It was one of those slow-burning summer Saturdays on the Southside of Minneapolis, the kind where the sun sat high and heavy, soaking everything in a golden haze. The cicadas were humming like a choir with no conductor, and the air smelled like hot concrete and fresh-cut grass. Michael leaned back on the steps of Ricky’s house, resting his elbows on the warm steps. He had one foot planted on the ground and the other stretched out across the sidewalk like he had nowhere to be—which, truth be told, he didn’t.
Ricky sat beside him, popping sunflower seeds and spitting the shells onto the lawn. He wore his favorite Twins cap turned backward and a loose t-shirt with a faded James Brown print.
“Man,” he sighed, “ain’t nothin’ to do.”
Michael squinted at the sky.
“We could go down to Powderhorn. Maybe shoot hoops?”
Ricky shook his head.
“Nah. Done that yesterday, and the court’s probably packed. Plus, I ain’t tryin’ to sweat like that today.”
They fell into silence again, letting the stillness of the afternoon wrap around them like a warm blanket. A record played faintly from a nearby open window—The Five Stairsteps, O-o-h Child— pulsing in rhythm with the heat. Then, around the corner came Jeff and Bobby, riding their Stingray bikes like they were in some kind of slow-motion race.
Jeff, tall and lanky, had an old transistor radio strapped to his handlebars, blasting “The Love You Save.” Bobby followed, popping a wheelie just to show off.
“Ay!” Jeff called out. “What y’all up to?”
“Nothin.” Michael said, standing up to stretch. “Tryin’ to think of somethin’.”
“Man, do y’all ever do anything?” Bobby joked as he skidded to a stop.
“Only when it don’t involve breakin’ a sweat,” Ricky grinned.
The four of them sat on the steps, trading jokes and stories about school, girls, and which candy bar was the king of them all (Bobby swore by Reese’s, while Michael was loyal to Milky Way). For a while, the conversation drifted like the summer breeze—easy and aimless. Then Jeff leaned forward, eyes lit with a spark.
“Y’all remember those old railroad tracks over on 28th Street? I heard they found some old train cars back there. Real old ones, like from the 1940s or somethin’.”
Michael raised an eyebrow.
“How you hear that?”
“Man, my cousin Reggie told me. Said they got graffiti from back in the day and everything. Like a time capsule.”
Ricky looked intrigued.
“We could check it out. Ain’t but a ten-minute ride.”
Bobby jumped to his feet.
“I’m down. Could be like an adventure—like Scooby-Doo but, you know, Black.”
They all laughed and grabbed their bikes, with Michael borrowing Ricky’s little brother’s ride. The tires squeaked as they pedaled through their neighborhood, past corner stores with dusty windows, then crossed Lake Street with it’s X-rated theaters, and massage parlors. As they neared the edge of the old rail yard, the houses grew sparser and the weeds taller.
Rusted fences bordered the tracks, and the faint hum of traffic sounded distant, like another world. There they were—three train boxcars, sun-bleached and covered in layers of paint, protest slogans, and names scrawled across the sides in bold, looping letters. They dropped their bikes and ran up to them, eyes wide.
One door hung open just enough for them to squeeze through. Inside, dust motes floated in the sunbeams slipping through cracks in the wood. It smelled like old metal and forgotten stories. Michael ran his hand along the wall.
“You think hobos used to sleep in here?”
“Probably,” Ricky said. “Or maybe people just hid out. My uncle said folks used to hop trains when they couldn’t afford a bus ticket.”
Jeff pointed to a corner.
“Look! Somebody carved a heart in the wood. Says ‘T + M, 1958.’ That’s the year we were born. That’s wild.”
They spent the next hour exploring each car like archaeologists. Ricky found an old, rusted wrench under a bench. Bobby swore he saw a ghost face in one of the windows, but then realized it was just his reflection.
When the sun started dipping low, casting long shadows across the yard, they sat on top of the middle train car, legs dangling over the edge. Michael looked out over the tracks, and thought about how trains ran on them in the olden days. Freight trains carrying a bunch of cargo, and probably people, hitching a ride, who didn’t have anything else to do but ride the trains.
“This was a good idea,” he said, nodding at Jeff.
Jeff smirked.
“Told y’all. Gotta trust the tall guy.”
The four boys laughed, the kind of laughter that echoes deep and stays with you.
As the sky turned a dusky purple, they rode home slow, their shadows stretching long behind them. And though they’d never say it out loud, each of them knew they’d always remember that lazy Saturday afternoon when nothing became something. A moment frozen in the heat of a 1970 summer—etched in their minds like names carved on an old boxcar.