The Underpass - by Holly

The Underpass

It always smelled like leaves. Crunchy Halloween leaves, damp with early autumn rain. Even in the summer, when we went to the underpass, the concrete held that feeling of misty rains and cloudy days. The trek there was always longer than it should have been, or perhaps shorter than we wished it to be. Time was irrelevant as we slipped through fences and over bridges and walked barefoot across the warm sand by the lake. We’d talk as we went, of those meaningless things that seem so important when you’re twelve years old.

The underpass was forbidden to us. I think that’s why we went there. It was our secret haven away from adults and responsibilities. That place we were always told never to go, for fear of strange men and their illegal spoils and that terrible silver snake that had claimed so many lives.

But that snake was our protector. Adults would never venture to the underpass where the hobos slept and the silver line buzzed with electricity. That’s why we went.

The fence was broken above the underpass. With stifled giggles, we’d crawl under the chain links and find seats on the concrete wall. The boys ran forward to walk on the tracks. They’d play chicken, each of them daring another to touch that frightening silver serpent, and each of them getting closer and closer as though children edging forward to touch a sleeping lion in his cage. The girls, sometimes we’d go on the tracks, too, but always more slowly and carefully.

Then, it would begin. A slow growl and rumble. The broken fence would rock; a loose link would clink against a pole. We’d scramble back from the rails, our bravery disappearing with the sudden rush of birds from the trees. Laughter as we’d push one another over so that we could all fit on that cool, concrete wall. Our knuckles would whiten, tiny hands clenched around poles, metal links, the edge of the wall—whatever we could use to steady ourselves as the terrible beast made his entrance.

Every other year in elementary school, the police and fire department would make a visit. There would be a huge assembly in the cafeteria where a small TV was set up at the front of the room. The policeman would make a short speech before pressing play on the remote. By the end of the movie, half the class would be in tears. David always did that to us, even if he was a fictional boy with a fictional sister who played and died on fictional railroad tracks.

Fortunately, David disappeared with mathematics and science at the start of summer, and we were left guilt free as we sat in our private box seats.

The roar was deafening! It filled your ears and ripped through your body and sent laughter from your lips. We’d wave as though the passengers could see our farewells. We’d breath deeply as the last of the whipping wind flew away, pulling us back from that terrible beast that thrilled us so.

Then we’d fool around a little more, vandalizing the underpass walls with our names and loves. A mural of prepubescent dreams was painted on that cold wall with blue-ink pens and magic markers. It was a fading memory of generations of children like us who found the same escape on the back of that awful monster and his hissing silver counterpart.

Finally, someone would notice the sky was graying. A soft mumble, “Ma wan’ed me home by eight-therdy.” Collecting our things, we’d set off back into the woods. The beast always left silence in its wake. Even the silver snake was silent, as if mourning our departure.

But, a cricket chirp. A laugh. Someone climbing onto the guardrail of the wooden walkways, another giggling as she was grabbed round the waist and tickled. “Howmanyew really hafta gohome?” “Wedo.” “Icanstay.” “Mycurfewzten.” “Another train’ill com’at eightfifteen.”

So, we’d split, a few of us disappearing with the fireflies into the woods, the rest doubling back to the underpass for just one more ride.

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