Jerkwater Freight: A Collection of Poems, Essays, and Short Stories

By Jeff M. Pregmon

Jerkwater Freight is the realization of nearly a decade of writing. This debut collection of poems, essays, and short stories formally draws together the bulk of my creative writing efforts. While a majority of the work comes from the years 1995-1999, I have included some poems and essays that go back as far as 1990. Other significant sources of material are the two creative writing courses I took at Illinois State University with Jim Elledge, to whom this book is dedicated. Without his encouragement at a time when my confidence in writing was ebbing, very little of the material in Jerkwater Freight would have been written. Jerkwater Freight is in such a format that it is not designed to be read from cover to cover because it has not been written in that manner. It is a journey through the mind where the destination is not one to be reached quickly. Along the way there are pauses to reflect on the route taken and to pick up boxcars left on sidings up and down the line.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 14, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469112671

Jeff M. Pregmon

Jeff Pregmon was born in 1972 in Scranton, Pennsylvania. He was raised and has lived most of his live in Illinois. While in the process of earning his degree in geography from Illinois State University, his interest in creative writing was reawakened, sending him down this new road. Jerkwater Freight is his first collection. Jeff currently lives in Gilman, Illinois.

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Copyright ©1999 by Jeff Pregmon.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

FOREWORD

JERKWATER FREIGHT

MAPMAKER

PURPLE

EASE THE PAIN

BADGE

NOT UNNOTICED

JANUARY SECOND

LACK OF EVIDENCE

DISTRESS CALL

I SHOULD’VE PLAYED NINE

SIX YEARS OLD

THE PARTNERSHIP

THORNS

KILLING TIME

PLAYING WITH FIRE

IN THE COLD

THE BAND

CHRISTMAS

ONE AFTERNOON

ABOVE AND BEYOND

PRELUDE

SUBSEQUENT SUMMERS

THE ECHO OF THE DOGS

MR. MACINTYRE

DECEMBER

THUNDER

ROSE

THIS SIDE OF THE FAÇADE

AFTER THIS

A NOVEL IDEA

IF SHE ONLY KNEW

UPSTAIRS DOWNSTAIRS

KISSING

INTEREST OF CLARITY

OLD FIRES

SILENCE

AND CHRIST WAS LEFT SPEECHLESS.

WEST WALWORTH

DINNERTIME

WE TRADED POEMS

BEFORE THE RAIN

SATURDAY NIGHT

SUNDAY MORNING

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

HIGHLAND ROAD

YESTERDAY’S NEWS

IN THE LANE

BACK STREET

PROCYON RISING

FRIDAY NIGHT RELIGION

LAST SUMMER DAY

SHOP RITE

RHYMES WITH

DREAMS

TRUTH AND WISHES

CASTLES, DRAGONS, AND FAIRY TALES

TWO DAYS IN MAY

BRIANNA

PRIVATDOCENT

ELMWOOD

SUICIDE NOTES

JENNY AND ERICA

DARK CIRCLES

ONE GIRL’S WORLD

DRIFTLESS

LINGERING MEMORY

GIVE UP THE GHOST

THE MEANING OF LIFE

CABOOSE

TO JIM ELLEDGE, WHO MADE WRITING FUN AGAIN.

FOREWORD

A jerkwater is a train not running on the main line. For those who know me, it’s quite an accurate description of how I’ve tended to approach life. Either that or they just like using the word jerk. In any case, I feel a few words of explanation are necessary to help in negotiating the track ahead.

From my earliest memories, I’ve always been fascinated with geography and maps. I couldn’t conceive of doing anything with my life that wasn’t in some way connected with it. Large quantities of time and vast sums of money were spent earning a degree in the subject. Thing is, all the education failed to satisfy an inner desire to explore and draw maps of where I had been. The real world is mapped with exacting boundaries with not much use for imagination. I always remember looking at antique maps of the world where segments along the edges were labeled as unknown. Cartographers of the time would draw ornate graphics of mythical creatures residing at the edges of the known world to provide dramatic explanations of what lay beyond. While the physical realm has very little left that can be considered unexplored, there are still vast stretches of uncharted real estate which exist in the minds of everyone.

Most of these places remain eternally foreign.

What keeps many people from going down these unexplored ways is the fear of the unfamiliar. While some thrive on the adventure of new places, others remain content with the comfortable routines of everyday life. And while maps are helpful in knowing where one is going, the individual journey becomes as unique as the traveler who takes it. Different places along the way take on meanings which cannot be applied to others following behind.

The true adventure lies on the back roads or the slice of local color becoming more noteworthy than the original destination. It is impossible to ever map all the possible points of interest. Some just aren’t interesting to others while some just disappear without a trace into the backdrop. I like to think that there is still a part of me looking at the world much like I did when I was five years old; wondering at every turn where that road went to, and what did things look like from there.

Jerkwater Freight is a journey through the mind. The destination is not one reached quickly. Along the way there are pauses to reflect on the route taken and to pick-up boxcars left on sidings up and down the line.

I’ve gone down these roads before. Let me tell you where I’ve been…

JERKWATER FREIGHT

Do not lament the journeyman

traveling place to place

witnessing each sunrise over

a different horizon. But mourn

the lemmings idling on familiar

freeways aside static monuments

to mark their passage of time.

I spend my days on the jerkwater

freight between idleness and

self-absorption. Looking back

through a window but seeing

the reflection of a mirror instead.

Dreams and aspirations connect

like boxcars pushed and pulled

by red and green lights down

dimly lit tracks under the highway

into the night. Familiar figures

climb aboard expecting nothing

but seeing daylight someplace else.

MAPMAKER

My little girl walks into my office

holding in her hands a small present

for me. The fire on her head comes

from the spark in her eye. She taps

on the floor in her pajamas with feet.

I send her away with a smile and

some change that I dug from the bottom

of a pocket. Watching her scuff out

of the room, I don’t realize that the love

I gave her will only end up in the

belly of her pink ceramic pig.

My worn leather wallet falls out

as I recline in the chair at my desk. Picking

it up, I look at the stuff that I value: pieces

of plastic, the crisp paper cash, and the

picture of my wife when she was young.

I stare at the slightly faded image, bent

in the shape of the cartographer’s

derrière. This little girl is a face of two

dimensions. I have a copy that begs

for my attention. Daddy, I love you.

It never sounded quite as loud as it did

when she said it again. I looked up from

my wife as a five year old girl, and I saw

her eyes back in my doorway. The

mapmaker knows which way he should go.

PURPLE

The computer turned purple the other

day. No one knows why

it happened. They just stand by the water

cooler and wonder

out loud. The plastic cover came off

for the mustached man

who came to fix it. A crowd of workers

moved like curious

children and stood around the sick machine in silence. Inside

the computer, things looked the same. Wires attached and crossing each other like a delicate pattern in some expensive

fabric. The mustached man poked and prodded with a fancy tool

that looked like a Phillips screwdriver on

steroids. The machine

with its innards exposed sat lifeless on

Johnson’s desk. With one

flip of a switch, the electric blood flowed

back into the cold

metal mess. The faces of co-workers

peered anxiously at

the glow on the screen. Some excellent shades of purple appeared.

EASE THE PAIN

Night. The cover of darkness is the best disguise for a criminal. I hold a hate inside. It is a loathing that I have never felt before, nor do I wish to feel again. Intense, driving, gripping, anger. The darkness has a tendency to soothe the emotion. I pull the wiry black headphones to my ears and drown out the noise. The blues. Sometimes I wish I had more control. The night used to be my friend. I’ve had the best times of my life after the sun has set. I held a power over the night. It was mine to do with as I pleased. Now the night has the power over me. I can’t avoid the words. I hear them every night.

The towers. I call the towers home. One hundred and seventy nine apartments surround my own. I’m not a poor man. These are expensive residences. I’ve furnished my home with all of my treasures. I can see the river from my bedroom window. These apartments offer everything that a former major league pitcher needs to get on with his life. I’m a writer now. I did a little sports journalism after recovering from the injury, but that didn’t work out. So I just free-lance. But I’m not doing too well at that. There are only so many ways a pitcher can write about his craft. Maybe I need something else.

I used to control. I chose what happened. I was clever. I could have made a terrific catburglar. The night was my ally. Nobody was safe from me. They all knew. Every last one of them who wore the other colors. I couldn’t befriend them. I had to hate them. It was what made my night. It made the night mine. I made the papers. I was the news. Gold and silver, and leather, and wood…my treasures. My possessions.

I played for six years. The books say seven, but I don’t believe the books. Atlanta in 1977 and ‘78. Texas in 1979. Chicago in 1980 and ‘81. Cleveland in 1982. In the winter of 1982, December 13th to be precise, I was traded from Cleveland to Philadelphia. I wasn’t very happy in Cleveland. I won eight games. Eight lousy games. The whole team won only sixty-five. That stadium was something I can’t even begin to describe. The cold air rushing in off of Lake Erie. Ten thousand people in an eighty thousand seat stadium not giving a damn