a lost girl running along a railroad track:
BACK IN THE YEAR OF 1988 THERE WAS...
A SALOON NAMED THE OLD PIT STOP IN Pompton Lakes, New Jersey, located at one end of a line of old railroad tracks. You could enter the somewhat seedy bar filled with with pinball machines, aging long-shore men from the city of New York, hippies nursing drinks, a prostitute or two strolling around the bar, along with the sound of the Rolling Stones, who always seemed to be singing You Can't Always Get What You Want and Brown Sugar on the jukebox. It was the place that I would stop to have a drink every evening after departing the New Jersey Transit from Manhattan before returning to my small apartment in Pompton Lakes. It was almost midnight in late June when when I exited the Transit, and took note of a girl running along the railroad track.
She had a thick chunky body encased in denim shorts and a dark green T-shirt. There was a man in front of her, holding her tightly, and another man behind her, running his hands over her body. In front of the Old Pit Stop, the people at the bar door were watching, some of them smiling, as the girl struggled. She pushed one of the men back and then darted away among the parked cars in front of the bar. The man chased after her. He was wearing a pair of dirty white jeans, his hair tied in a ponytail. The thick little girl dashed to her right between the slow moving cars on the street, then she ran into the sand which ran along the side of railroad tracks. When she disappeared from view, the man stopped chasing her, got into an old blue Ford Mustang, and drove-off down the road.
BACK IN THE YEAR OF 1988 THERE WAS...
A SALOON NAMED THE OLD PIT STOP IN Pompton Lakes, New Jersey, located at one end of a line of old railroad tracks. You could enter the somewhat seedy bar filled with with pinball machines, aging long-shore men from the city of New York, hippies nursing drinks, a prostitute or two strolling around the bar, along with the sound of the Rolling Stones, who always seemed to be singing You Can't Always Get What You Want and Brown Sugar on the jukebox. It was the place that I would stop to have a drink every evening after departing the New Jersey Transit from Manhattan before returning to my small apartment in Pompton Lakes. It was almost midnight in late June when when I exited the Transit, and took note of a girl running along the railroad track.
She had a thick chunky body encased in denim shorts and a dark green T-shirt. There was a man in front of her, holding her tightly, and another man behind her, running his hands over her body. In front of the Old Pit Stop, the people at the bar door were watching, some of them smiling, as the girl struggled. She pushed one of the men back and then darted away among the parked cars in front of the bar. The man chased after her. He was wearing a pair of dirty white jeans, his hair tied in a ponytail. The thick little girl dashed to her right between the slow moving cars on the street, then she ran into the sand which ran along the side of railroad tracks. When she disappeared from view, the man stopped chasing her, got into an old blue Ford Mustang, and drove-off down the road.
Late on the following evening, I saw her sitting at a small table in front of Mack's Bar and Grill on Wanaque Avenue, a block up from The Old Pit Stop. Her brown hair was matted and there were stains on her bare feet. Her clothes were the same clothes she had on the night before. She was greedily eating a hamburger, and I went over and sat down across from her. How did you make out last night? I asked. You saw me? I did. Her eyes were suddenly jittery and she stopped eating. I don't know you, Mister. I don't have to say nothin' to you. You're right, I said, and went into the main room of Mack's Bar and Grill and ordered a a small salad.
I paid for it and went outside and sat at another table. Pick-up trucks lumbered down the street, waiting at the light to turn off of Wanaque Avenue in order to exit the town. Two 40-year-old farmers with ancient eyes walked up to Mack's, shirtless and shoeless, and looked blankly at the chunky girl. One of them went into the store and the other stared at her. She got up and came over and sat across from me. You mind if I sit here? she asked. Not at all, I replied. What's your name? Lydia, she said. You sure you're not a cop? Do I look like I'm a cop? I said, laughing. I teach writing at a two-year college in New York. And you? Where are you from? Trenton, she said. I ran away last September. I couldn't take it no more. My mother, always naggin', always on me, you know? So I just went off one night, me and a girlfriend. She quit on me in New York City, but I kept goin'.
Somewhere in New Jersey, she was picked up by a trucker. They went all the to West Virginia together. I thought he was a nice guy, she said. He was doin' a lot of pills and stuff and he'd sing songs along with the radio. He knew every word. We came to some place, a truck stop. They had a separate restaurant, just for truck drivers. He gave me some pills. I took them. We stayed all night, and he passed me around to other drivers. I didn't mind, she said flatly. It was better than bein' home with my mother. He drove off without me. I had $3 in my pocket. So I had to hitchhike. Some old farmer picked me up, and he wanted to take me to some place, but he was so old, and I said no. He got mad at me and left me on the road in the middle of the night.
It took her a week to reach Atlantic City. She stayed there for awhile, living on the boardwalk. There were a lot of sailors in town, she said, and they liked her. Nobody ever liked me in Trenton. One of the sailors took her to Pompton Lakes for the Labor Day Weekend. He left without her. She had been here ever since. I like it here, she said. A couple of older men arrived, and she seemed nervous. I gotta go, she said. She got up quickly, and we walked together back toward The Old Pit Stop. It was getting dark now. Two scrawny men stood in front of the bar. Why don't you just go back home, Lydia? I said. I don't never want to go home, she said, her voice rising. I don't want to never go home ever again.
She ran toward the railroad tracks, rushing toward the lights of the passing cars, and past the bar into the darkness.
I never saw her again...
...Until I was walking down 10th Avenue in the City of New York on my way downtown on one Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1998, when I thought I saw her. She was holding hands with a man which I assumed to be her husband with two small children at her side, and as they walked past me, she gave a slight nod of recognition...
...And I could not help but giving myself a small smile...
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