The Places You Get To Go
Just looking at the above picture, you can't tell me you wouldn't mind hanging up your loafers for a few days, grabbing your best pair of overalls, sharpening your sharpest stabbing knife, and heading down the iron highway for a weekend of rails, males and tales--in the heteroest of senses, of course.
Imagine watching the clock Friday afternoon, just knowing that in a few short hours, you're going to be down at the railyard, making sure your belt is secure and unable to get snagged on any loose metal hanging from the train you're about to catch, because you don't want to reach out to grab the train and have it grab you instead--like it did with Big Belt Stumpy Nevada Junior (his father went the same way.)
Can't you just feel the steel on steel cohesion of wheel and rail? Like they were poured together by the builders of the pyramids themselves. Every groove is perfect. Every inch is pure.
Smells like freedom...and some type of diesel.
The only problem would be giving up that first real taste of freedom and heading back to work on Monday.
But that's the life of a weekend hobo, I guess.
(Plus, it's the only way to keep your health benefits.)
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