Liminality – Eric Boyd

May 16, 2026

The judge said, “I’m guessing this isn’t your first trespassing charge.”
“No,” he admitted.
“Did you know this could be charged as a federal offense?”
“No,” he lied.
“We just had a kid last year die on the tracks; wearing headphones, didn’t hear the train.”
“I didn’t have headphones on,” he said.
“You’re a smartass, aren’t ya?”
Could judges curse in court? He wondered. In Wyoming, apparently.
“You’re the third person this month I’ve seen for this.”
Zero and Greenie were supposed to be passing through Cheyenne on their way to Humboldt for the trimming job. I didn’t see them post about any charges, though. I’ll have to ask.
“I might as well ask: why? Why do this? You’re gonna get yourself killed, son.”
Because I got evicted. Because I didn’t have anywhere else to go and I wasn’t about to ask my mother for help. She’d never let me hear the end of it. Because it was fun, an adventure, an escape. Because, while partying in Slab City I got a bunch of voicemails, the notifications going off all at once like a string of firecrackers, as my phone hit a random patch of reception and I had to erase twenty-seven messages telling me she’d died. Because, when something like that happens on the road, you don’t think, “I should stop doing this;” you think, “This is all I have now.” Because I’m not running away from anything; there’s nothing left to run away from.
“I dunno,” he shrugged.
The judge sighed. “Fifty dollar fine, court costs, and I don’t want to see you in my courtroom again, do you understand?”
He nodded. The judge looked at him for a moment and shook his head. They both knew that only the last part would pan out.