Disclaimer

 

Saxophone Blues is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, are coincidental. References to characters, places, products, or brand names are for entertainment purposes only and no identification with such incidents are intended or should be inferred.

 

Saxophone Blues contains mature subject matter. Recommended for adult readers aged 18 years or over. Reader discretion is advised as the content may include explicit language, sexuality, violence, and other themes that may not be suitable for all audiences. The views, opinions, and activities depicted in this work are not necessarily endorsed by the author.

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Episode 04

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Jimothy Dyck was headed west with a train hopper known as "Rail’n’Jail" Jenkins. They’d spent all night in the Trans-Canada Railyard, where abandoned warehouses with graffiti-stained walls decayed along Winnipeg’s forgotten streets of nowhere. As Jimothy contemplated the spray-painted designs, he couldn’t help but wonder what he was really doing with his life.

 

“This is bunk!” Jimothy complained, bored of his existence. “When is this train coming? It feels like we’ve been here forever!”

 

“Just wait…” Jenkins hushed, assuring Jimothy, “It’s right on time.”

 

But as time dragged on, Jimothy couldn’t take it any longer. The endless waiting was too much for his ADHD, so he convinced Jenkins to take a walk with him to Mike’s Diner.

 

By the time they arrived, it was two a.m. The dumpster behind Mike’s Diner reeked of rancid milk as Jenkins rummaged inside, while Jimothy updated his Facebook status to, “Live, laugh, love.”

 

“The Hobo Handbook is wrong, y’know,” Jimothy claimed, taking selfies beside the dumpster.

 

Jenkins poked his head out and frowned. His headlamp shone directly into Jimothy’s eyes, “Which part?” he asked.

 

Jimothy squinted, pointing back in the direction he came. “There’s no hole in the fence over there.”

 

“That’s south, dilhole,” Jenkins replied, shaking his head. “The hole is 100 feet north of Mike’s Diner. You went the wrong way.”

 

“No, north is south,” Jimothy insisted. “I should know, I majored in geography!”

 

Jenkins pointed out the Winnipeg skyline. “Look, Jimothy. You can see downtown to the north. The Hobo Handbook is right.”

 

Jimothy remained doubtful as he watched Jenkins rustle open a garbage bag. “How do you even know so much about Winnipeg?”

 

“Because I wrote The Hobo Handbook,” Jenkins casually said, without looking up.

 

Jimothy was shocked when he discovered the identity of his train-hopping companion. “Dude!” he finally exclaimed, recognizing Jenkins’ initials in The Hobo Handbook. “You’re R&J! I’ve heard stories about you, man!’

 

Just then, Jenkins heaved a garbage bag out of the dumpster. The bag landed with a muffled thud on the pavement next to Jimothy.

 

“My real name is Laverne,” Jenkins said as he climbed out of the dumpster, his long, lanky legs and heavy boots reaching for solid ground.

 

Laverne “Rail’n’Jail” Jenkins was a train-hopping legend, having written The Hobo Handbook. The underground guide shared among train hoppers provides detailed information about railyards, crew changes, and instructions for riding freight trains in North America. “Who gave you a copy of The Hobo Handbook?” Jenkins asked out of curiosity as he fished around inside the garbage bag next to Jimothy.

 

“I got it from Alley Kat.”

 

“Who?”

 

“We met in Toronto. She’s friends with Roach.”

 

Jenkins’ hand paused for a moment inside the garbage bag. “Oh, I know Roach,” he remembered, “We rode Hagerstown to Altoona back in 2002.”

 

That’s when Jenkins pulled out a crumpled chocolate doughnut from the garbage bag filled with day-olds from Mike’s Diner.

 

“Want one?” Jenkins dusted off the used coffee grounds, taking a bite. “Fresh as the day they were thrown out!”

 

“What kind?”

 

“All the kinds,” Jenkins smirked.

 

“Nice!” Jimothy, enticed by the free snacks, reached into the mystery bag of doughnuts and grabbed what he thought was a Boston Creamer, but it turned out to be a Lemon Jelly-Blaster with melted maple icing.  “I like my doughnuts the way I like my chips…” Jimothy grinned. “All dressed!”

 

Jimothy posted a picture of himself with the dumpstered doughnut. The caption read, “Subverting the empire, lol.” Thinking that was so edgy, Jimothy squatted over the soggy sack of sugar-glazed delights and decided to go for seconds.

 

This time, Jimothy double-doubled down and reached further into the bag’s entrails. He pushed past the top layer of doughnuts, ignoring the gooey substance sticking to his fingers, and dived deeper.

 

Jimothy was well into the bag’s inner bowels when he felt what he determined to be paper towel, still moist, and, “Probably not from the bathroom,” he hoped.

 

At the bag’s very bottom depths, Jimothy touched something soft, fabric-like. Cotton, maybe. He gripped the object like a claw machine and reeled in his prize with childlike anticipation.

 

“Holy crap!” Jimothy unfurled the fabric, his stomach turning as he realized what it was – a pair of used underwear, just like the ones at home he forgot to pack.

 

Jenkins’ coarse laughter broke the railyard’s sullen silence. “It’s a miracle!” he believed.

 

“Eww!” Jimothy, feeling the ick, recoiled and let go of the underwear, watching them fall between his feet. Jimothy just sat there, staring at them, until Jenkins spoke up.

 

“Are you gonna’ keep ‘em?”

 

“What!?! No! That’s disgusting!” Jimothy insisted as he picked up the underwear with a stick to take a closer look.

 

Jimothy stretched the white elastic to inspect the inside crotch area. The fabric was faded and worn thin from use, but he couldn’t tell if they were clean or dirty.

 

“Smell them.” Jenkins suggested.

 

“No way! I’m not a butt-sniffer. You smell them!”

 

“I’ve got my own gitch, kid – you’re the one who needs ‘em.”

 

“I don’t need them!” Jimothy Dyck was so full of shit, it wasn’t even funny.

 

Jimothy, unsure of what to do, searched through his backpack and found a resealable plastic zip-locking bag. He carefully folded the underwear into the bag without touching them, thinking of something to change the subject. “We should head back,” Jimothy said, trying to push the underwear out of his mind.

 

“Yuppers,” Jenkins filled one of Jimothy’s resealable bags with a few doughnuts to-go. Feeling satisfied, he lit up a cigarette and followed Jimothy back to camp.

 

It was three a.m. by the time they got back.

 

“Do you ever think,” Jimothy began, “that nobody really gets you?”

 

“You think too much, kid,” Jenkins yawned.

 

“But I feel like such a weirdo where I’m from.”

 

Jenkins turned to Jimothy, his kind eyes softening. “You’re my favourite weirdo,” he said with a gentle smile.

 

Jimothy was quiet for a long while until he piped up with another annoying question, “How will we know when to get on the train?” His voice trailed off when he realized Jenkins had already fallen asleep.

 

Jimothy tossed and turned on the lumpy ground, unable to sleep. He kept thinking about the underwear in his backpack. Jimothy just had to know – to be sure, he reasoned.

 

When he was certain Jenkins was really asleep, Jimothy quietly unzipped the bag of underwear and carefully unfolded them close to his nose. He swirled the inside crotch area in circles, like a sommelier aerating a glass of wine to release its aroma. Jimothy took a long, slow, sniff and inhaled deeply, holding the fragrance on the tip of his tongue.

 

“Hmm.”

 

Jimothy sealed the used underwear back into the bag, for freshness, and smiled. For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel weird at all. And that’s when Jimothy knew the truth about the underwear, and himself…

 

Jimothy Dyck gazed into the stars, feeling a sense of belonging, wrapped under a blanket of comfort for every wayward wanderer lost in Sinai – or down by the tracks, waiting for their train to finally come.

 

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To be continued...