MOBILIZING MOLLY

“Boy, if my Irish grandfather were here.”

”He’d call me....”

“A house molly for lazing around on this fine day. You’ve got to move those limbs before they atrophy.”

“I’m just collecting my thoughts before my next move.”

“Pasting them into an album?”

“No, decisive action.” It was time to pull the pin, “ I’ve had a powerful hankering to ride the rails. Nothing too wild, just breaking protocol. I would, of course, take along my phone and a charger.”

“Pick a train with good Wi-Fi.”

“I did. Seriously.”

“And you think you’re limber enough for hopping on and off freight trains?”

“Been in training.” I had been hitting the gym daily to stretch and bulk up my climbing muscles so a fairly stable ladder on a slow-moving train would be a spider sprint. Folks gathered each morning to watch me power up the bouldering walls, baseball cap concealing the grey streaks that would have really got them talking.

“Cool. Take extra socks and watch out for Pinkertons.”

My duffel bag in the foyer closet was jammed with outer skins to cushion the contusions and abrasions of unplanned falls. I’d learned the layouts and security operations of those few rail yards that interested me, and I had a destination flagged for my inaugural circuit. I would be visiting Al and Kristen, a semi-retired couple in Dutchess County who’d been friends of Myrna’s since childhood. They lived within jarring whistle distance of a stretch of rail dense with cattle crossings, perfect for hopping on and off safely. Technically empty nesters, they usually had someone or other crashing there, often us.

I ‘d monitored the weather and awaited my unsafe word, ‘Molly’ then coaxed it out of Myrna who sure didn’t balk at my disclosure. I daresay she was a bit intrigued. No backing out now. The switching yard was an easy parkour from street level. The flood lights aimed elsewhere; I was free to wander. Freight trains were no longer hobo boxcars teeming with vagrants and splinters. Petty theft and efficiency initiatives had them transitioning to sealed shipping containers, often on flatbeds.

I soon found the exception I’d spotted earlier, a locomotive trailing a stretch of well-ventilated cattle cars with rows of tall crates on locked wheels. The walls were sanded and polished, but a bovine funk hung in the air even when the vessel picked up speed and the gaps between planks started wailing. I found a niche near the entrance with a truck hitch that allowed sitting for brief periods. The jolts, clangs, and sudden stops were a fair thrill ride, even the stray panicky bits. The engineer was the sole crew member (safety last) and wouldn’t leave the cab, even if I turned up on a monitor.

The old passenger train stop in their town’s business district still rated a pause and I nearly slid off there but instead held out for a closer spot, a school bus crossing sign, where I could disembark without an audience.

I arrived mid-afternoon when Al and Kristen would still be out for several hours of academic and charitable work respectively so I scarfed the ham sandwich I’d brought, passed through a garden trellis to the never-locked laundry room and picked one of several chambers with sleeping accommodations and plenty of academic and cultural curios to examine then emailed my hosts with Myrna cc’d to alert them to my presence, “Folks, I’m house sitting for you. Everything’s under control. Carry on.”

Only Myrna responded, “You’ve made your point. I’ll come around for you tomorrow. Don’t be annoying!”

Accomplished and suddenly enervated, I bunked fitfully on the basement sofa already covered by a sleeping bag and multiple pillows. Creaking floorboards, flurries of thuds, plumbing indigestion, and light flashes proliferated as did snatches of music. I suspected squirrels in the attic, more likely fat raccoons. I soon tired of getting up to investigate. Hardly my first exposure to those old homes that accumulate sound effects, the creepy aural patina gained as resident populations come and go.

When my hosts did arrive, they were bemused and super-chill and opening a malbec with that cork remover that sounds like a can opener. When I mentioned that I hadn’t felt alone, there were some cracks about the house being haunted and the cats wearing their clodhoppers.

“Do the lights come on periodically to dissuade burglars?”

“ No. Could be a loose connection. We’ll investigate it in the morning.”

Talk veered to the political rifts in the community, particularly the spectral status of undocumented immigrant workers who kept the agricultural sector thriving but just barely because ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) had become so aggressive in the area. A robust network of social services faced the evolving challenge of supporting this population while not drawing them into ICE traps.

This evening’s mind-boggler was a proud black-soil onion farmer with TRUMP STRONG covering the side of his barn that was visible from the street. He wanted a supply of cheap immigrant labor but refused to paint his barn. There was a case for the trump sign keeping ICE off his scent but a consensus that the migrants shouldn’t be expected to trust him.

We’d all had a long and stimulating day. I repaired downstairs to audition more of the house’s sonic repertoire, though my stream of consciousness soon had me over a cataract. That onion farmer wasn’t even pragmatic enough to recognize the fix he was in how do independent farmers keep Del Monte at bay, qualify as organic, stay competitive in the green market leagues, wow the foodies control pests and time the harvest perfectly without tapping the only labor force that will condescend to farm work and keeping them incognito maybe the ones diversified into the cannabis grey market had some advantage but they were already under scrutiny in a wiser world we’d seek out the folks and the crops that thrived in the hotter, drier climates that were hurtling our way I’m a lonely little maga in an onion patch and all I do is cry all day boo hoo

I didn’t stir until the doorbell rang at which point I bounded up the steps as if there were a prize for first place. It turned out to be a pair of undergrads from SUNY New Paltz canvassing for the Global Wildlife Fund. The magical $18 per month gift in perpetuity would protect wild animals from poachers, if not the safari trade, and the commissions would keep these two in pizza money. They clearly didn’t want to be there and were happy to just collect the stipend for showing up, so I made them linger, “Gotta say, folks, that I save my energy for humans in need.”

“We’re here to listen.”

I regaled them with a spiel about my activist lifestyle as part of an underground railroad for migrants, how I trained my charges as freight train passengers and accompanied those who couldn’t go it alone. The train travel was only for those segments of the trip that weren’t best accomplished by a tour bus, particularly one servicing casinos. Still, the trains had a key role and were lots of fun.

I briefed the pair on the basics of rail travel, advised them on playing nice with the cops, and shared links for the best exercise routines. Val and Hal enthusiastically volunteered for however they might be of assistance. Their excitement was contagious. I took their DEETs but warned them that they would need to be vetted before I could get back in touch. I averred that I had already volunteered too much information on the hunch that they were righteous, but I was no role model. They’d have to be better at discretion than I was.

My hosts had been at the top of the stairs for the duration. They were suitably impressed but far from sold. Al said, “Dude, you remind us of this guy we know, but he’s more of a sofa warmer.”

“He still is. I did come by freight train but I just pulled the rest out of my ass, getting into my Tom Joad persona. I suppose I was partially projecting my fantasy of how you folks and other socially engaged urban/rural hybrids live with your community’s/our nation’s anomalies.”

“We do have some activities that don’t lend themselves to megaphones. Most prominent, particularly since you guessed it, is the immigrant underground railroad. You know we’re foodies keen on locally sourced cuisine and volunteers in operations serving the downtrodden. Combine those and it’s hard not to incrementally ease into the clandestine stuff and soon go for full immersion “

Several years back, we joined a bus convoy for a long weekend of protests in DC and ours stopped at one of the many tent cities in the small parks convenient to the National Mall. We were there the September after January 6th 2020 and concluded that they were Steve Bannon’s shock troops maintaining a beachhead the Democrats wouldn’t dare challenge.”

“Nope, that was our team. We were issued a gorgeous self-pitching tent. Accommodation promises kept. Many of the campers were underground railroad activists and the folks they were taking upcountry. When Kristen told those guys where we live, one asked whether we’d ever breached the gnarly forest in our backyard. Nope, never, but the moment we got home we took the plunge. We’ll take a walk over. Bring your coffee along. We can leave by the basement.”

Al took a ceramic bird off the bookshelf past the bottom step and blew an echoey arpeggio into it. “Ancient Incan instrument. Beats yodeling.”

A similar flourish answered, and a dozen or so young Central Americans assembled before us. Introductions followed and Kristen noted, “Our friends did a lot of scurrying yesterday because your arrival was unexpected, and we didn’t quite know how, even whether, to present you. Now that you’ve all met, they can dress and have breakfast.”

“Sorry if I caused a panic.”

“We need every fire drill we can get.”

A network of riding-mower-wide paths that I’d always attributed to a healthy ambivalence towards lawn maintenance connected the Christmas tree grove, gated gardens, a fenced inground pool, tall abstract sculptures and the barbecue pit. Newly informed of our destination, I first noticed that this lawn mange was dominated by a fat beeline from their back door to that primeval forest.

A thicket treacherous with fallen branches was strung with enough signs for an instruction manual; “Beware of Bears”, “No Dumping”, “Private Property – Second Amendment Household”, “Trespass At Your Own Risk” plus Spanish and Arabic versions. We took an oblique angle onto a clear path that zagged for a bit then went straight through a tight canopy and landed us in a clearing flanked by neat rows of agriculture. Not too far off was an array of clapboard buildings resembling a B&B complex, two of them nicely framing a wide, squat waterfall. But first, “Hola, Kristen! Como esta?”

“Julian, English for our amigo por favor. This is Martin.”

“Lo Siento. “ I said, “ My Spanish is gruesome.”

“And your French?”

“Oh yeah”

“No worries. You won’t be intimidated by my English.”

Julian wore a pale blue shirt with an airborne yellow and black bird of paradise over his heart and L’oiseau de Paradis in tidy red cursive across his back. A Pavlovian trigger for foodies on the farmer’s market and farm-to-table circuits, even downstaters like me, L’oiseau is a standout purveyor of cheeses, ancient grains, baked goods, heirloom produce, and, especially, exotic fruit.

“You recognize L’oiseau.”

“Absolutely. I should genuflect.”

“Julian, may I tell him how you got here?” Al asked.

He nodded. “Julian is a Dominican of Haitian descent raised in the mountains bordering the two nations. In 2013, the Dominican Supreme Court ruled that he and a quarter million more with Haitian ancestry were no longer citizens. Facing deportation, he stowed away on a cruise liner and stole a waiter’s uniform from the busy laundry while merrily whistling. He thrived on tips and kitchen scraps for the duration of the trip but remained stateless so he disembarked in Brooklyn with fat wads of small bills and his first uniform. How’s that for a stellar CV?”

Our neighbor Stacy owns this boutique farm with that sprawling bed and breakfast and a restaurant that’s just this side of pop-up. Julian is the farm’s foreman but has a hand in all operations. He and Stacy are training dozens of undocumented workers for a waiting list of local enterprises and, between us, we’re housing scores, some just passing through. A couple of our linen closets are dormitories with egress in those tight clusters of firs just past the terrace, towering but easy to miss. We adjust for each other's overflow and our neighbors are used to seeing a backyard full of tents for family gatherings. Plus we have dedicated hotlines for emergencies. This isn’t just about compassion. When our nation recovers from this nervous breakdown, the economy won’t be quite so ruined as it would be without theseinterventions.“

More folks, an array of Caribbean, African, and Central American, materialized, dressed alike and glistening with honest labor. They gave off auras of wonder despite all they’d no doubt been through. After introductions, Julian explained that all staff wore these uniforms, the kind you get for a corporate team-building weekend. The sky-blue shirt with the striking logo came with a darker blue sun hat and loose pants to match the hat plus sturdy tennis shoes to match the shirt. They were good fits and varied by season. The uniform of a respected establishment was a tremendous force field when out in public, lots of smiling eye contact that was best greeted with a thumbs up and a quick grin.

I was reminded of that beloved comic’s notorious quip from a charity marathon, the one that landed sideways and left long skid marks, the bit that there was something lovable about the program’s malnourished beneficiaries; diminutive, hirsute, and wide-eyed. He later redeemed it with “something adorably Tolkein about those refugees” and got a pass on it. I brought it up next time I was alone with Al and he admitted to using the codeword Hobbits. Insensitive, but if anyone pried about overheard conversation it could presumably be referencing one’s offspring or grandchildren. Moreover, if all went well, the immigrants’ own kids with that first-generation Wheaties growth spurt would gently tease their abuelas about being small enough to perch on a shelf.

Julian brought us to the greenhouses where Stacy was tending some of the vegetation that wasn’t meant to grow this far north. His inventory of paw paw, mangosteen, pindo palm, durian and countless others featured anecdotes about cultivating a legendary status with the farm-to-table establishments and high-end farmers’ markets, basically by learning what they needed and being transparent about his methods. Once they’d become fans, he would incrementally let on that the enterprise provided a range of apprenticeships to undocumented workers that kept them hidden in plain sight.

This work is somewhat wilder than your typical civic duty, requiring some care and discretion, but it’s a lark compared to the strife in the borderlands and the deep south. ICE is already everywhere with a significant presence in rural NY, keeping as invisible in strip malls as illegals and their confederates are out in farm country, so the caution is warranted. It’s not simmering warfare but high stakes wariness, not without its beatdowns and stray missing persons. Everyone stocked Narcan because those deemed guilty of harboring illegals routinely got powder packets, not always talc, in the mail. There are friendly clinics for care best kept out of hospitals but strict protocols for dealing with them.

For all that drama, it came down to a simple apprenticeship. After a season or so, most unmarried adults moved on to another employer with an employment contract meeting minimum standards, not just the legal minimum, and some subsidy or provisions for accommodation ,clothing, and safety. Each had a starter CV and a letter of recommendation to assure mobility. Anyone who mistreated their workers or acted without complete discretion risked being taken off the green market circuit, which meant joining team Del Monte or finding sullen white teenagers to staff your curbside farm stand.

These folks were part of a truly massive network kept decentralized so no single bust did too much harm. Reaching out was plenty hazardous considering that clerical garb and long hair no longer signaled virtue, and charitable institutions feared even the appearance of criminality. There were some ways of getting oneself recognized by the right parties, ways that hadn’t yet been outed in the Urban Dictionary.

According to legend, the original underground railroad had used color-coded lawn jockeys to signify where lodging, meals, or fresh horses were safely available to fugitives. Neat stunt at the time, if it was indeed true, but too many jockeys were stolen or sledgehammered in the 20th century for that method to stay in service.

Now, there was something similar underway with lawn gnomes. For those on the circuit, the peaked hats are red, blue, or orange (food, lodging, and work respectively) with white spots like fly agaric. For bonus distinction, there are ring toss hoops atop their caps, always black rubber with yellow tinsel. One cannot purchase these anywhere. They are either gifted or homemade. Simpatico farm stands displayed miniature gnomes.

One update wouldn’t be on the quiz. When Al told Stacy of my misadventure, he had an inkling that we shared a friend. Jason, my old grey economy pot dealer with the “farm upstate” and the boosterism for the East Williamsburg immigrant soup kitchen proved another familiar person with the unfamiliar but retrospectively guessable sideline of running an underground railroad depot. He sent his best regards and his thanks for giving him his best laugh in ages.

“Which brings us to... You do understand that this gentleman hobo shite is gratuitous risk and our program is dangerous enough without it”

“I do. At least now I can tell my grandkids that I rode the rails.”

“Also, we cherry-pick our allies. They have a stake in the community and in a moral universe. Those kids who came around canvassing, earning commissions on signing up contributors, may as well be selling Publisher’s Clearinghouse. Any gig that's a shortcut to some scratch puts them at one with the world. If they ever come around again, we’ll explain that our friend has a vivid imagination which extrapolated a quarter mile joyride into daring exploits and he’s now back on his meds.”

“Gotcha, sorry”

Myrna arrived early in the afternoon and would stay the night. We hung out on the back porch with our friends as Les Oiseaux were super busy. Later, there was a splendid communal dinner in the restaurant and cocktails up at the homestead, a warm and jovial affair but conducted quietly including the music of various cultures which had us first swaying then picking up some hushed but exuberant dance moves.

We got into a series of brief conversations on the perimeter. Sweet bunch of folks and, in the hope of meeting again, we paid close attention to their names; Juan, Rosalita, Jesus and Maria. We spoke longest with Ruby (short for Rubitina), a charmer with an exhausting agenda. She had a full scholarship to the NYU nursing program under a rare endowment open to foreign students and was hustling to get a work permit and a job before the semester started. Then she would finagle employment at a hospital that could subsidize a medical degree so she could become a pediatrician.

Al suggested that we four and Stacy adjourn to the flagstone front patio with a treetop-framed view of the night sky. “We should sit facing forward. It’s nearly showtime. But first, note the shades. They’re still dancing inside but the lighting is silhouette-proof, so all our guests are right out here should anyone ask.”

A blaring sound synced to a string of pulsing lights manifested a few short hills away and proved to be coming our way. A caravan of black SUVs snaked in and out of sight with the logo POLICE ICE , some with PO blurred, on their flanks. Kristen noted “Odd honk to the sirens. Maybe reminds migrants of home. They slow down and crank the volume on this block, but they never fully stop.”

“This for your sake?”

“No, but it’s a hot neighborhood. Remember that squirrely cop at the far end of this street who’d yell so loud at his wife that it echoed through the valley? They both overdosed on fentanyl last spring and legend has it, legends being so easy to come by, that he was deep undercover and the Venezuelan refugistas snuffed him. This display of theirs isn’t so much continuing an investigation as not walking away from it.”

“No worries?”

“We’re vigilant and we have ample contingency plans, but you’ve got to wonder why they do their little circuit with lights and sirens but stop short of drones and google maps. Stand back and stand by or giving us cues on a tolerable equilibrium. Dunno, though there’a still that mass deportation pledge to keep our work interesting.

“So, now that we’re in on it, how do we deploy?”

“At home standing back and standing by. We’re just growng the network to scale and evolving roles for now. There is one thing offhand but it’s a rather big ask. I noticed you spending some time with Ruby, so you know what she’s heading into. She could probably make it on her own, but she would be a low-impact houseguest if you think that’s viable.”

“How about you go inside and mingle. We’ll text you in a bit.”

Myrna led with, “We’d need some facsimile of nightwear but not pajamas. She’d have the standard roommate chore responsibilities. Gotta have Bluetooth and headphone arrangements for every volume contingency and announcements for significant bathroom breaks. For landlord, neighbors, and friends –most everyone - she would be the niece from San Pedro who studies like a fiend and won’t get saddled with huge debts and drunk psycho roommates while we’re around. Anything else spring to mind?”

“Landlord will need some kind of documentation for passkeys. We can figure out what to anticipate and whether fabricating some kind of caregiver role is less hassle.”

“Should she be our ward to get onto the lease?”

“We’re really doing this, aren’t we? What these guys can’t answer will take some digging. NYU students probably still have mandatory health insurance. A student ID gets her free city gym memberships through age 24. We worked part-time for pocket change in college so she can too, but no immigrant scutwork, something that can go onto a CV. This is madness. Ready?”

Ruby was escorted out to the patio and a sixth chair materialized. There was a fair amount of eye-darting before Kristen broached, “Ruby, Myrna and Martin live very close to NYU’s Nursing School and their apartment is not very large but it has a comfortable day bed and they lead a quiet life. Shall we try this out?”

“I’m very grateful for what we have here but where do I sign?”

“How about you leave with them tomorrow, say late morning, then you all return in a week and we hash out any remaining details?”

“I won’t let you down.”

“Not a worry. Let’s go figure out what you need.”

We partied a bit longer then spent a few hours upright on the sofa in a logistics reverie. No trepidation, just flexing our pragmatism. The doorbell rousted me again, but Al was the first to answer. That ICE lights pulsed in the doorway and a pair of visored officers in black exoskeletons had passed Al a pair of photographs. He gave it some time but there was no denying the patio shot evidently taken last night with the other side of that doorway for background, “Oh yeah, that’s Martin. He’s asleep. We’ve all had a long night.”

“How long have you known this gentleman?”

Somehow skipping the local color of our being introduced at a Bush Sr protest march in the 80s, “At least 35 years.”

“ What’s his nationality?”

“3rd generation Irish with a smattering of other stuff.”

“And why would he be riding freight trains?”

I’ve inched close enough to breathe heavily on him and get swatted, “12 guesses. Midlife crisis!”

“ He’s committed at least four felonies. There’s been an APB out for him since Tuesday.”

“Four?”

“I have two witnesses to his claims of operating a migrant smuggling operation.”

“Global Wildlife Fund. I was there. He was toying with those goobers.”

“Two left”

I inserted myself into the frame saying “Come on, lighten up. Hopping the trains is Woody Guthrie Americana. It’s how you celebrate your country, particularly now that hitchhiking is banned.”

“Woody Guthrie is a storybook character!”

I brought up the Wikipedia page while narrating the capsule version, “He wrote hundreds of songs before dying young and that includes over a decade hospitalized in New York with a neurodegenerative disease.”

I had the presence of mind to scroll fast by the “This Machine Kills Fascists” photo but the absence of mind to offer to bring up some tunes despite knowing almost none that would endear him to these guys.”

He demurred, “ That’s alright, thanks. Look, friend, we’re letting you skate on this but it’s a dangerous hobby and, frankly, you’re too old.”

“Whoa! Care to place a small wager on our mount and dismount? Couple more trains coming through towards noon.”

“Daaad, he’s trying to cut you some slack. Be gracious.” That was Ruby barely recognizable with spiky red hair, a nose stud, and lime green nail extensions.

“I’m real good though.”

“No doubt. Let’s go home and shoot some hoops. I’ll spot you 4 points.”

Visor up, eyes aglow, voice cracking “You’ve done some things right, sir.”

“Too bad she’s underage and New York City...and I didn’t dress her this morning.”

“Young lady, I’m leaving you in charge. May our next meeting be under better circumstances.”

“Ciao for now.”

After a barely decent interval, “You’re quite the chameleon!”

“Kristen urbanized me. The stud is fake but the haircut was overdue.”

“You sound like an articulate New Yorker. “

“It’s all been hard work. Why knock myself out on everything else and get tripped up over presenting as a Guatemalan field hand?”

“Alright, limber up your hug muscles. We’ll make good time on the Taconic then get you oriented to the neighborhood.”

Goodbyes took forever. As they wound down, Al took me aside, “There’s no denying that you have a good heart, but you’re having too much fun. Don’t forget that Julian no longer goes into town because some ICE boys cracked his skull just to stay in practice. Any remotely consequential decisions must be unanimous, that includes both women. You’ll have a hotline with Jason. Now brace yourself for the long haul and learn to appreciate fear. It’s a talent. Oh, here’s a pair of keychains that transform into brass knuckles – Ruby will train you on them - and someone to tend your windowsill orchids.” He pressed a cloth bag and a red-capped garden gnome into my hands.

The sky got restive and it quickly felt like we were under the blades of a lawnmower. I emptied my hands into free pockets before looking up. While black is the default for helicopters that aren’t traffic/weather this was a bonafide black helicopter with gatling turrets on a 360-degree neighborhood watch. Stacy leaned into Ruby and said, “Wave like your life depends on it.”

She complied as if signaling for a desert island rescue. A parcel tumbled out of the cabin and wafted Rubyward as if steered. Eighteen red roses in plastic netting nestled into her arms. She plucked a small envelope labeled “Open on Your 18th Birthday” and whirled it like a hanky before pocketing it and murmuring “Let’s split before he finds a place to land.”

“He may have a good heart.” Stacy ventured before a pummeling “Ride of the Valkyries” theme prompted “Oh, never mind, but keep waving. And check for a tracking device at the next rest stop.

Patrick Sweeney lives in New York City in the shadow of the FDR. He pays the rent with technical writing and derives nourishment from writing fiction. His work has appeared in numerous publications. Some stories are linked here: linktr.ee/pdsnmo400