T imothy Dexter glanced at streets, small, very old houses, apartment buildings, factories, steel mills, people and automobiles of South Chicago that flew past the coach’s soot-covered window. The Castle Railroad, he thought. What a strange name. Never heard of it. It must be a small railroad line.
                “I guess I’ve got to take the train,” he had said to his Grandmother. “I’ve got the money. I’ve saved almost eight hundred dollars, so just don’t worry about how I’m going to get to school.” He put his muscular arms around his short, gray-haired grandmother, pulled her close to him, and hugged her as she rested her head against his chest. “Don’t worry, Nanny. A lot of students take the train. It should be fun,” he reassured her as she smiled at him and walked back into the kitchen. It’ll probably be boring. Just another long ride on an old train. It’s probably a very old train at that.
                  His thoughts about the last several days at home faded as the headed south and east into Indiana.
                The railroad car shook Timothy and the passengers gently in similar directions and they all moved in unison. He felt the wicker seat covered with lacquer while he looked out at the late Sunday afternoon landscape basking in the warmth of autumn. After lowering the window shade, he enjoyed the sun shining through windows and the sound of the wheels clicking on the rails. He wondered if he would ever forget the smell of steam, iron and dust, all indications of a train drawn by a steam locomotive engine.
                The sliding door to the next car opened, train noise blasted in and quickly died down as the door closed. “Hey, guy!” a loud voice shouted at Timothy. He gazed at a kind, happy face covered with freckles, punctuated with brown eyes, a deep cleft in his chin, brown summer-blonde hair, and a porkpie hat. “Hey, guy, you’ve got my hat on. Look!” Pointing to his felt hat he tilted it back on his head.
                “You’re right,” Timothy said as he extended his hand. “Your hat is identical to mine.” He smiled. “What’s your name, fella?” he asked, trying to sound joe college.
                “Ferris Morgan,” he said, swaying in unison with Timothy and the passengers. “What’s your name, bud, and where are you going?”
                Timothy tipped his hat back farther, to match Ferris’s appeal, and unbuttoned his top coat more. Instinctively he liked Ferris and hoped he was headed for DeLong. “I’m going to DeLong University at Green Valley, Indiana. How about you? Come on. Sit, Ferris, old man,” he said, patting the space next to him in the bench seat.
                “That’s great. Me, too! I’m going to that school too.” Ferris sat, unbuttoned his top coat and jacket. Timothy noticed Ferris was put together very well and guessed he had athletic abilities. Athletes recognize each other. He smelled whiskey. “That’s really great,” he continued. “Maybe we can room together.” Ferris pushed his body against the back of the seat, spread his legs and rubbed his groin without thinking. “That is, unless you’re going to join a Frat.” He sipped slowly from his small glass.
                “I’ve been thinking about it,” Timothy said. “It’s all about the same cost whether you’re Independent or Greek.”
                “Want a drink?” Ferris asked, offering his glass to Timothy.
                “No, thanks.”
                “Teetotaler?” Ferris asked and giggled. “Do you believe in Teetotalism?”
                “No. Just don’t drink much.” Timothy enjoyed a new friend with a sense of humor, who knew how to carry a conversation. He laughed aloud.
                “Some words give me a hard-on,” Ferris said, gulping most of his drink. “This is good stuff. Sure you don’t want some?”
                He laughed louder. “Thanks, Ferris, I’m sure,” he said, smiling. “What kind of words give you a hard-on?” They shook the bench laughing.
                “Words like, 'Teetotaler’ or 'Teetotalism’ or 'Teetotalist.’ Don’t they do something to you?” He arched his eyebrows and waited for Timothy to agree.
                “They hadn’t before you mentioned it,” he said, as their bodies bounced to the rhythm of the train. “Here,” Timothy said. “Give me a sip of that.” He took Ferris’s glass and finished the drink. “It’s not etiquette to finish your drink. I’m sorry.”
                “Hey, don’t be. That’s OK. There’s more of everything, in the other coach.”
                “Say, Ferris,” Timothy seemed surprised and wiped his lips with his tongue as he savored the liquor, “That really is good stuff. Thanks.” He gave the glass back to Ferris. “But to get back to housing costs at DeLong, it’s a little more expensive in Frats and Sororities. Of course, you could stay in the Independent Hall or a private home, but there are pluses and minuses in any of those situations.”
                Ferris listened as Timothy talked; he felt a closeness to this stranger, a fellow student. His body bumped against the window sill and he chuckled, watching their bodies bob up, left then right, as the coach swayed, lurched left and back again. I really like this guy. I enjoy being with him, the way he speaks big time, his clothes.
                “The pluses are the exchange dinners with sororities; it’s easier to get a dates, and just maybe you’ll make lifetime friends,” Ferris said. He spoke with authority. He hiccupped and slurred some words. “Then the minuses are you have to be a pledge and go through your first semester, get good grades, and then you become a member. An active, they call it. Most fraternities at DeLong have boards,” he said. He started to prattle.
                “Boards?” Timothy asked, wide-eyed.
                “Yeah, didn’t you know?”
                “No.”
                “They do. They have boards,” Ferris continued. He liked looking at Timothy and hoped they might be friends. He also liked the idea that Timothy didn’t know about boards and how they were used. “They’re these big wooden paddles. You even have to make your own board. Then paint it the way some active wants you to. They swat your ass, sometimes bare, if you goof up or don’t do something they want you to do, the way they want you to do it.”
                Ridiculous! And maybe dangerous. Timothy frowned, stared out the windowand realized that the train was in Indiana. “This paddle thing sounds risky to me, Ferris.” He felt light-headed. He extended his hand and said, “Call me Dex, OK?”
                “OK,” Ferris agreed, shaking Timothy’s hand. Ferris frowned. “That paddle thing is dangerous though, Dex,” Ferris said. “What if they hit your nuts? What then?” He licked the rim of his glass.
                Timothy enjoyed Ferris’s conversation.
                Ferris continued. “Well dangerous or not, it’s definitely a minus. But all in all, Frats have good things to offer.” He looked into the well of his glass and nothing stared back. “Hmm!” he said.
                The engine’s blast horn, clanging chair cars and shooting steam noises crashed through the coach as the door opened. The continued loud wailing of the engine, coaches banging against their couplings and wheels pounding and clicking over seams in the rails, drowned normal conversation.
                Timothy and Ferris looked up at the young manstanding in the doorway. He pointed at Ferris, with authority, and motioned for him to come forward.
                 Screaming, laughing and yelling young people’s voices highlighted by an occasional female scream and a young man’s guffaw, mixed with the train sounds as the stranger in the doorway swayed with the coach. The young college man frowned.
                “A friend?” Timothy asked. He didn’t like the person in the doorway and the way he acted with Ferris.
                “Not really. I’ve only known him since we’ve been on the train,” Ferris said, holding his glass with both hands. “I want us to be friends, Dex,” he said, in a confidential tone. “Good friends, OK? Good friends. Do you understand?”
                “It’s OK with me, kiddo,” Timothy replied, staring at the young man in the doorway. Timothy responded on two levels. His words were light and collegiate to Ferris while within him he wanted to protect Ferris. He knew this feeling but didn’t understand it.
                “Hey Ferris! Come on! The party’s picking up steam,” the tall, slim brunette said. He wore a ratty, long fur coat. His voice gave the impression of boredom with waiting for Ferris. He faked a smile, directing it at Ferris and somewhat toward Timothy, “Come on! Let’s go! We’re out of booze, Ferris!”
                “That fellow’s got the hootch,” Ferris said. “They must have killed it. I’ve got to go.” As he stood, he stumbled, swayed with the coach and straightened the waist of his trousers then he grabbed the next seat’s back, and asked, “Say, why don’t you come up to the next coach with us?” He swayed and Timothy knew that he wanted him to join the partying.
                Maybe he doesn’t want to be with that crowd. Wants to be with me. Why do I dislike that guy at the door? Why do I feel a sadness for Ferris? “Not now, Ferris, old man, but thanks,” Timothy said, cautiously, not taking his eyes off the young tall wide-eyed college guy holding onto the coach’s door. “Got some things to take care of. Want to keep a clear head. Feel sort of buzzy anyway. Thanks anyway, friend.”
                Ferris reached over and grabbed his hand. It seemed to Timothy he held onto it longer than necessary just saying a good-bye. Timothy frowned, confused by Ferris’s action. He nodded a farewell. His grasp was more like and agreement. He let go and staggered quickly up the center aisle, bouncing and swaying with the chair car. He held onto the back of every other seat as he made his way to the door.
                Timothy was angered as the stranger spoke fiercely and rudely to Ferris then disappeared into the next car.
                 Ferris grabbed the coach’s door as it started to close, turned and glanced at Timothy. The expression on Ferris’s face seemed pained. It was an expression Timothy hadn’t noticed when they talked. They smiled at each other. Timothy saluted Ferris, military style, as Ferris walked out onto the platform, and out of sight. The door slid shut and was quiet again.
                I really like that guy. Ferris Morgan. He has a nice name. Seems like a nice guy. Never knew any guy named Ferris. If we pledge a Frat, I hope we pledge the same one. We really got along well. I enjoyed being with him. He swears a lot but that’s OK. A lot of guys swear. Funny, how alike we were dressed. He listened to the engine whistle another warning and thrilled as the train approached then passed the high pitch of the crossing gate signal. He listened to the passing gate signal: tinga, tinga, tinga, tinga, until he could no longer hear it. Just coach sounds now.
                 He’s about my size, my height. If we roomed together, we could borrow clothes. I don’t have that many but maybe, he would want to borrow some of my wool sweaters, I know. I’ll bet he has a lot of cashmere sweaters.
                Timothy continued thinking about Ferris. His hair is curly like mine and I bet this winter the color will change to light brown like mine is now. He had a typical Chicago beach tan: baby oil, iodine, and peroxide. It looked good on him, though. He’s a handsome guy.
                Timothy pushed the back of the next seat forward, put his feet on the seat’s edge, and admired his Cordovan wingtips. You have good taste, Timothy Dexter. He rubbed himself between his legs enjoying the feeling. You are strong guy, Timothy Dexter, strong and hard. He enjoyed feeling himself. The tingling streaked through his body and he squirmed with pleasure against the wicker seat.
                Leaning against the window, he squinted and glanced outside again, at the passing landscape, and noticed the different appearance between farms as they flew silently by.
                Ferris’s face came into his mindand he thought about how much he enjoyed looking at, being with, and talking about girls with his first new college friend. He began to enjoy the train ride. He anticipated the coming college days.
                



Ivy Walls, Book 1, Chapter 1




Book1, Chapter 2 Book1, Chapter 5 Book1, Chapter 10