Full of Life by John Fante Page B

and lit a cigar. Immediately the porter for Car 21 came over and told him there was no smoking except in the men’s washroom. With a scowl, Papa heeled out his cigar.
    “What kind of a train is this, anyhow?”
    “Men’s washroom at the end of the car,” the porter said. He was in his late sixties, with white hair and much wrinkling about the eyes. Now the redcap was back with the rest of the luggage. He wiped the sweat from his face, and his tongue hung out.
    “You need a drink,” Papa said.
    “Never turn down a drink,” the redcap laughed.
    Quickly Papa unroped the black suitcase and flung it open. There were two gallon jugs of claret wrapped in towels. There was a third sack, bulging with stuff. I lookedinside. It held two loaves of round homemade bread and a goat’s cheese the size of a football. At the bottom of the sack was a foot-long salami and a quantity of apples and oranges.
    “What’s this for?”
    “You got to eat,” he answered sharply.
    The redcap roared with laughter.
    “That’s right. Man’s got to eat on the train.”
    It pleased Papa. Redcap wasn’t such a bad fellow, after all. He grinned, his face purpling as he tried to unscrew the cap on the wine jug. “I seen you some place before,” he said. “You ever carry a hod around Denver, Colorado, in 1922, ‘23?”
    Redcap was delighted.
    “Not me—no sir! Rassling baggage is all I’m good for.”
    Papa got the cap off the jug. As he handed it to Redcap the towel fell away, and the jug suddenly loomed up, dark red and shocking, like a bomb. Redcap was startled.
    “Maybe we better go back to the smoker.”
    Papa followed him to the end of the car, the jug like a baby in his arms, and they darted inside the men’s room. Car 21 was rapidly filling. People in the aisle turned frowning faces on the open suitcase, the roped carton, the tool kit smeared with mortar. No doubt about it: all that gear took a lot of glamour out of Car 21 and there was good reason for the disapproval of the others. Back in the men’s room I could hear Redcap howling with laughter. I closed the suitcase and decided to go back too.
    Redcap was introducing Papa to our porter.
    “You gentlemen gonna see lots of one another. Mr. Randolph, allow me to present my good friend, Mr. Fante.”
    Papa shook hands.
    “Randolph?” he said. “Randolph? You ever carry a hod, Mr. Randolph? Up in Boulder, Colorado, 1916, 1917?”
    “Nineteen-sixteen? No, sir. Had a cousin, though. And he carried a hod. Down in Montgomery, Alabama. Long time ago.”
    “That’s the fellow,” Papa said. “I thought so.”
    Redcap was howling with laughter again. Mr. Randolph drank long and expertly from the jug, tilting it from his raised elbow. He smacked his lips and handed it to Papa, who pulled at it lovingly. Then he passed it to Redcap.
    “Mr. Randolph,” Papa began. “The trouble with the white people in this country…”
    But he got no further, for I had suddenly had enough of his antics. There was no harm in having a drink with your fellow man, but there was a time and place for everything, and the spectacle of this old man in overalls gallivanting up and down a railway car with a gallon of wine and feting the hired hands seemed to be carrying things too far. Besides, he didn’t have to wear overalls.
    I pulled him back to our section as the train began to move out of Sacramento. He was humiliated and taciturn. He put one jug back in the grip, but he kept the other in readiness under the seat. By now everyone in the car, well-dressed men and women, were aware of the red jug that bobbed into view each time he took a drink.
    “Children—bah,” he muttered.
    “Hate their father…”
    “Ashamed of their own flesh and blood…”
    “Better to die. Bury you. Forget you…”
    “Worked hard all my life. My own flesh and blood abuse me…”
    “Ready to go any time. Done my duty…”
    “When you’re old, they throw you out…”
    His voice carried. He had it pitched high