The Last Caboose
From across the railroad tracks, I spotted Jenny Smith sitting on my hill. Black bushy hair, red and yellow tie-dyed shirt, and those ugly bell-bottom blue jeans. She was the new girl— the weird new girl. She first came to Rose Junior High in March. Now, she stood atop my pile of train ties like some strange lollipop-colored conquering flag.
Except I had already claimed the hill. The heap of broken railroad ties, dirt and litter wasn’t pretty. It stuck out of the ground like one of the pimples that would soon begin sprouting from my forehead, but it was mine.
“What are you doing?” I asked her from the base of my hill with a bit more accusation than was called for.
Jenny looked down with a start. “I know you. Barry, from Spanish class. I love your red hair and freckles. You’re...nice.”
“Not that nice,” I said.
“Do you want to come up? Watch trains?” Jenny asked.
I hesitated, then mumbled, “Sure,” since that was my original plan, albeit without Jenny.
It was April 1986; a sunny Saturday afternoon. We sat together, me and Jenny— the pariah— Smith. Awkward and innocent, we stumbled into an uneasy silence.
Two freight trains passed, each ending in a yellow caboose. After the second train, Jenny said, “My dad says that soon trains won’t have cabooses anymore. Just a red blinking light...Maybe that’s the last caboose we’ll ever see.” She sniffed with her nose, pretending to cry.
“A train without a caboose?” I said. “That would just feel...empty.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, then abruptly stood up and climbed down the hill. At the bottom, she looked up and said, “Don’t worry, on Monday we don’t have to eat lunch together.” Then Jenny jogged away.
The next Saturday, Jenny showed up again. In fact, Jenny met me at my heap every weekend in April and May. We talked some, but mostly we waited and watched. After every caboose, Jenny would say, “Maybe that’s the last caboose we’ll ever see.”
Come each Monday, we never ate lunch together.
The last Sunday in May, Jenny stood up and began singing, “All aboooooaaaard! All aboard, all aboard, all aboard! Put on your Sunday clothes, there’s lots of world out there...” She was as loud as a locomotive.
She finished and looked at me with an ear-to-ear grin. I shrank away in embarrassment. “What was that for?” I said.
“That’s Barbara Streisand,” she said. “Hello, Dolly! The train scene. It’s iconic.”
“It’s...embarrassing. That’s why everyone thinks you’re weird,” I said, and my guilt was immediate.
A subtle stab of pain melted Jenny’s smile. Her face suddenly seemed older, mature— almost stoic. “That’s okay. Like my dad says, ‘When something bad happens, you can make it a lesson or an excuse.’”
“Don’t you want to fit in at school?” I asked.
“Not with those kids. They all act like they’re 13.”
“You’re 13, too,” I reminded her.
“Yes, but only for a year.” She sat back down next to me and leaned her shoulder against mine. “Besides, my dad found another job. That means we’re moving again.”
“Moving?” I said.
She nodded.
“Where?”
“Out West.” She looked down. “We move a lot.”
“When?” I asked.
Before she could answer, an approaching train wailed on its horn. The clanging and screeching metal overpowered our conversation.
When the train finally ended, this time with a red caboose, Jenny snatched up my hand in both of hers. She placed our hands over her heart, then in a melodramatic voice said, “That could be the last caboose we ever see.” As she brought our hands down, I realized our fingers were entwined. We were holding hands.
I looked to our hands, then to her face. She was moving toward me. We kissed. Short, soft, and sweet. My first.
She stood up. “See ya, Barry.” Then climbed down the hill and began walking home.
I sat stunned. “Jenny,” I said. “On Monday...”
“Yes?” She turned.
“I...let’s eat lunch together,” I said.
“Sounds good.” She walked away with a smile, a wink, and a wave.
As it turned out, that was the last caboose I ever saw and the last time I saw Jenny. She never showed up for school on Monday. She must have moved overnight.
She was right about those red blinking lights. Now when I see them on the back of a train, the void left by the missing caboose is filled with my bittersweet memories of Jenny.
Back to Andrew's Page
Can not be reproduced or used without written permission Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.
From across the railroad tracks, I spotted Jenny Smith sitting on my hill. Black bushy hair, red and yellow tie-dyed shirt, and those ugly bell-bottom blue jeans. She was the new girl— the weird new girl. She first came to Rose Junior High in March. Now, she stood atop my pile of train ties like some strange lollipop-colored conquering flag.
Except I had already claimed the hill. The heap of broken railroad ties, dirt and litter wasn’t pretty. It stuck out of the ground like one of the pimples that would soon begin sprouting from my forehead, but it was mine.
“What are you doing?” I asked her from the base of my hill with a bit more accusation than was called for.
Jenny looked down with a start. “I know you. Barry, from Spanish class. I love your red hair and freckles. You’re...nice.”
“Not that nice,” I said.
“Do you want to come up? Watch trains?” Jenny asked.
I hesitated, then mumbled, “Sure,” since that was my original plan, albeit without Jenny.
It was April 1986; a sunny Saturday afternoon. We sat together, me and Jenny— the pariah— Smith. Awkward and innocent, we stumbled into an uneasy silence.
Two freight trains passed, each ending in a yellow caboose. After the second train, Jenny said, “My dad says that soon trains won’t have cabooses anymore. Just a red blinking light...Maybe that’s the last caboose we’ll ever see.” She sniffed with her nose, pretending to cry.
“A train without a caboose?” I said. “That would just feel...empty.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, then abruptly stood up and climbed down the hill. At the bottom, she looked up and said, “Don’t worry, on Monday we don’t have to eat lunch together.” Then Jenny jogged away.
The next Saturday, Jenny showed up again. In fact, Jenny met me at my heap every weekend in April and May. We talked some, but mostly we waited and watched. After every caboose, Jenny would say, “Maybe that’s the last caboose we’ll ever see.”
Come each Monday, we never ate lunch together.
The last Sunday in May, Jenny stood up and began singing, “All aboooooaaaard! All aboard, all aboard, all aboard! Put on your Sunday clothes, there’s lots of world out there...” She was as loud as a locomotive.
She finished and looked at me with an ear-to-ear grin. I shrank away in embarrassment. “What was that for?” I said.
“That’s Barbara Streisand,” she said. “Hello, Dolly! The train scene. It’s iconic.”
“It’s...embarrassing. That’s why everyone thinks you’re weird,” I said, and my guilt was immediate.
A subtle stab of pain melted Jenny’s smile. Her face suddenly seemed older, mature— almost stoic. “That’s okay. Like my dad says, ‘When something bad happens, you can make it a lesson or an excuse.’”
“Don’t you want to fit in at school?” I asked.
“Not with those kids. They all act like they’re 13.”
“You’re 13, too,” I reminded her.
“Yes, but only for a year.” She sat back down next to me and leaned her shoulder against mine. “Besides, my dad found another job. That means we’re moving again.”
“Moving?” I said.
She nodded.
“Where?”
“Out West.” She looked down. “We move a lot.”
“When?” I asked.
Before she could answer, an approaching train wailed on its horn. The clanging and screeching metal overpowered our conversation.
When the train finally ended, this time with a red caboose, Jenny snatched up my hand in both of hers. She placed our hands over her heart, then in a melodramatic voice said, “That could be the last caboose we ever see.” As she brought our hands down, I realized our fingers were entwined. We were holding hands.
I looked to our hands, then to her face. She was moving toward me. We kissed. Short, soft, and sweet. My first.
She stood up. “See ya, Barry.” Then climbed down the hill and began walking home.
I sat stunned. “Jenny,” I said. “On Monday...”
“Yes?” She turned.
“I...let’s eat lunch together,” I said.
“Sounds good.” She walked away with a smile, a wink, and a wave.
As it turned out, that was the last caboose I ever saw and the last time I saw Jenny. She never showed up for school on Monday. She must have moved overnight.
She was right about those red blinking lights. Now when I see them on the back of a train, the void left by the missing caboose is filled with my bittersweet memories of Jenny.
Back to Andrew's Page
Can not be reproduced or used without written permission Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.