under their weight. Yes, they have strapped him in a little bit tighter, padded his walls just a little more softly, and kept another eye secretly pointed on him. Sometimes he shows signs of life to indulge the poor attendants, for even those practiced stoics begin to depress upon seeing the once-capable old man always sad and inert, but otherwise he just watches the sunsets. By now he has lost track of the season; we always do near the end. Was it November… no, it can’t be December! When life had grown unbearable and hope become impossible, they’d taken away the only replacement he could find. So again, the old man only watches his sun as it sets every evening. And lo, the days wane shorter and shorter.