"Railroad Bill, Railroad Bill, he never worked and he never will, and it’s ride, ride on, Railroad Bill.”---Ramblin’ Jack Elliott
The Kindness Of Strangers
An old girlfriend named Betsy Harper once said to me, “One of the things I like about you, Bill, is that you’re a risk-taker.” Well, there are risk-takers and there are damn fools, and I’ve been a little of each. Overreach too far or too often and sooner or later the stones on the edge of the trail fall away under your hiking boot and it’s four-hundred feet to the bottom of the canyon. The fire department is not waiting for you down there with a net.
Despite often having little money, I’ve generally acted first and asked questions later, figuring it would all work out somehow. Sort of an Admiral Farragut attitude: “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” Friends have pointed out that Admiral Farragut had a better ship than me and if the Confederates sunk his, the Yankees would get him another one.
When I got to Austin, I had just enough cash to eat one meal a day. I lived gratis at Gilbert Shelton’s condemned apartment near the Interregional Expressway for about two months, only leaving when the man from the wrecking company slogged through the rubble to tell me the next swing of the big metal ball would be taking out the living room. Fortunately, I had nothing to pack.
On a brief four-day jaunt to Houston to interview for an editor’s job at Trans-Texas Airways’ little house organ, I was advised by Rice Institute students of a closed dormitory on campus which might have an unlocked window or two. Show up after nine at night, leave at six in the morning, don’t turn the lights on and you have your own no-tell motel. Like Blanche in Streetcar, I’ve often depended on the kindness of strangers.
Back in Austin after a long day’s hitchhiking, Lieuen Adkins picked me up. “Where you staying?” he asked as soon as I got in the car. “You tell me,” I replied. Lieuen advised that Janis had scored a little house near campus, just off Guadalupe. “It’s free,” he said. “Win Pratt’s parents own it but they’re off in Europe so Win gave her the key.”
Janis was delighted to have a co-tenant and we made the most of our treasured residence for two months. One morning as we slept naked on an old mattress in the living room, an outraged Mr. Pratt, back early from the Continent, barged in with an employee and told us we had an hour to get the hell out. Had the man never heard of squatters’ rights? I moved onto the back porch of a Ranger hanger-on for $5 a month. The only protection from the elements was a thin covering of polyethylene stapled to the screens. One chilly morning in November, I woke up to find my nasal hairs frozen. Fortunately, it was always open house at the Austin Ghetto apartment of the gregarious Wally Stopher, to which I eventually moved. Four of us lived there and slept on rancid mattresses on the floor. Wally, himself, seemed like a pharaoh, sleeping above the fray in the only bed. It was not the sort of place you’d bring a girlfriend to, but we did.
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| "Railroad Bill don't wear no clothes, he rides buck naked from his hat to his toes, so ride, ride on, Railroad Bill." |
Hook ‘Em, Horns!
While living at Shelton’s place, my budget was adequate. Gilbert lived a modest walk from the Mexican quarter and the world-famous Market Cafe, open til midnight, often later. We traipsed over there late into the night to dig into the dirt-cheap Mexican Plate (one taco, two enchiladas and refried beans; the iced tea was extra) for a paltry 88 cents. The Market Cafe also offered free entertainment in the form of a wildly misspelled menu on the wall which often found diners competing to find the most errors. After Market Cafe nights, there was always enough money left over for lunch at the hallowed San Jacinto Cafe down by the capitol building next day.
In football season, the Ranger was allotted two free tickets to each home game. Shelton gave them to me and I promptly scalped one of the two for an outrageous price, building up my skimpy reserves. If I hadn’t insisted on using one of them myself, I would have been a rich man, but in those days the Longhorns were worth the price of admission.
There were parties somewhere every night in Austin. Some proffered food, some did not. Lieuen Adkins made a point of knowing which ones provided vittles and drink (in Lieuen’s case, mostly drink) and aimed his car in that direction. On one memorable night, Janis the chef decided to create a chicken dinner for Lieuen and me, a rare home-cooked bonanza. Experience, of course, is the best teacher and JJ had little of that. She undercooked the chicken, which bled (not that Lieuen or I cared one whit), then jumped angrily from the table, swept our plates from under us and tossed them in the sink, chicken and all. “I’m a domestic failure!” she mourned dramatically. Lieuen tried to retrieve his plate but was quickly sent packing. “I guess the Market Cafe is still open,” he whined as he ran out the door.
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| "Railroad Bill, he went down South, knocked all the teeth out the sheriff's mouth, so ride, ride on, Railroad Bill." |
Exodus
Into every life a little sunshine must fall and mine came in the form of Marilyn Todd, a blonde goddess who unaccountably came to appreciate me. Marilyn had excelled in high school but skipped her first year at UT to attend to an ailing mother. Her father, a respected professor in the university’s English Department, was a minor tyrant and she looked forward to no longer being under his wing. When the invitation came from me to hit the road and head east, she was ready to go. She knew her father would put up a ferocious battle so she climbed out her bedroom window at 3 a.m. the morning after Christmas and jumped into my recently repaired hearse, the beneficiary of a brand new radiator thanks to a $700 insurance check which finally arrived after 12 months of waiting. The remaining funds were a virtual pot of gold in those days. So while Gilbert Shelton, Janis and a batch of other Austinites headed west for the hills of San Francisco, Marilyn and I drove east, toward the sun. Once a maverick, always a maverick. Let the Road Trip begin.
"Railroad Bill, he hides from the rain in a rough old shack or a big storm drain, so ride, ride on, Railroad Bill."
Fun In The Sun? Not Always.
Despite the fact that Marilyn was a perfectly legal 18, William B. Todd was unrelenting. Aunts and grandmothers descended on us, persuading Marilyn to return. Friends of the father in every outpost followed our progress. The protection of the law was not always enough when it vied with political pressure and a monied antagonist, so the two of us decided to solve the problem via the ultimate weapon, a sudden marriage. Despite the power of the opposition, whatever God hath joined together, let no man put asunder, right? Especially in the southern United States of America.
We decided to flee from Gainesville up to friendly Folkston, Georgia, where marriages were performed 24-hours a day, or so we thought. Virtually penniless by now, I used our meager funds to buy a round-trip bus ticket for the bride while I hitchhiked up and back. When I finally met Marilyn at the bus station (a nice bench), she told me the local folks kept regular hours and we had to wait til next day. Fundless, we sat on the bench, waiting for morning.
As often happens in these circumstances, a police car soon pulled up. Worried that William Todd’s influence might have expanded into Georgia, we were glad to hear only that “You can’t stay here.” After a few moments of conversation, one of the cops told us to get in the back of his prowler. Before we knew it, we were at the Folkston firehouse, where the local gentlemen allowed us to sleep in the spacious front seat of the lead engine. “We’ll have to rout you out of there if there’s a fire,” the apparent chief told us, “otherwise it’s all yours.”
We got married in the Folkston courthouse the next morning. I guess you could call it the ultimate no-frills wedding, but we were happy. Then Marilyn jumped onto a southbound bus and I hit the highway. The evil menace of William Todd was reduced to irrelevancy. Another testament to the age-old wisdom, money isn’t everything. It sure would be nice, though, to find out some day how the other half lived.
"Railroad Bill don't go to town, he went there once and it brought him down, so ride, ride on, Railroad Bill."
Cops Vs. Kids
Marilyn and I lived off the meager earnings of the Charlatan magazine, first in Tallahassee, then in Gainesville. If you’ve never experienced the thrill of living in The City of Seven Hills, life there is sort of a carbon copy of existence in southern Alabama. Think Dothan with a capitol dome. The police eyed us suspiciously, certain we must be up to no good and FSU banished us from all its properties. Nonetheless, a good Southerner does not impinge on private business so when the owners of Tallahassee’s two busiest stores, The Sweet Shop and Bill’s Book Store, allowed us to sell in front of their shops, we were golden. Until.
The motto under the Charlatan logo said “Sacred Cows Make The Best Hamburger,” and we took it seriously, constantly deflowering icons. Religion was no exception. This really got under the skin of the Tallahassee Catholic Women’s Club, which called the cops insisting we must be breaking some law. There is nothing more dangerous than a woman scorned unless it is 100 women scorned, so the police prowlered down to Bill’s and arrested me. Sympathetic Florida State students noting this ran over to Marilyn’s table at The Sweet Shop and advised her to scram.
Marilyn was not easy to ruffle. “Are you kidding?” she said. “Everybody in the world is going to be over here buying magazines now. I’m not going anywhere.” In an hour, every copy of the Charlatan was sold. Moreover, an ACLU lawyer promptly had me sprung from jail with no charges. The forces of evil had been soundly defeated and the good guys were in heaven. Marilyn and I went down to the Piggly Wiggly with our newfound funds, bought innumerable boxes of frozen pizza and invited our few friends over for a raucous victory dinner. There are many memorable moments in a lifetime but few of them compare to the times you were Queen For A Day.
"Railroad Bill's ridin' down your way, if you see him comin' better step away, so ride, ride on, Railroad Bill."
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
Aftermath
Much like Railroad Bill, our own hero rambled across the country from 1962 to 1967, often without so much as two nickels to rub together. Ironically, those were some of the best years of his life, which once again goes to prove the old axiom, “Adventure will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no Adventure.”
Regular readers will recognize the clever work of Newberry photographer Kimber Greenwood in today's photos. If you've ever had a strong desire to have a picture of yourself sitting atop Mount Fuji or picnicking on the moon, for that matter, Kimber's your gal. Discounts available for naked old men.
The final photo on Williston's famous caboose by Jaime Swanson is NOT photoshopped....the ancient train car is sitting out there at the entrance to the semi-famous Kirby Family Farm, if you want a look. Kimber shot all of Bill's 75th birthday photos, including his Facebook profile picture, which lives to this day.
