u s e y o u r h a n d s

Night had falled hours ago on his dreary cow town. The smell of manure, which had been so oppressive at noon, embued the air with sweetness. A smell of nostalgia. It seemed like everyone in Hanford had disappeared, with only dirty stucco houses sighing relief to mark their existence. It was this desolation that Steve longed to escape. And tonight was the night.

Just a small town immigrant boy, Steve took a tip from the movies his Portugese grandma took him to every Saturday. He’d pack a bag and hop a train. And this midnight train — well, it might just take him anywhere. The only sound he heard was the crunch of his Chuck Taylors against railyard gravel. But lo, in the distance, a train whistle.

Little Steve’s legs sprang into action. He skittered across the yard and stood near the tracks. The train’s lights pierced through the night and slowly grew larger. From behind piles of ties and old machinery, other railriders emerged. These men and women, smelling of wine and cheap perfume, gathered with him to grab hold of destiny.

It seemed hours before the train pulled into the Hanford station. With the help of a good-natured hobo, Steve scrambled into the train with the rest of his down-at-heel bretheren. He dangled his legs off the edge of the boxcar and waited. Up in the sky, the stars twinkled down at him, veritably screaming, “Steve Perry, you’ll join us here someday. You, Steve Perry, will be a star!” He winked at the sky and his heart jumped.

But little Steve was not prepared for the lurch when the train moved on. Before he could brace himself, he tumbled to the ground. Steve landed with a thud in deep gravel. It was over. He wasn’t going to leave Hanford — at least not tonight. Although he was still set on stardom, it seemed that fame wasn’t ready for Steve yet. He picked himself up and as he dusted off, he heard the crunching of footsteps behind him. Steve turned and saw a disheveled man who sort of resembled Steve himself.

“Steve?” the man asked tentatively. He held a grimy hat in his hands and twisted the brim.

Steve knew he shouldn’t talk to strangers, but he felt like he knew this man. He cleared his throat, “Um, yes?”

The man extended a hand to shake, “I’m your father, Steve. I haven’t seen you since you were four.”

Steve was 10. He barely remembered the father who just disappered one day. He didn’t feel mad or happy. He was glad his father was alive. Steve took his hand and shook it gravely.

Mr. Perry’s eyes filled with tears and he tried to speak several times before the words flowed with any ease. “Steve, never run. If you choose to leave this town, your family, do it with pride. Don’t be like me.” And then he stood, turned his back on Steve again, and walked away. Steve’s eyes followed his father’s figure until the darkness swallowed him up.

On his trek home, Steve considered his father’s words. He wasn’t going to stop believing. He’d hold on to the feeling that one day he’d be famous. But Steve decided to wait. The time would come.