Daydreaming Express

It all starts when you skip brushing your teeth because you’re too late for work and can’t find any gum to help with your morning breath.

But coffee breath should be better than sewage breath, right?

So, you go to the break room and refill your napping Garfield mug for the third time this morning: black coffee/two packets of stevia/one creamer, like always.

On the walk back to your cubicle you find an Altoids tin on the floor. Maybe the whole universe can smell your rotten mouth and is sending you a sign.

You pick it up and shake it. It’s full. One sweet mint pellet goes in and a breath of fresh air comes out. The day ahead is already looking better, but your tongue… it tingles. Could it be a sign of caffeine overdose?

“Anybody mithing thome minths?” You say, raising the tin over the other cubicles. Norman from IT claims it to be his.

“You didn’t take any, did you?” He whispers.

You don’t know Norman that well, but you’ve noticed he has never been caught sober in broad daylight, or without a book on his hands when he should be working.

“Uh, No...”, you lie. You hand him the tin, he shoves it in his pocket, and looks around before disappearing in the shadows of his cubicle on the farthest corner of the office.

How could he tell, right? You can’t get in trouble for stealing a piece of mint. It was just one – and a couple more in your pocket, so you can go through the rest of the day…

You go back to your cubicle, sit on your squeaky chair and check e-mails. The old computer screen freezes, so you ring Norman to fix it. While you wait for him and for your intestines to get moving, you eat another mint from your pocket. The tingling on your tongue gets stronger and your surroundings start to look like they’re melting. Is that what happens when you OD on caffeine?

Facing down on your desk, you take a few deep breaths, and when you lift your head back up you’re alone on a moving train, your desk is now a table with another seat across from you, and the cubicle walls are now booth dividers. There are no other passengers traveling with you, no signs about the route, or train company logos anywhere. Out the window, there’s nothing to see but darkness.

You get up. The floor is shaking and it’s hard to find your balance, but down to the next car you go, and it looks the same as the one you just left. An old man sits by the last window. He wears a black cape over his shoulders, a black fedora hat on his head, and a goatee as white as fresh snow on his face. He’s drinking something steamy from a coffee mug and an orange cat naps all curled up on his lap.

You approach him and say:

“Excuthe me, thir.” Your tongue still numb, “where are we headed?” You ask. Maybe your mom was right every time she told you that if you lie, you get a permanent lisp.

“Wherever you’re going” he replies.

“Me?” You say, “what do you mean?”

“Just go ahead, and see for yourself” he says and nods his head toward the door.

You go through it.

This new part of the train has no travel seats, no table in the middle, no isle; only two things resemble a train car: the two gray doors with a small glass window, one on each side of the room. The car, by the way, is decorated as a living room from some vintage furniture catalog: burgundy and emerald green everywhere, flower print wallpapers, velvet cushions and curtains, and fringe on the rims of the floor lamps and throw pillows.

Some people are standing in a tight circle in the middle of the room yelling at each other, and there’s a man in a suit lying on his back the floor with both hands on his chest. His mouth is blue and his eyes are open. He’s not moving, and an orange cat sleeps on top of his belly.

A woman with rosy cheeks and blue eyes, wearing a blue velvet hat matching her dress and Mary Jane pumps is the first one to leave the circle talk to you. She has your mom’s face. Yes, exactly your mom’s face and voice. She walks towards you and says:

“Are you with the police, mademoiselle?”

“Mom?” You ask her.

“Oh no no. I don’t know you” she replies.

Everybody in the circle, men and women – all dressed like they’ve come straight out of Agatha Christie’s mind, stop discussing and turn to you in silence. The corpse is still more important than your mom’s face on somebody else’s body, so you point at it and say:

“Thomeone call an ambulanthe!” you scream.

“Have you always had a lisp?” the woman with with your mom's face asks you, “Because some people are born with it, but some people get them from lying!”

“Oh, a man has died and you want to know about a stranger’s lisp?” A rich looking man in his forties says.

“Oh well. What we really must know…” the woman agrees.

“What we must know is who killed him!” he interrupts her.

“That is the police’s job, my dear.” She replies and points at you, “I meant to say we must know who is getting what!” and points the same finger at herself.

“He’s been poisoned.” He says, “someone in this train gave him a mint. He’s terribly allergic to mint!”

“Everyone here” says another woman from the group “has a motive.” She wears a long red silk dress, with a red sheer veil draping from her hat onto her face, her plump lips match her outfit. She takes on a drag of her cigarette and lets out a big smoke cloud.

“I’ll go look for help” you say, but they are back to their yelling and ignoring the cadaver in the room.

You cross the door into the next car: it’s the bar car. The man with the white goatee is behind the counter. Yeah, the one with the fedora hat. He pours a black liquid from a carafe into two mugs.

“How’s your first time on the train going, huh?” He says while ripping the corner of two paper packets. He pours the white powder into the mugs while looking at you.

“Two stevia packets?” he says, pouring a small stream white liquid “and one creamer? Is that right?” he asks rhetorically.

He pushes one cup close to you.

“We need to sthop this thrain!” you say, “The-there’s a thead bothy.” you point to the door where you came from, “why is nobody thooing anything thoo sthop this thrain?”

He grabs his glass, raises it toward you and drinks it in one gulp. You grab yours and take a big sip.

“They’re thaying thomeone poithoned him” you tell him, “with a minth!”.

“Well,” he says, “you better get rid of those things in your pocket if you don’t want to be a suspect. You don’t want to be caught with a deadly weapon in your pocket” He points at you.

You fish them out, shove it all in your mouth and wash it down with the coffee.

“Now keep moving!” he slams his glass on the counter.

Without questioning or hesitating, you walk to the door.

Two steps later you’re in a different train car: this one has those travel booths with two seats and a table in between.

A man is sitting alone holding a book in front of his face. A tower of steam rises from the mug sitting on his table. First, you see the cover of his copy of The Idiot, by Dostoevsky, and then you meet the blue eyes looking at you. It’s Norman from IT.

“Norman, what are you doing here?” You ask.

“Do you think I’m the idiot?” He asks.

“Of courthe not!” You reply.

“I know how to count, ok?” Norman says. “And I can hear the lisp!” He puts his book down on the table. How does he know about the lying lisp theory?

Right then, the caffeine finally kicks in and your intestines growl a call. It’s time to take an immediate shit. A freezing sensation rolls down your spine. Your butt cheeks clench in your pants. You. Have. To. Go.

“Be right back” you tell him and go through the door.

Lo and behold, the next car has everything you need and nothing more. A toilet right in the middle of the empty room and an industrial sized roll of brown one-ply toilet paper sits on the flush tank.

You pull your pants and sit down. You don’t even have to push. In fact, you wish you could slow down the lava exploding out of you.

On the wall right in front of you, someone carved a train on the wall, a series of uniquely shaped little turds, the words ‘Daydreaming Express” carved right bellow it. You know that because you drew the exact same poop train on the wall by the coffee counter, in the break room...

When there's nothing left to purge, you wipe and pull your pants back up. You wash your hands, and put down the lid because your not a savage.

When you come out the door with your asshole burning from the coffee shit and coarse paper, you’re back to the office. People are sitting on their squeaky chairs, staring at their old computers, there's a soothing clack-clack-clack instead of the loud screech-schreech.

Garfield still naps peacefully on your mug. He partially opens his eyes and gives you a sleepy wink.

On your desk there’s a book. Norman’s idiot book.

When you grab it, a note falls from between the pages:

Not regular mints.

$5 a piece.

Go home before you start hallucinating.

You hear a woman screaming in the break room: “Oh, my God!” She pokes her head out the door and yells “WHO TOOK A DUMP IN THE BREAK ROOM?”

End.