Green Leopard Print Tights

By James Osborne
Contributing Writer

“Leaves of three, let them be.” -Unknown

I used to own a pair of green, leopard print tights. A friend of mine was throwing them away and I insisted on taking them. They were intended for a little girl, to whom these were a full-length pair of animal print, stretchy pants with elastic cuffs. However, to a grown man with a sense of humor, they were a knee length skin tight pair of rock ‘n’ roll party pants. In those days I wore the same pair of black cargo shorts everyday while I was traveling, and from that day forward I wore those green leopard print tights underneath. They’d become part of my identity.

My green leopard print tights were around my ankles during a drunken ass-wiping incident in the woods of Oregon six months later. I mistook which leaves were and were not okay to use as toilet paper. I’m severely allergic to poison ivy, and as a kid I’d get it so bad that I couldn’t go outside for weeks. I had to spend two hours a night in cornstarch baths and my family treated me like a leper, refusing to touch anything I had touched and using dish gloves to bus my dinner dishes from my bedroom.

Most people react with a slightly irritating rash.  I have a month long Elephantiasis-like breakout. It swells my eyes shut, forms a turtleneck rash around my throat and fuses my fingers together, leaving my hands limp. This time was no different.

My entire mid-section from my lower thighs to my stomach was consumed by boils, lesions and inch-long burn-like blisters, leaving my penis to look like a topographical map of Montana—if that map were covered in pus.

I never realize how much I take for granted being able to touch my penis until I am forbidden to, but when it came to peeing, I had no choice. I mastered wriggling it out of my fly using my hips and shuffling my pants back and forth, but as it got worse I had to pinch the tip to unblock my urethra, which had almost completely swollen closed. If I didn’t use my hand, my stream would behave as if the spray function of a hand held shower head were applied, and on more than one occasion that summer, I squirted myself in the face.

It’s unfortunate that this had to happen when it did because I was about a week from leaving the West Coast to head back to Chicago with six friends. I knew that the trip was going to mean up to a week on freight trains in the hot sun with no running water, but I went anyway.

The first train we caught out of Portland was a slow, shaky grain train that took two days just to get out of Oregon.  The heat was unrelenting, and worst of all, we ran out of cigarettes.

When you are on a slow moving freight train with nothing to do but smoke cigarettes, not having any is of the direst of dilemmas. Smokers are crabby, irritable, mean-spirited monsters without cigarettes. Something had to be done about this or one of us wasn’t going to make it to Chicago.

I can’t decide if it was not smoking or not being able to smoke that irritated me most. But with of all my discomfort, that was the one thing that I was most concerned with. I made the decision that when we got to Laramie, regardless of how badly I wanted to stay with this group, I was going to get tobacco one way or the other.

When we did get to Laramie, a hot shot (high priority container train) pointed in our direction, was sitting in the train yard aired up and ready to go at any moment. This is the kind of train we were hoping to catch out of Portland before we settled for the sluggish grain train that took 2 1/2 days to get to where we were.

Everyone gathered their things and scrambled for the new train.  Though I hated traveling alone, I put on the only pair of sleeves I had, which was my heavy winter parka, and ran out of the train yard into the town to find the temporary solution to all of my problems.

I would settle for tobacco in any form possible: someone to bum one from, an ashtray with butts in it, a butt in between the sidewalk cracks, pretty much anything involving nicotine. I instructed my companions to throw my bag from the train and continue without me in the event that it starts moving and I would meet them in Chicago. I ran as fast as I could, keeping my eyes to the ground for just one good butt; for just one good, long drag.

One woman was on the street, I could tell by looking at her that she didn’t smoke.  Perhaps it was because she was jogging, but then again, so was I.  I passed fast food, a sewing shop, Midas then finally a 7-11 glimmering like an oasis. Sure enough, manning the door was a fantasy ashtray which, from the looks of things, hadn’t been dumped in weeks, just billowing with half-smoked, name brand delights of every make and size, a sampler if you will.

In a fit of desperate haste I shoveled as many into my jacket pockets as I could, not discriminating between the butts, sand and chewed gum. I went into the store to see if there was a cigarette display next to the register, hoping to steal a pack.

I walked in with Travis Twitty whining about some broad on the radio, but no clerk or customers in sight. No cigarette packs next to the register. However, I did notice that they keep their cigarette cartons right next to their bread in the second aisle from the door.

Even in a town that small that probably doesn’t experience much loss from shoplifting, it was rare for a store to keep their cigarettes anywhere but behind the counter or behind lock and key out of thieves reach. To teach them a civic lesson, I slid a carton of Basic 100’s into my sleeve and left before they knew anyone had been in the store. That was a good thing because a dust and grime-covered guy in green leopard print tights and E.T. hands wearing a parka in 90-degree weather in Laramie WY, sticks out like Bushwick Bill at a garden party.

I darted back to the train yard. My friends and my train were still sitting there. Just as the train broke air to leave, I jumped into the ‘48 bucket gasping and out of breath from running.

All eyes were on me, as the train started moving. I waited to say anything for dramatic effect. I then pulled the bounty of butts from my pocket to the delighted surprise of my chums. Their eyes lit up with all the joys of a Christmas morning as they grabbed and fought over the best ones. I waited until everything settled, everyone had a butt lit and all were happy. Then, I pulled out the carton which I thought would make everyone even happier but they were mad. Mad that I subjected them to the butts in the first place.

One of them even went as far as to call me an asshole. At the sight of the carton they all flicked their butts away, spitting and wiping their mouths as if they’d just eaten a turd. What once was garbage instantly became more valuable than gold before it had regressed back into garbage just as quickly.

What’s more amazing is that after all of that, I felt like nothing had really been accomplished. My irritation had just switched directives and I now had other concerns, which were more bothersome than my lack of nicotine. After having all of the cigarettes that I could possibly smoke on the entire trip, my desire to get to Chicago, to a shower, maybe some calamine lotion was no longer masked by the more immediate urge to smoke. Maybe I should have left it that way.

By this time my left hand, from scratching, touching and rubbing, was throbbing with an uncontrollable itch that had left my fingers curled inward, webbed together with blisters, rendering it shriveled and useless like the atrophied hand of a palsied child. I would often have to separate my pus covered green, leopard print tights from my legs, which had the same sound and feel of peeling apart a quesadilla. I had to get off, I had to go to a doctor and I had to take a shit.

I borrowed a pair of nail clippers, thinking short nails would deter my scratching. When I went to hand them back, my friend looked repulsed at my bubbled hand covered in suds of flesh, glistening with pus and said “Uh yeah, you go ahead and keep those.”

Viewing Wyoming from the bucket of a container car on a freight train will blow you away. Ghost Towns, tumble weed, wild horses, like an old western landscape, mysteriously spotted with run down Studebakers every 10 miles or so.

I knew that the train we were on was going to North Platte, Nebraska.  How did I know? Because all trains on this line stop in North Platte, the busiest and largest train yard in the world. The first time I rode into North Platte, I climbed on top of the train I was on and saw a sea of parallels of trains that melded into the horizon as if there it had no end. It’s size is impressive, 300 miles of track which means making sense

I told my friends I would meet them the next day at noon at the Alco grocery store at the west end of Union Pacific’s monstrous Bailey yard.

I walked to the Conoco across the street from the crew change point with one thought in mind -shit. In the parking lot, I was approached by a kid, about 19 or so, who was named James (not unlike myself). I asked him if he knew where a hospital was and he immediately offered to walk me there. I didn’t want to be rude and ask him to wait for me to go to the bathroom so I just started walking.

He said that he could tell by my clothes that I hopped trains and spent the 45-minute walk asking me questions, which I was happy to answer.  I like discussing my life.

I registered in the emergency room as Richard Ledbetter. Since James Osborne has no insurance and has amassed $7,000 dollars in unpaid medical bills, I figured they’d treat Richard with a little more respect and sympathy.

I waited in the emergency room for an hour all the while listening to the other James tell me about his traveling experience following some shitty jam band around California one summer while I thought about pooping

They finally called for Richard after which I sat for another hour in an exam room. The whole time I sat I considered finding a toilet to make a quick poop but I was afraid that I’d miss the doctor and then have to wait for another hour. Finally he showed up, looked at my hands and neck, and with his infinite medical wisdom diagnosed me with “poison ivy or oak”.

Here’s a side note: A first aid guide I had as a teenager showed illustrations of all three plants: poisons ivy, oak, and sumac, beneath which was a hand displaying the effect that each had. The first was a small collection of blisters; the second, a strip of what looked like scratches, and the last showed a flat red patch. It also said to avoid making any physical contact with anyone who has come in contact with it.

This doctor dispelled a few myths: All three have the exact same effect on you. They all contain an irritant-oil called urushiol and if you’re allergic to one, you’re allergic to all. Also, poison ivy, along with oak and sumac, is not contagious. You can use the pus from a blister as a face cream and it won’t make you break.

All of the summers quarantined from my family were totally unnecessary and after finding this out, I hated my family more than ever. Aside from the good information, all he did was diagnose me with something I knew I had and prescribe some antibiotics and some steroids, which I couldn’t afford to fill.

Upon leaving the exam room, I noticed James was waiting patiently for me in the waiting room, talk about not much to do in Cheyenne. Not that I’m complaining because he paid the forty three dollars it took to have my prescriptions filled, let me keep the seven dollars in change and then offered to walk me part of the way back to the crew change point to catch my train to North Platte.

When we were about 5 blocks away the urge to shit returned with an acutely painful vengeance. It had gotten dark and nothing was open in the vicinity. James had to get home, I wanted to ask him if I could use the bathroom at his house but he had been so helpful, I didn’t want to ask for any more favors, plus he lived three miles away.

When we parted ways I had to keep it short. I found out that our time together warranted us hugging because he reached for me with open arms. My bowels, boils and general dislike of physical affection with strangers allowed me only to respond with two passion free and uncomfortable pats on the back.

I started walking back to the clearance point by the Conoco to catch my train and had to poop more desperately than I ever had in my life and I couldn’t stop thinking about all of the missed opportunities. I was scoping the terrain for anything to poop in or on. I wanted to just drop trough behind a bush, but Cheyenne is not a very bushy city. Plus, there were cops everywhere.
Clenching my butt cheeks together and walking like a duck worked, but became painful after awhile so I tried Lamaze breathing techniques while making empty promises to god for a port-a-potty, but it was just too late. A thick warm glob gushed down my leg and into my green leopard print tights while I grunted desperately out loud “Not now! Not now!” I stood stiff with shock. I totally just crapped my pants.

I stopped for a second to think about it. I was still in an opiate like state of relief. I figured that the damage had been done, so I braced myself on a newspaper machine and finished the job.

Still, I had to hurry if I wanted to catch a train that night to meet my friends. I ran to the side of a donut shop, yanked my tights and pants down around my ankles and started scooping out handfuls. There was a lot.

I pulled the first piece of paper out of my pocket and tried wiping myself but I just ended up smearing it onto my thighs. I looked down and noticed that I had used my prescription receipt, not that it was important. I pulled off my tights and shorts only to spread more poop all over myself. I looked at my tights and realized I had to retire them, war torn with snags from barbed wire and trees, stiffened by blood and pus and now covered in poo.  This would be the last home my tights would know.

I walked away from the donut shop thinking of what a massive glob of crap that size would have looked like in a toilet since it’s the only scale I have to compare it to. I also thought of how a child-sized pair of green leopard print tights covered in a man-size helping of crap was going to make interesting table talk for the guy who had to clean them up the next day. I kept walking.

About half a mile from my tights’ final resting place, I saw a guy with a backpack and a bedroll, obviously a traveler of the rainbow gathering variety, and figured this would be a sympathetic ear. It’s very uncomfortable telling a stranger that you just shit your pants, but I really needed to improve my situation. This guy spoke in suburban Ebonics, ending sentences with “yo” and replacing his yeses with “yeah yeah”. I somehow managed to transcribe “I’ll sell you ma’ good draws fo’ ten dollas” into “I’ll sell you a pair of shorts for ten dollars”. I offered him three, he pretended to be reluctant to sell them then handed me a pair of tiny Nike sweat shorts and I began walking without saying another word to him.

I finally came across a creek beneath a city street bridge. When I got to the bottom I ripped off my clothes, except my hat and glasses, and started washing myself off. After a couple of minutes of freezing cold, whores bathing, I saw two bobbing lights as they descended the bridge side, dust paved trail. It could have been anyone, perverts, drunken teenagers with pellet guns, only one thing was certain, whoever it was, was not going to greet a naked man washing shit from his thighs in a creek warmly.

One of the few times in my life I was happy to see the police was ruined with yelling. They shouted questions like “What are you doing,” and “Why are you here?”  I followed with frightened responses like “I shit my pants,” and “I’m sorry, I shit my pants.”

One of them told me to come out of the water. I had gotten most of the crap off but they kept their distance while reminding me to keep my hands in the air, which was odd because I was naked.
. After a bit, he handed me my shit covered cargo shorts and got shit on his finger. He picked up my sock to wipe it off, like I don’t have enough shit to deal with already. The cops searched through my bag, found Richard Ledbetter’s medication which brought both of them great joy.

I showed them my hands hoping to strike a chord of sympathy. They told me that I could either get Richard to come in and claim his medicine, or I needed to produce a prescription receipt within 30 days and the medicine would not be destroyed. I thought about staying in town that night and backtracking to the shit pile to recover the poo laden receipt, but at that point I just wanted to get to my friends and forget that Cheyenne existed.

They left everything out of my bag and instructed me to pick it all up. They then walked me to the top of the path with an armload of my clothes. I was wearing nothing but my hat, glasses, my shit covered shorts and a frown on my face. After they left, I got dressed, repacked my bag and continued to the clearance point across from Conoco feeling defeated, to say the least.

Before I entered I tied my sweatshirt around my waist then headed straight to the bathroom. With hand soap, an air dryer and determination, I got as much doo-doo off of as much of my things and myself as I could and got dressed.

The Nike shorts came 3/4 of the way up my thigh, with my black, dust covered, parka and big green military backpack they made me look like a homeless version of Richard Simmons.

I went to the clearance point and asked a yard worker when the next train would be headed to North Platte, he told me not until 6am. I sat inside the Conoco with a paint can size cup of fountain coffee and wrote this story while checking my watch every 30 seconds, worried about not making it to meet my friends on time.

Although I was cleaner than I was when I came into the Conoco, I knew that without a washing machine and a bath, I was still going to smell like shit so I sat as far from everyone as possible.

When 6AM did roll around, I found my train and fell asleep in the 48’ bucket. I got to North Platte and looked at my watch, it was after 11 o’clock and I had one hour to get to my friends. My train stopped for clearance 10 miles from town, so I ran to the nearby county road and stuck my thumb out with only an hour to get there, intently struggling for what words to use when explaining to whoever picks me up why I smell the way I do. A guy did stop for me but the subject never came up. He dropped me off at Alco with ten minutes to spare.

I went inside looking for my friends aisle by aisle, all the while imagining how they were going to react when I told them what had happened the night before. I walked around the entire perimeter of the building and noticed that someone had used the spigot, which was a good sign. I asked a cashier if she had seen some dirty kids with backpacks, she had, but they left an hour ago. I looked at my watch wondering why they would leave before they had agreed to and remembered that I was in the Mountain Time Zone. My watch was still set to Pacific Time. To this day we argue whether or not they should’ve taken that into account. I had to travel the rest of the way to Chicago by myself, medicineless, friendless and green leopard print tightless.

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