The Railroad Tracks

Moving to Richmond wasn’t even on my radar in early 1994.

We had just moved in together half a year after high school graduation, so Jay and I were each other’s first roommates. Among other things, we were very punk and very cheap.

This was due to not having a ton of money, which was itself due to the peculiar situation we both found ourselves in. Neither of us much wanted to work for someone else, and since we didn’t really know how to make a living by ourselves yet, we were sort of stuck in this ultra-frugal loop. Here’s a quote I wrote back during the late 90s, thinking back on this time:

To save money, we would watch T.V. in the dark instead of turning on the lights. At night, we would go to our separate beds and bundle up in blankets and quilts instead of turning on our crappy, inefficient gas heater. In the summertime, we would take showers that consisted of 100% cold water because they were free.

Punk shows were great, but they were few and far between. We could ride bikes downtown where there was a decent record store, or we could drive to another city where there was a lot more to do—but of course, those things cost money, and we were on the tightest of budgets.

Naturally, free activities were always on our radar. This might include swimming or tubing in Broad River, which also entailed a lot of exploring of waterways and trails. I really loved to explore areas where I didn’t grow up, and things that weren’t so familiar to me.

This also included walking along the railroad tracks, something that people who have flown under the radar of society had done for generations. I could envision traveling from place to place, hobo-style, though I never committed to any such adventures. Instead, walking along and exploring the tracks (and seeing what sort of trouble we could get into) was just the thing for today.

That’s how things were when James drove his white pickup truck he called Tanya up near the railroad tracks where Jay and I were exploring.

James introduced himself as a fellow punk, albeit a much older one—James was 38 and we were 18. Then, he explained that he was in town for a few days, and so he asked what there was to do around here.

We told him he was looking at it.

This led to Jay and me sharing one of our favorite pastimes with James: complaining about Columbia. This was the mid 90s, and while there was an underground music scene, it was far from exclusively punk. In fact, we might get one good show per month, give or take.

We contrasted this with where we wanted to go and visit—New York City. We both thought we might well end up there; punk rock and being an adult had just upended our lives, and we were keen to take advantage of the moment by moving away from where we came from.

Richmond, where James lived, happened to be along the way, perfectly situated as a stopping point on the way to NYC. And, by contrast with Columbia, Richmond’s punk scene was lively and active, with a show every other night.

This was 1994, so instead of email addresses, we exchanged… addresses.

Much to our delight, James typed a letter up on May 15th, 1994, and sent it to us soon thereafter. I still have this letter, and reread it once every few years.

We accepted James’s invitation to visit, and we got to know the Queer Punk scene. Civil rights had come a long way for the gay community, but I saw first-hand that there was still very, very far to go. This was, then, part of the punk fight—the fight for righteous nonconformity against a system that tried to crush spirits, as I saw it.

I would often wonder what might have happened if James had never shown up that day, or if Jay and I had decided to go off exploring in another direction. It’s almost certain that I would have left my home state, but very uncertain as to where I might have ended up, and exactly what sort of life I might be living right now.