No Forwarding Address

No Forwarding Address

Noel Laflin

11-2-15

I met Rudy, a self-proclaimed man of the rails, after tripping over him late one Friday night nearly forty years ago.

It was not intentional - the tripping over of him, that is.  It’s just that I did not expect a man wrapped in a blanket to be sprawled out on our darkened hallway floor at two in the morning.

Turns out that he was the brother of my roommate and had shown up quite unexpectedly while I was out carousing that evening.

Had I known of Rudy’s arrival and penchant for sleeping in darkened alcoves, I would have turned on the hallway light when I returned home and we could have met under better circumstances.

As it was, we became friends nonetheless.  I was enthralled with the man and his stories of cross country boxcar travel, scrapes with modern day railroad ‘bulls,’ law enforcement infractions, hobo-encampments, and quiet panhandling.  The man with the shaggy brown head of hair and matching unkempt beard bore an uncanny resemblance to the Zig-Zag Man; although it may have been too much acid that had led to his current state of mind and means of travel.  Regardless, he had been riding the rails in transcontinental fashion for years now, and had no immediate plans of settling down in any one location any time soon.

But, as he eventually found himself in close proximity to his one and only brother on the most recent excursion to the Southland, he thought he’d pay him a visit and get caught up on family matters.

That is what brought Rudy to our door.

He only stayed for a couple of days, but it gave us a chance to fatten him up a bit and provide him with a couple of showers and a nice hallway floor upon which to sleep. Rudy was a gentle soul and grateful for the hospitality.

But he was restless too and was soon upon his way.

I never saw him again.  But we did receive a thank you letter written upon a small, tattered, brown paper bag a few months later.  It was postmarked from Calgary, Canada.

Rudy said he’d bummed a stamp from someone and a piece of tape from another so that he could seal the letter.  Said he was doing fine and that trip up north had been a nice one.

Boxcar is the only way to travel, he concluded, and he hoped we would meet up again someday.

He left no forwarding address, however.