My Friendship with Ray Haney
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ray and I would spend hours after school playing pinball at a local joint, feeding the buzzing, ringing beast of a machine all the quarters we could scrounge up from our piggy banks, from begging our parents, and even from devising this clever little machination of attaching a piece of chewed bubble gum to the end of a long stick and poking it down the grate outside Bugs’ Barber Shop where, for some reason, all kinds of coins had fallen down in the grate, and we’d fish out the loot every other day to supply our pinball habit.
One day, having run out of quarters, we decided to go explore down near the railroad tracks, an alluring area for us because we’d play like we were hobos or escapee prison convicts. We loved watching out for the big freight trains that’d come whooshing by every couple of hours, and sometimes more frequently, catching us off guard, and we’d always fetch a nickel or penny out of our pockets and place it on the tracks, then dive off into the bushes at the last second as the train roared by blaring its horn, the engineer either waving or shaking a fist at us, then once passed, we’d eagerly go in search of our flattened coins. I still have a couple of those petty talismans, precious but illegal mementos of those times. Illegal, I say, because one day when I showed my old man one of them, he told me it was illegal to destroy government property, and pennies and nickels were government property, he told me, which got me all scared and paranoid that I was going to get put in jail or something, so I took my stash of them — about fifty different flattened coins — and buried them in the back yard in my doggie graveyard.
One lazy do-nothing kind of day, we were having a contest to see who could walk the farthest balancing on the hot rails — barefoot! We were both good at it, but it was kind of like a torture test, or like an endurance thing walking across hot coals, to see who could out-macho the other.
That’s when we noticed an out-of-place figure with a bandana tied around his neck and outfitted in grubby overalls, wearing a funny kind of rain hat, and sporting an oversized denim jacked with a million decals sewn in of places he’d been to all over the country. We immediately took him to be a railroad tramp!
Appearing almost as an apparition, he quickly disappeared down into a little hollow of brush just off the tracks up ahead. Ray and I exchanged our by now familiar “what the hell?” glances of feigned bemusement, and decided to investigate. Approaching, we could hear tinny sounds of a transistor radio, and smelled funky stogy smoke or something that we turned our noses up at, ’cause it really stunk!
“Ray, what the hell. . .?”
“Man, I don’t know. Let’s take a peek in there.”
But rather than a “peek”, Ray actually said “pee” and the next thing I knew he had whipped out his pecker and began whizzing down into the hollow, to the great consternation of whoever the fuck was hunkered down there. Like a cobra striking, the mystery man suddenly erupted from his shelter yelling gruffly, “What in the tarnation do you think yer doin’ pissin’ down here? Yer mighty lucky you missed!”
Ray feigned innocence and astonishment. He declared, “Why, sir, I had no idea that anyone was down there.”
“No idea, eh! Ya little punk, I oughta . . .”
And at that, the stranger snatched Ray by the scruff of his neck like a helpless alley cat and began shaking him furiously, until finally I jumped to action and kicked the old stiff square in the shinbone, and we were off and running away as fast as we could from that crazy piece of scrofulous shit who next thing we knew was chasing after us down the tracks, yelling for us to stop, stop, please stop.
“Hey, come on back, fellas, no harm, no foul, I forgive y’all. A gink down on his luck like myself, why alls I need is a little bunkie company now and then.”
Despite or because of the incongruity of the situation, we actually surprised ourselves and stopped, turned around, and waited to see what would happen next. That’s when we noticed his not too pretty face, pockmarked with dimples like a golf ball and prickled with scruffy whiskers, but it was his soft eyes and warm smile that made us do a double-take, ’cause it was not a mean man’s face, but a gentle hobo’s face of worldly grace and kindness with a hint of wisdom. Sure, it could have been a put-on, so we remained on our guard, uncertain but intrigued at the hobo’s sudden turn-about.
“Listen,” he began, “My name’s Buford. Buford Frodge.” He emphasized the accent on BUE-ford. “I come from Tennessee. Ya can call me Jed. Why not let’s us be friends, okay.”
Jed stuck out a grimy hand as a declaration of his professed amity, and Ray and I just stood there in a dumbfounded trance, looking at each other, like what the hell, averse to clasping hands with Jed’s outstretched arm, what with the grubbiness and dirty bitten down fingers and all, but finally, we both reached over and shook his hand.
Then Jed said, “C’mon down to my hideout. I got a surprise awaitin’.”
Ray and I exchanged glances, at a loss for what to say, but we were oddly curious and tempted by the stranger’s strange offer. Were we afraid of him? Not really. The guy wasn’t even forty, probably, but he seemed older because of being world-weary and weather-beaten and, well, he seemed pretty dang harmless, like toothless old Andy, just a little rough around the edges, down on his heels a bit.
It seemed all Buford Frodge wanted was a little companionship. Nothing wrong with that, is there? And Ray and me, well, we were open to things, call it curiosity or naivete or whatever, but the arrival of a real-life railroad-riding tramp in our little town was just too exciting and novel to ignore. So we followed Jed a ways down the tracks until we came to his hidden makeshift shelter. We scrunched down in like getting into a submarine or something, and it was like entering a fetid den of some god-forsaken species not of this earth. But it was a bigger tunnel-like hole than we first made out, and we took seats on the mats of grass Buford had spread around so we were all in close proximity facing one another.
Jed said, “Listen, I’m just lay overin’ in yer town a day or two, until the big rambler for L’ullville Kentucky passes through day after tuhmarra. Then I’m gonna hop that slick rattler and ride it til kingdom come. Wanna tag along?”
Ray and I looked at each other, delighted by the prospect, but a bit flummoxed, realizing all sorts of possibilities in the moment at the outrageous but unlikely suggestion of actually living out our own railroad adventure kinda like Tom and Huck’s rafting adventure we read about in seventh grade year before last.
HECK YEAH! Sounds like a whole lot of fun! Our wide-eyed enthusiasm filled Jed with the piss and vinegar of a brand of excitement the likes of which he hadn’t experienced in years, or so it seemed by this zany little jig he started doing, and judging by the gnarly-ass smile he flashed at us, revealing a row of unkempt crooked yellow teeth, we could plainly see Jed was in hog heaven at the prospect of us accompanying him all the way to at least Louisville and who knows how much farther beyond the big city on the Ohio River where, he told us excitedly, we would meet up with a whole crew of rail riders who knew the ropes and could help us get to just about any place in the States we had a mind to get to. The unconstrained freedom of the road — the rails! — was simply too alluring and we were giggling and getting all excited, and without thinking things through, we were about to say HECK YEAH, JED! But of course, we quickly returned to earth, realizing there was no way we could go with Jed.
Ray said, “Wow, it really sounds fun but we’ve got summer school on Tuesdays, and church, you know, and we both mow lawns and do other work, so it looks like we’ll have to pass.”
I said, “Yeah, maybe some other time. Will you be coming back this way next summer?”
But I could tell Buford was a bit downcast at hearing the news. “Besides,” I said, “our parents probably would never let us go with you. Sorry, Jed.”
A light went off in Ray’s eyes. “Hey, there’s nothing to prevent us from having some fun right now, is there?”
Buford perked up and in a conspiratorial flourish he pulled a small flask of hooch from his coat pocket. He took a hefty swig and let out a big, “Ahh! That hit the spot. C’mon boys, A little hooker of fire water won’t hurt ya none. Here, go ahead, have some.”
Ray and I were used to exchanging “what the hell” glances, but this time we shared a “what the hell” shrug, because, after all, we were into our fifteenth year and who said we weren’t old enough to have a little old “hooker” of fire water. Some of our friends had been drinking beer since they were thirteen. So right then and there, in Buford Frodge’s grody hideout hole, we took our first ever sips of the rank libation, which he declared was the last of his “hunnert proof” Pirate’s Booty — a rum dum’s delight. I went first, barely allowing the rim of the bottle to touch my lips, hell, not because I was scared but because of Buford’s stinky backwash and nasty-ass hygiene. After three sips each we were feeling pretty good, I’ll have to say. Actually, we were feeling pretty darned goofy good.
We settled in like old pals and basked in Buford’s tales of the rails. He was quite the storyteller, spinning yarn after yarn, each one more unbelievable than the last. It was surprising Buford was so literate, ’cause one look at him and you’d think he was an imbecile.
We listened spellbound to him croon on and on about all the transients, vagrants, vagabonds, hobos, drifters and tramps — “some mighty fine folk, ya’d be surprised” — that he’d met on the road over the years, making them out to be the most fascinating characters on earth, always a new cast of characters to meet up with in some lonesome railyard, always taking care to avoid the “pussyfooters” or “bulls” or “dicks”— the railyard police — not to mention con men and grifters — a devil-may-care, ne’er do well life of sneaking around to hop another train to who knows or who cares where, just “the freedom to be unshackled, to traverse these great U-nited States” from the purple mountains majesty of Colorado to the endless pine forests of Maine, on over to gritty Chicago to pick up some itinerant work maybe.
“Now,” he told us again, “I’m headed back down south, to L’ullville, then home to — yep, ya best be believin’ it! — on to BUE-ford, Tennessee, yessiree, to check on my poor sick mum.” There was a tinge of sadness in his voice and the hint of a teardrop in one eye.
Throughout his raconteuring, Buford made opaque references here and there, whether intentional or not, about some shady doings and admissions, things and events and people that raised our eyebrows and put us a bit on our guard. We could tell Buford was holding in a few secrets; there was something dodgy about ol’ Frodgy, but what that was, we could only conjecture. We were still just too young, I guess, to have insight into what sorts of untenable, wrong side of the law shenanigans Buford was engaged in with or without his fellow moochers, scofflaws and grifters. One thing was for certain, though, Buford seemed to really like us and enjoy our company. I noticed, too, that all the while he was keeping a sharp eye on the two of us as he spun his ensnaring web of alluring railroad tales.
Then things took a turn for the worse and really went south. Buford paused in regaling us of his escapades, and pulled out some rolling papers and began fashioning a roll your own cigarette. He lit it with one of those old-fashioned flint lighters with a naked mermaid woman, and let out a big puff of smoke — the same rank odor we had smelled earlier wafting up from his grody hideout hole! It wasn’t no stogy smoke, but rather some of that wacky tobacky we’d been hearing about. Some kids in our grade were already smoking it, but they were considered bad kids, the ones your parents warned you about, and here we were on the threshold of getting stoned on some stink weed with a knockabout from Tennessee named Buford Frodge.
“How about a drag on some of this here fine Mary Jane?” Buford reached over to hand us his raggedy joint.
Naturally, we were reluctant to indulge. We watched Buford kick back and take a few puffs, blowing out swirling clouds of bluish smoke into the den. Even if we had declined to partake of his stink weed, we would have surely gotten high just breathing in the smoky residue hanging in the air. What the hell — Ray and I decided to give it a try. I went first, taking a good long pull, unaware, or uncaring, that Buford’s spit had grossly soiled the end of the butt, but after another puff, and Ray joining in, it hardly mattered. Before we knew what was what, our minds were reeling, and we felt a sense of detachment and strangeness — a transformation to a muddled mental state of mush and disorientation, but at the same time, exhilaration. We just hoped we weren’t gonna get so screwed up we’d forget about the time and miss dinner and then everyone’d be worrying sick about us and probably send out a search party or something.
Buford pulled out a small glass vial. I thought it was aspirin, but it wasn’t. He tumbled five little purple pills into his hand. He popped one, and told me and Ray to pop one.
“Look here, punks, hang on to them other three pills, ya never know when they might come in handy.”
Ray took the purple pills and stashed them in his pocket, looking at me with that conspiratorial grin so familiar by now, seeming to say, “Oh, I know these’ll come in handy!”
In my growing delirium, I half-shrugged and closed my eyes, feeling quite unsteady, out of body, increasingly out of my mind, but oddly euphoric at the same time.
“Ray, we’re stoned, man!”
“Yeah, to da bone!”
“How you feelin’?”
“Pretty good. You?”
That’s all I remembered saying. Things started to get very weird, even scary, because I don’t know how much time had all of a sudden passed — it could have been five minutes or five hours — which was totally bizarre and disconcerting not knowing — and it seemed like I was having, or had had, an out of body experience. I was in a panic, suddenly finding myself outside the grody hideout hole. I was on the tracks, peering down at Buford and Ray. My vision was blurry and my heart was racing and then, like that, my whole body went slack and my stomach felt sickened, not from the hooch and grass and pill I had errantly swallowed — but from what I could see that Buford was doing to Ray.
Both Buford and Ray were prostrate, with Buford nestling his body up against Ray. Both of their pants were pulled down to their knees. Buford was fondling Ray all over, and in a sickening realization, I saw a thrusting motion that was Buford giving it to Ray in the ass! I couldn’t believe my eyes. Is this what hallucinations were? It was hard to tell if Ray was conscious or half-passed out, or what, but then he began squirming and groaning and I could finally hear him beseeching Buford in a meek voice to stop, but his feeble protestations only served to turn Buford on more, and he kept hammering and grinding away despite Ray’s futile effort to escape, because poor Ray was so immobilized by all the drugs he’d ingested, and then I remembered seeing Ray reach into his pocket and pop another purple pill at some hazy point, thinking that could not portend anything positive. I was plenty stoned myself — more stoned than I ever wanted to be — so I imagined Ray was in a near comatose state and exceedingly easy to take advantage of against his will.
It didn’t occur to me right off how I ended up outside on the tracks while this horrible incident was unfolding down in that nasty hole. I’m guessing that, before things escalated, I must have gotten claustrophobic or something and climbed up and out to get some fresh air, and that’s when Buford leveraged the moment to take advantage of Ray, because I can’t imagine Ray actually acceding to a — suggestion? — request? — to take it in the ass by this now-disgusting stranger. I mean, see, it was clear to me that Ray wasn’t gay or interested in men at all, no way, no how, not that there’s anything wrong with homosexual relations, but this was no such thing. This was out and out rape and sodomy.
I didn’t know what to do. I was horrified. My stoned mind raced. Should I run and get Mom or call the police? Not a good idea at all, because of my mental condition and all the trouble I would certainly get into over having done drugs and violated a solemn oath to Mom that I would never, ever drink or do drugs. So I decided the only honorable or logical course of action was to be a hero and rescue Ray myself. But I was out of my senses. I could only stare down blankly, but horrified, into that awful hole, transfixed in stuporous indecision in my own immutable agony watching helplessly, until finally it gave way to overwhelming worry and insurmountable disgust at the lewd scene of poor Ray squirming about, unable to mobilize or fight Buford off because of his lame, drugged state. Ever so slowly my befuddled mental state began to break — this was some evil shit goin’ down— and I knew I had to do something. I knew I had to act.
NOW!
I yelled at the top of my lungs, “BUFORD! STOP IT! STOP IT! RAY, RAY, CAN YOU HEAR ME? RAY! ARE YOU OK?”
Taken by surprise, the slimeball rapist looked up at me with a maniacal grin, still thrusting away. He shouted, to my horror, “SHUT THE FUCK UP! YER NEXT! C’MON DOWN HERE NOW AND GIT YERS WHILE THE GITTIN’S GOOD! WHAT’RE YA AFEARED OF, MY LITTLE LAMB?”
I froze, knowing I had to act now, quickly, decisively. I picked up a big rock off the tracks and heaved it down the hole with all my might, and was blown away when it struck Buford squarely up side his head knocking him senseless just long enough for me to leap down in the hole and shake Ray out of his delirium, help pull up his pants, and then carry him to safety like a wounded soldier out of a bloody foxhole.
Up and out of the den of iniquity, we ran like hell — stumbled more like it — and didn’t even look back — until we heard Buford cursing and yelling at us with feral insanity, “I’M GONNA KILL YA LITTLE FUCKERS! I’M GONNA KILL YA BOTH!”
But that was the last we — or I should say I — ever saw of Buford Fucking Frodge. Later on, I was compelled to go to the library and secretly look up some stuff on hobos. I found a rare book called The Secret World and Code of Ethics of the American Hobo. Fascinated, I read about the Hobo Code of Ethics Rule 13, which stated: “Do not allow other hobos to molest children. Expose all molesters to authorities; they are the worst garbage to infest any society.” A few lines down the Code of Ethics had a provision wherein other hobos would necessarily “clamp down” on “jockers” or “wolves” — predators like Buford Frodge who would take on runaway boys as apprentices and groom them for homosexual relationships in exchange for protection and teaching them the ropes of survival riding the rails.
Naturally, we never told a soul about what happened down in the grody hideout hole. After my undercover visit to the library, when some time had passed and Ray and I had recovered and felt ready to talk about things, he confessed something that shook me up pretty badly — are you ready for this? Because I sure wasn’t!
Ray told me he was used to getting fucked in the ass! He never really saw it as rape. For Ray, it was no different from getting an ass-whipping with a belt. Ray had actually expected something like it to happen during our encounter with Buford Frodge. But what shocked and appalled me the most — perhaps more than the despicable perverse act of violence — was that Ray told me in some ways it wasn’t all that bad. If it was inevitable, he told me, it was best not to fight or struggle with it, just accept it. That was an unheard of and unspeakable thing for me to get my head around, that Ray could so resignedly accept getting fucked in the ass by a grown man as something normal, because it was not homosexuality that I had a problem with, it was man-boy rape that bothered me, the taking advantage of someone, an innocent, of drugging and raping them. But when Ray told me that his own father, ol’ Walt, had been doing the same to Ray ever since he was seven years old — seven years old! — going back to when we first met, spanking him with his belt on his bare ass — for his own good — and then rape fucking him in his little boy ass, why that shattered me to the bone, absolutely destroyed any sense or faith I had of this world being a good and kind and caring place like the Odd Fellows or Ray’s holy church wanted to make it out to be, and that Ray, who told me EVERYTHING, had kept this dark and dirty secret from me, why that shook me to the core of my being.
But Ray took it like he took a whooping, or getting grounded, or having to go to mass every night for two weeks. “Just part of life,” of living and learning, of accepting punishment “for his own good.”
Stay tuned for CHAPTER EIGHT!