Winter was coming and the chill in the air tried to bite him to the bone. His experiences left behind were barely a forethought and numb to nearly all emotion, he merely focused on the road a few feet in front of him. The only goal he had at that time was to get as far away from where he grew up as possible. He'd done his fair share of crying, today was a new day and one he may not have wanted to get through but knew he had to.
The barley fields rustled to and fro with the wind as a dog barked from a distant farm house. His forehead ached from the jab he took from his father the night before. There was still dried blood around the swollen cut but he'd endured worse. He rubbed around his wound then his eyes tired from the sleepless night he had. This new chapter of his life was to end up being the first chapter in the end.
He quickened his pace upon hearing the horn of the train at the nearby depot. The farm town he grew up near only had five buildings along State St.: The livery, a market, post office, Sheriff's office, and the bar where his father spent what little money the family had. The depot was a quarter mile outside of town and he knew the horn signaled the train was setting out West for Pennsylvania. His heart beat rapidly inside his chest as his mind pushed his instinct to get on that train.
Each week it was the same line-up of the engine, coal car, three flat-beds for grain bushels, two cargo cars, and the caboose. When he was a child, he used to spend time up the hill from the house along the tracks with his younger brother lining up pennies for the train wheels to squish. They would steal them from their father's dresser drawer while he was out drinking – two a week.
A few years ago, they were caught stealing the pennies and beaten to within an inch of their lives. That same night, his brother got up crying due to the painful welts on his legs and buttocks. Limping slightly, he slowly made his way down the hall to their parents' room to seek comfort from their mother. She was gone – off to New York City to eventually find work as a prostitute. In her place was anger wielded by their father. His brother never did come back to their room that night and the next day, when he awoke, he stared out the window with no expression. In the back yard was his father patting a mound of dirt with the shovel.
A tear worked its way down his cheek and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. The train was close and he knew he had to get a good run going to jump on. The first cargo car approached, the doors open as they typically were, and he readied to make the leap. Tossing his knapsack aboard, he pushed his right arm down onto the floor, got a few more high steps in, and heaved upwards onto his chest. He scuttled in carefully and flipped around on his seat, he could feel the tension in his back and shoulders release as he watched the barley field zip away. Like an exhausted old man, he let out a sigh and closed his eyes to feel the breeze go across his face.
Once into Pennsylvania, he decided it was not far enough away from where he came and continued on. Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri … each state passed and with every mile, he could feel it just wasn't enough. It took nearly a year but the train made its final stop in Los Angeles, California. Gazing Northward, he could make out the letters H-O-L-L-Y-W being constructed on a hillside and decided that was where he would head. Of course, the entire area was something he'd never seen before or even imagined. With so many buildings, automobiles, power lines, and everything else that defined an early 20th Century metropolis, it was overwhelming to behold.
It didn't take long to find a job helping set up and groom the greenery for the film entitled “Sherlock, Jr.” Meeting Buster Keaton would have been quite the breathless moment for nearly anyone in those days but he had no idea who this man was and just continued on working diligently. The years of abuse made him a quiet boy who kept his head down but many he would work with over the years always looked out for him. Not one moment on in his entire life would he go without food to eat or a roof over his head.
Never married and only a few friends to speak of, in his latter years he would retire to Toluca Lake. He was able to afford a Frank Lloyd Wright inspired home where he would live out his days painting garden scenes. 827 was the total number of feature films he would work on before passing away and finishing the final chapter of his life. Not even with his last breath did he tell of his story and trek across the United States from October, 1922 to August, 1923. He is nameless, this is his story, and it rained the day he was laid to rest.
CMW
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