It is hard to get back to life after a heart-breaking, gut-wrenching tragedy. Dark thoughts have prevented me from writing because every time I start to I write the word ‘why’ and then stop. Imponderable and unanswerable, that simple question is impossible to get around. Only time can wear it down to a size I can maneuver around.
And then I see these young fools …
When you’re at a railroad crossing and the bar comes down with all the lights blinking, most folks would take note and become more alert to their surroundings. When they see the bright headlight coming down the track and hear the blaring air horn, most people will pay attention and move away from the train tracks. Most folk would.
But when three young men, accompanied by three young ladies of a rather silly disposition, encounter the same set of circumstances, this somehow triggers the idea that playing chicken with a train will improve their chance of having sex with one of the young ladies.
It isn’t long before one fool steps over to the others side of the bar, tentatively at first, then more confidently when he realizes the train isn’t going to leave the track to get him. He breaks into a shuffling dance and clowns for the squealing young women.
You know where this is going, just like I knew where it was going. Once the first fool returns to the safe side of the barricade, grinning sheepishly, a second fool decides he is not going to be upstaged and crosses over to do his own dance.
I have lived in this neighborhood for many years and in my youth I would use the train tracks for a straighter, less congested, path across town than the roads and sidewalks provided. In my excursions it was not uncommon, at least once a month, to come across an animal that had lost its race with the train. There was not as much blood as I expected, even when the animal had been bisected across the juicy midsection. I suspect it is because the train wheels pinch the edges closed as it slices through. The coolest one I ever saw was a possum that had been decapitated right behind the ears, his head on one side of the rail and his body on the other.
I wondered how long their game of dare would last before someone put a foot amiss and lost his toes. I resolved to laugh heartily and walk away.
The third fool was not about to be outdone by any other fool. Instead of a silly dance, he begins touching the train as it goes by at about 20 miles per hour.
“Here we go,” I said to Georgia. “The only thing missing is a beer and a ‘y’all watch this’.”
Fool number three starts acting like he is going to swing up on the rail car, until he catches a handrail wrong and finds out that 20 MPH can hurt. He hops back, shaking his hand. He says something to the girls and the other fools egg him on, probably secretly hoping he will screw up and make their actions appear clever in comparison.
At this point, I must confess my shame: I am sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I shouted out “Idiot!” But in my defense, I wasn’t the only one yelling. Our young fools had attracted other mature attention and they were expressing themselves too.
Young fool number three did not respond well to the teasing from his friends. He says something challenging to one of the other young fools and turns with a determined look on his face just as the last car of the train goes through the crossing. Disappointed and relieved, fool number three returns to his friends bragging about what he would have done, but, judging by the girls’ reactions to him, I suspect they were keeping him around strictly for his entertainment value and he was not getting laid tonight.
It’s like the old fellow said: we don’t need more laws against idiots; we just need to pull off the warning labels and let the problem sort itself out.
