The True Freemen of America

The concrete bridge of the six-lane highway towered over Peter, casting deep, dark shadows. Its enormous pillars passed him by as he ambled toward his new life, grinning from ear to ear. Walking beneath the bridge was like crossing into another world—a world of darkness and freedom.

A man sat hunched over upon the angled rise at the edge of the bridge, concealed in the shadows, his green hoodie pulled up from beneath a rough-hewn denim jacket. Peter climbed the rise, dragging his suitcase with him, and sat beside him, relaxing against the wall.

“Peter, What ya doin’ man? I told ya to bring a duffle bag or a pack. That suitcase is gonna slow us down,” grumbled Simeon, pulling down his hood, revealing greying hair sticking out at all angles. His beard was a match to the strands above it. He looked ancient with his weather-beaten skin and crow’s feet. Simeon was a wizard of the streets and the best he could learn from.

Peter gazed at his suitcase immediately disheartened. The piece of luggage wasn’t exactly ideal for the free man's life living as a traveler, but it was all he had and everything he owned was inside. His home and family were behind him. Eighteen years and now he was finally free to do what he truly wanted.

“It’ll be aright,” Peter said, struggling to ignore the man’s odor. In time he would take on the same rough appearance and smell. Freedom had its price.

“We’ll ditch that thing as soon as we can,” said Simeon, “You won’t be jumping trains with that thing.”

“Trains?” asked Peter. “What ‘bout trains?”

“How else do ya’ think we’re gonna get to Colorado?”

“Hitchhike?” said Peter.

“The only people who pick up those like us are after something. Cars and trucks alike. I’ve been desperate enough to try a few times and I’m not something anyone wants, but you’re young and good-looking. You’re goin’ to pick up the worst of ‘em.”

“Where we gonna get a duffel bag? This was all ma folks had hidin’ in the shed,” Peter said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. He breathed in the sweet scent of tobacco and relaxed. No one was going to tell him off here. It wasn’t that his family was all that bad, he just didn’t fit in with them.

“Give me one them things,” said Simeon.

Peter offered him the pack and the old man took one, lighting up and explaining what they would do. Once they had finished, Simeon led him down the rise, and out from beneath the bridge. They wandered away from the highway into the city streets, panhandling at unclaimed intersections, and carefully avoiding those already taken. The sun began to set, and Simeon led him through the streets and down a dirt path.

“Where are we going now?” Peter asked as a snake slithered across the path ahead. The brush was growing thicker and abandoned sewer pipes lay strewn about. Trash littered the ground, along with needles and more.

“Homeless camp. We should find you a bag there,” Simeon said, veering off into the brush beside a pipe marked with symbols. Peter racked his brain trying to remember which they were. He had never been any good at learning. The box missing its top meant a safe camp and the wavy line above the x meant water.

The brush grew thicker around them before opening up to a clearing with a campfire. Men and women lay gathered about it, dressed in rough clothes. Which they were was unknown, long hidden by the dust and grime covering their hole-ridden clothes. They lay on the old sewer pipes, on mats on the ground, and rested up against trees. Cigarette smoke filled the air, drifting up alongside another smell – weed. Half of them looked dead, but they had come here to escape, just like he had.

“Hey…it’s Simeon,” said a young man, about Peter’s age. With bloodshot eyes, he struggled to his feet, swaying as he approached. “Been a while.”

“Sure thing Mark. Are you sure you cut out for this life?” Simeon asked.

The man called Mark laughed and collapsed. “Absshoulutely…”

“Mark, I know you’ve been dumpster diving, you find any old packs or duffel bags?”

“Naw…but….Hey Arron? Didn’t ole Jack have a duffel bag?” Mark called to another older man.

"Yeah, he bit the dust last month," Arron replied.

“Jack is gone?” croaked Simeon.

“Yeah, you know Vietnam did a real number on him. His heart gave out from the nightmares and old age.”

Simeon fell silent, his eyes downcast. A glint of a single tear fell toward the ground and he shook, walking off into the brush.

“He okay?” asked Peter.

“Yeah, man. I think he was in the war too,” Mark said and giggled,

“but I can’t remember….Arron, about that old duffel bag?”

Arron searched around the campfire before stumbling towards the tents. The old man didn’t seem to have a clue where he was going. When he returned, he tossed an old duffel bag towards Peter, who picked it off the ground and seated himself beside the fire. He opened his suitcase and began piling his supplies into it.

“You got an awful lot to carry there,” observed Mark.

“Preparedness is ma’ name,” said Peter, stacking clothing and snacks. He unrolled the blanket and travel pillow. He lay down, pulling out a cigarette and lighting up. The chatter about the fire continued until late into the night. When they were too drunk to do anymore but laugh, Peter tossed his old suitcase into the fire. A slurred cheer echoed from the people around him. The last piece of his old life was burning away to ashes and Peter felt nothing but relief.

Simeon returned, sitting in silence, the reflection of the flames dancing about in his pain-filled eyes. Peter longed to ask him questions about the war, but this was the place you came to escape your past. He didn’t want his coming out either.

The old man sighed, turning towards him. “I’m glad you got yerself a better bag. We make for the yards early morning. Them piggies at the station wone be too sharp then.”

“Sounds good.”

“You’ll be one of us by termorrow afternoon,” Simeon muttered.

Peter closed his eyes and did his best to sleep. The bugs bit at him, and the shuffling noises of the other free men moving about him stirred him awake. The presence of those around him brought him a sense of togetherness. The pasts and shared grief they had all escaped made them brothers and sisters. He trusted them.

“Let’s go,” whispered Simeon, shoving him awake with his boot.

Peter stirred, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He groaned and stretched, ignoring the pain in his back. Simeon led them through the brush to the streets. At the train yards, the old man showed him a hole in the fence and led him across the tracks. Carriages ran in long lines connected to one another, waiting to be picked up and moved. Simeon checked each box for a broken lock before turning to him.

“Unfortunately, yer goin’ to be a real free man today. No easy stuff for you,” he laughed.

“What we gonna do then?” asked Peter.

Simeon led him towards a car with a shipping container. He climbed the ladder up the side and Peter followed him. “Give me a boost,” he said.

Peter interlocked his fingers. Simeon placed his boot on his hand and Peter launched him to the top. Once up, Simeon reached down and helped Peter struggle up the side. He stood, stretching and flexing his muscles.

"Get down or the piggies will see ya," warned Simeon.

Peter nodded following Simeon's example and sitting with his pack between his legs. He swallowed nervously, seeing the security guards pass by just beneath them. The warning had almost come too late.

“You’re lucky,” Simeon said, “Sometimes the railyard is crawlin’ with piggies and we have to jump from one of the cliffs."

“Have you ever done it?”

“A coupa times. Oh, and never ride a flat car. They look like a great place to hide, spec’ if they has pipes, but we call it ridin’ suicide for a reason.”

Peter lay still watching the sunrise in the distance. That was the direction they would be going. To see the mountains and Colorado. The sound of the trains rumbled nearby and his eyes went wide. His hands shook in anticipation.

“Quick, get a good hold,” warned Simeon.

Peter grasped the rough metal edge of the container just as the train connected. The cars bumped against one another making it feel more like they were on a boat than a train. The landscape began to move past them faster and faster. The wind picked up speed alongside the train, the buildings becoming a blur. Peter laughed. It was a rush.

He recognized downtown San Francisco in the distance; the place he was born. He wouldn’t miss this place. He was a real free man and the world was his home.

Sidenote from the author: A big thank you to the real Simeon and Peter (not their real names) who I once met in Colorado at a truck stop. You may never see this, but your story inspired me and may you always be the true free men of America.