Disaster on the Way to Sacramento

The two men arrived in Chelan with time for a short goodbye and lunch at the hotel before the train left. Harley made sure his uncle knew how appreciative he would always be for the time they shared together on the ranch.

Harley certainly had a different view from the passenger train than he had from the boxcars on his way out to Uncle Gene’s ranch. This passenger car was much quieter than a boxcar, and he was higher up from the level of the tracks. It was almost like being a chicken on a roost, instead of on the ground. He could see the horizon more easily and noticed again the differences between the terrain out west and the cornfields of Iowa. Sacramento was in northern California. Harley had heard about all the farming and the masses of migrant workers and bums competing for work in the agricultural fields.

The fields he saw were stretching from the railroad tracks to the horizon, in all directions. Most appeared to be sugar beets, sunflowers, and various types of berries. There were vineyards and pear orchards. He saw one enormous operation that looked like it had hundreds of workers picking tomatoes. Most of the people in the fields looked like migrant workers, not hobos. He was grateful that he and the fellas had gone straight to Chelan and did not try to compete for a job in these fields.

Several times, when they stopped quickly in a few of the small towns of northern California, Harley was able to hustle out to the steps at the front of the car and observe the area around the station. He was interested in trying to see some of the local hobo jungles, if there were any. He only managed to see one, near Susanville. It looked like it was about a quarter of an acre and had many low shrubs growing around it. He could see a couple of fire pits, no fire in them. There were four or five bums sitting around, near the edges, and none of them were looking towards the train, but he imagined the hopeless looks on their faces. His hobo days were thankfully over and he was headed home with the $325.00 he needed to get through the first two semesters of college at the University of Iowa. He might have to work someplace in town for his room and board, but his college tuition and books were paid for. As he rested his head against the side of the doorway in the passenger car, he imagined his mother’s smile. He closed his eyes and imagined his first Lincoln. He imagined his store and his own business. Harley had begun thinking it should be a furniture store or maybe a hardware store. He would seek advice from other people, and of course, he had to get to college first. Being young, Harley often found himself planning too far ahead of where he actually was in his plan, but he was keeping his dream alive. His dream was big, but his determination was even bigger.

The train started to move forward, departing Susanville and heading to Sacramento. First there was a small lurch, then a larger jerk. Harley grabbed for a vertical handrail and continued to look out at the hobo habitat as the train steadily rolled past the station, past the water and telegraph tower, and quickly picked up speed. Finally, he stepped toward the door into the car. He really did prefer being a regular passenger and not a stowaway.

Walking down the aisle to his seat, he did not see his jacket over the back of it. He thought he had been in exactly the middle row. Perhaps it had slid down on the seat, or he was looking at the wrong row. He hurried to the spot where was sure he had been sitting, and there was no jacket, and no suitcase! The man who had been sitting next to him was gone.

Harley looked at the remaining people sitting near his seat, desperately asking, “Where did this fellow go? Did any of you see him leave? My coat and bag are gone!”

They shook their heads. One woman said, “Sorry, I did see him get off the train, though. When he left, he had a coat and suitcase, but I assumed they were his. He walked to the rear of the car. I guess he got off.”

“He stole my suitcase. He stole my coat!” Harley started to panic. “He stole my money!” He felt sick. His money was gone. His future was gone. How could he have been so foolish as to leave his bag unattended? What was he going to do?

The people on the car with him looked down. It seemed like no one wanted to make eye contact with him or help him. One man in the back spoke up, finally. “You should let the conductor know. He can let the manager of that station know. Although...” he added, “that thief has probably run off already. Your bag and money are gone, I’d bet.”

Harley felt his face getting red. He felt like screaming or crying. “I worked all summer for that money. It was my college money! How could someone do that?”

“It’s hard times, honey,” an older woman in a green hat offered. “People do horrible things sometimes. Do you have far to go? Do you have someone to help you?”

“Yes, I’m going to see my great aunt in Sacramento, and I have a ticket home, but I need my money. I need my clothes,” Harley explained. He patted his sweater pocket and was relieved to confirm that his train ticket home was indeed still there. His shoulders and arms felt so heavy, and his legs made him just plop down in the seat nearest him. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, as every bit of hope he had escaped from his body.

“There might not be anything you can do, except let the train people know,” someone said. “I’ll get the conductor for you, young man.” A short middle-aged man got up and headed to the front of the car. “I believe I saw him go forward earlier. I’ll be right back”

Harley wanted to thank him but was too stunned to speak any more at the moment. He would thank him when he returned, he thought. His brain was racing, but no clear thoughts were evident. He had never felt like this before. No one had ever done anything like this to him his whole life. Is this what the world was like? How had he been so careless? All he had was in the suitcase. He had not told anyone he had money. He had merely greeted that man next to him in a cordial manner. Was he a professional thief? Was he a desperate man? Was Harley lucky that he had not been robbed at gunpoint or knifepoint? How could someone do that to another person, just take everything and leave them nothing? Questions with no answers; that was all Harley had left. What would he tell Aunt Polly, or what would he tell his parents? He nearly felt like crying, but he was not going to let that happen. He rubbed his eyes, ran his fingers through his hair, and sat up straight. The other passengers were all looking out the windows. They had nothing to offer him in the way of comfort or explanation. What was there to say?

The short man came back with the conductor right behind him. Harley answered the conductor’s questions as well as he could. The man’s description, the name of the town, how he had left his suitcase unattended, how he came back to find his belongings gone; it was not helpful to retell his huge mistake. The conductor tried to explain what he would do with the information, but it was clear to Harley that he should not expect to see any of his belongings again.

Telling Aunt Polly would be easy, because she would wonder why he had nothing with him when he got off the train. He would need to confess immediately, right there on the platform. The difficult part would be when he had to let his parents know, or let Uncle Gene know. They would all think he was such a fool. Who would just leave everything they had sitting in a train car with a bunch of strangers? It would be embarrassing, if it wasn’t so sad. He tried to stop thinking about it and decided perhaps he should try to sit down and relax. He felt slightly dizzy and emotionally drained, but it was such an unfamiliar feeling that he was not sure exactly what to do. He sat back in his seat with his hands folded and head down. It occurred to him that the other passengers might think he was praying; perhaps that is what he should do. So, he gave it a try, but it did not go well. He started thinking, instead, that he would like to get his hands on the culprit and strangle him. That would not go over well with the God that Harley knew, so he pushed the angry thoughts of violence out of his mind and decided to take a few deep breaths and try to nap.

He awoke as he heard the conductor pass by announcing, “Next stop, Sacramento! We will pull into the station in about fifteen minutes, folks.”

His waking thoughts were fuzzy; then he remembered what had happened to him. He was now numb with the reality. In a few minutes, he would re-tell the story of his foolishness to his great aunt. It was his first trip on a train, as a real passenger. It dawned on him that he might actually have been safer riding as a bum, with his hobo friends to watch out for him. He surely was a failure at his first effort at watching out for himself. He shook his head.

The woman in the green hat spoke up again. “Young man, are you going to be alright?”

“Yes, ma’am. My great aunt will be at the station. She will know what to do. I just feel so foolish for letting this happen. I was so careless, and now I have lost everything I have.” Then Harley realized how empty that statement sounded, and added, “Well, I still have my family. I will be alright, thank you.” He managed a weak smile for her.

She smiled back a little bit, adding, “I’m sure you will be, but I am so sorry for this happening to you. Don’t give up.”