Missing The Ride

Walter hadn't wanted to go on the school trip. Art and history museums were things he'd prefer to visit on his own. Actually, anything he did, he preferred to do on his own. Walter was not a social butterfly by any stretch of the imagination.

The thing was, his school transcripts were loaded with academia and lacking extracurricular activities that would look good to prospective colleges. Clearly, he wasn't a candidate for the debate team. His assigned student advisor signed him up for "Exploring Culture" and he found himself among about thirty other students who routinely explored the city on weekends.

Sometimes it was a play, usually some off-off-Broadway fare that would never make it to New York City. But their instructor had once managed to get them tickets to a Broadway musical, and that had been a spectacular afternoon. A ballet was always nice; The Nutcracker had been a Christmas treat that Walter found particularly enjoyable.

Mr. Baldwin went so far as including some movies in his "cultural" classifications, and so the class had voted for movies in particular genres to view during class time.

They had attended book readings at the library. Walter enjoyed hearing authors read their own works, but had so far not been compelled to participate further by buying a book and having it autographed.

Walter was an observer, rarely an active participant. He agreed with his advisor that this class was better than most at providing him a way to be a passive participant on most days. Listening, watching and doing his own thing was nearly always possible, and he still got full credit in an extracurricular activity.

This trip, though, was going to put him smack in the middle of activity. The train rides were fine—an open book generally discouraged potential conversations. But this museum tour was to be of the "guided" variety, which translated, meant "stay with your group".

Walter didn't want to stay with his group. He didn't want to be subjected to rows and rows of still-life paintings—he'd rather go downstairs and view the Lionel Train exhibit.

Walter also didn't want to lose the class credit that came with participation, so he packed his computer bag with electronics, and a real book, made sure he had money and his rail pass and went to join his class.

There was the usual chatter on the train, but Walter was deeply involved in his novel and paid little attention until Mr. Baldwin called them to attention.

"I know this tour isn't the number one greatest thing we've done this year," he said. This was greeted with some good-natured groans. "I, too, fail to see what the still-life has to offer to great world culture. But, we shall soldier on, and once we get through that, I promise to take you to see dinosaur bones and train sets."

Cheers. Walter smiled for the first time that morning. Things were looking up.

Metro transportation consisted of trains, busses and shuttles. Generally, Mr. Baldwin would insist on some walking along the way, but it was cold and blustery, and they stuck to the transit route.

The tour, which consisted of portraits as well as still life studies, was as dry and uninteresting as Walter had anticipated. He didn't consider himself unsophisticated, exactly, but it was beyond him to understand the appeal of a bowl of fruit. Sure, light and shadows. Composition. Color scheme. One bowl of fruit would have done the trick for Walter. But a whole aisle of them? Nah.

Vases with flowers were a little better, but still. Walter preferred to see flowers featured in the foreground of an outdoor scene. He thought vases full of flowers looked like an homage to death. Once you picked those blossoms, putting them in a vase full of water was just a means to delay the inevitable. It was a form of cruelty, Walter believed. He would never pick a flower.

Once they moved on to portraits, Walter was a little less inclined to be critical. A little. The enormously fat woman leading the group was possessed of a high pitched nasally voice with almost no inflection, speaking in a monotonous cadence about flesh tones and eye color. One could believe quite easily that she didn't much care for the art, or her job.

Still, Walter found a couple of the portraits to be quite engaging.

One was of a very beautiful young woman with peach colored lips and blue eyes. Her beauty was marred by a scar that started at the corner of her right eye and traveled down to just below her lip, forming a half-moon that dragged one side of her face down just enough to accentuate the asymmetry of her face.

The other was of a hideously ugly man whose features were somehow softened and made lovely by a pair of luminous grey-green eyes.

Walter was fascinated by these, and studied them at length, ignoring many of the other portraits on display. The way the artists had used one feature to bring forth the beauty of their subjects was an amazing gift, he thought.

Walter ignored the guide and let the culture wash over him. He asked for, and received permission to take pictures, and carefully entered the artists' names in his notepad.

Mr. Baldwin gave him a friendly pat and said, "Sometimes it's worth the trip just to find one thing you can appreciate."

"Yeah," Walter agreed.

The class ate lunch in the museum's restaurant. Walter decided on shrimp and chips, but didn't finish the meal. Something tasted...off, somehow.

They went and studied the dinosaur displays. These would probably not be classified as cultural, Walter thought, but they were certainly interesting.

Best of all, the Lionel Train displays, were last, and the whole class enjoyed learning the history of the model trains. There were plenty of trains and accessories to admire, some dating all the way back to 1901. Tables had been set up with yards and yards of track, trees, mountains, lakes, houses, tunnels and stations.

"Ah!" Mickey, one of Walter's classmates sighed contentedly. "Now this is art!"

Walter agreed, but he wasn't enjoying himself as much as he'd expected to. His stomach was beginning to feel queasy.

"Do you have trains at home?" Mickey asked.

"Yeah," Walter replied. "You?"

"A couple. My grandpa has a whole basement full of tracks and trains and stuff." Mickey studied his feet. "We don't have room."

Walter nodded his understanding. "I have a couple of the smaller sets," he elaborated. "We don't have much room, either."

"Let's go look at the minis," Mickey suggested.

This was as close to social interaction as Walter had been this school year, and he smiled to himself as he and Mickey basically swooned over the possibilities of building a mini set in their smaller work spaces. It was nice to meet someone who liked the same things you did.

It would have been even nicer if he hadn't been beginning to feel like he might be developing a case of stomach flu.

Mr. Baldwin herded the group out to the shuttle stop shortly thereafter. Mickey sat with Walter, and they talked about trains until they got to the bus station.

They got separated on the bus to the train station; it was full of commuters at this hour, and getting a seat at all was a challenge. Walter tried to read his book, but was distracted by the increasing rumble in his guts.

When they disembarked at the train depot, Walter went straight to the restrooms, moving at a brisk trot and praying for an empty stall.

The stall all the way at the end of the corridor was open. Walter feared the worst, as he always did when entering a public toilet stall, but it was relatively clean.

Walter was nothing if not fastidious, and he managed to vomit neatly in spite of the turmoil now residing in his guts. Neatly, meaning there was very little to wipe up off the seat. He did this out of respect for his fellow man, and flushed. Then he vomited again.

He'd latched the door, but it kept swinging in to slap him in the butt as he retched. It was an annoying distraction he could ill afford as he tried to aim carefully while the contents of his stomach made their exit.

Finally, after several flushes, Walter stood panting with his arms outstretched and his hands planted on the wall behind the toilet. He considered all the many germs to be found there, but couldn't steady himself enough yet to stand upright without support.

Everything was spinning. He'd heard of this phenomenon, but until now he'd thought of dizziness only in terms of the sensation you got after turning yourself in circles. Now, though, he could literally see the patterns on the tile floor whirling. He closed his eyes, but that was somehow even worse, like he was the one spinning.

He opened his eyes and stared straight ahead at the wall, bracing himself for another bout of vomiting.

No. No. Even worse was to come, and Walter groaned, turned to face the door, and frantically worked his belt loose, unbuttoned his fly and sat down.

The damned door swung inward, smacking his knee.

"Shit!" Walter cried, and leaned forward to latch it. Then he planted his face in his hands and willed himself not to whine like a baby.

His face and hair were damp with cold sweat.

"Bad shrimp," he groaned. The door hit him, this time on top of the head. He sighed heavily and latched it again.

"Ugh...bad shrimp. I'm poisoned. Wait'll I tell Dad!" He flushed the toilet and grimaced as water splashed his buttocks. "Eww! God damn it!" He flapped the toilet paper dispenser and cleaned himself, but didn't quite dare rise yet.

The door unlatched and hit him yet again. “You stupid mother—” He worked the door latch again, wondering what on earth was so difficult about a male/female coupling to lock a door and give him some damned privacy.

Then he was hit with another gigantic wave of nausea, leapt up and whirled to face the porcelain god that demanded he bow before it and spill his guts.

The cursed door banged into his bare buttocks, making him jump, and he almost missed the bowl.

He stood, bent over with his butt against the door, shaking violently and afraid to move. His pants were in a puddle around his ankles. His backpack was still on his back—he’d had no chance to remove it, and it was a cumbersome burden to him now.

He resisted the urge to drop to his knees. Just as well, because he soon as he flushed, he needed to take a seat again. Weakly, he pushed the door shut and tried latching it again.

This time, the door stayed shut. “Oh, saints be praised,” Walter sighed. “Thank you.”

After a couple more flushing and cleanup episodes, he remained seated, pants still pooled around his feet, elbows on his knees and face in his hands. He was shivering, feverish and chilled, and likely in a state of shock.

He was dozing off when he heard someone call out, “Walter? Are you in here?”

Ah, jeez, it was Mickey. Walter made a heroic effort not to groan out loud as he hauled himself to his feet. When he bent to pull up his jeans, he was hit by a fresh wave of dizziness and plopped right back down on the seat.

“Walter?” Mickey called again.

“Walter? Walter?” Some smart-ass in another stall had decided to get in on the act, calling out in a weirdly snake-like falsetto.

“Shut up, asshole,” Mickey snapped. “Are you in here, Walter?”

“Down on the end,” Walter moaned. He was busy pulling his jeans up to his knees before making a second attempt to stand.

In seconds, he could see Mickey’s sneakers under the door. “Dude? Are you alright?”

“Ah, man.” Walter made it to his feet and got his pants up. “Thought I was going to die.”

“The train is here. Mr. Baldwin sent me. We’re loading up.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Walter worked the latch to open the door. It refused to budge. “Hey!” he cried. “What the hell?”

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t get out of here!” Walter continued to tug on the latch, struggling to undo the coupling, but it wouldn’t slide out. “Look, go catch your ride, Mick. Tell Mr. Baldwin I’ll get the next train. I have my pass.”

Mickey ran out; Walter could hear the pounding of his feet as he went. He continued to fumble with the stubborn latch, punctuating each tug and rattle with colorful expletives.

The snaky mocker in the other stall repeated each word, and Walter wondered distractedly how anyone could make every word out of his mouth sound like a hiss.

Mickey’s sneakers appeared under the door again. “If we can get you out quick, we might make it. Otherwise,” he said, “Mr. Baldwin will let our folks know we’re going to arrive late.”

“You don’t have to stay,” Walter said, tugging futilely at the latch.

“I don’t mind.” Mickey studied the stalls, and added, “Maybe it’s not level.” He shoved against the row of metal.

A couple of other stalls doors swung open and voices yelled, “Hey!”

“I spent this whole time,” Walter grunted, shoving against the door, “trying to get the door to lock. And now,” he panted, “the sucker won’t unlock!”

“Can you crawl under?” Mickey asked, and added, “Oh…”

“Maybe if I was four!”

“Yeah, I see that.”

In an effort to discourage public restroom hanky-panky, the stall walls and doors had been altered to extend nearly to the ceiling and were only about six inches from the floor. A small child might be able to go under. Walter? Not a chance.

A tall, heavyset man—one who could possibly defy the higher stall walls if he was so inclined—burst out of his stall and yelled, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you little shit?”

Mickey cowered, but managed to reply, “My friend is stuck. He can’t get out.”

“Well, go get maintenance and quit disturbing everyone!”

From some other stall, the hissing: “Maaayyy-ta-nensssss. Dissssturbing.”

The tall man slammed his hand against a stall door and yelled, “And you knock that shit off, asshole!”

The door slammed inward and bang back out. No one was in the stall.

A little boy, about eight, emerged from the stall nearest the door and threw a terrified glance toward Mickey and the big man before running from the room, crying, “Mom! Mom!”

While Walter continued trying to push the latch open, Mickey and the man quickly searched under stall doors.

Empty. Mickey said, “No way was that the kid.”

The man’s Adam’s apple bounced a couple of times. “What the—?” He turned to Walter’s stall and gave the door a good shaking. “Kid? Come on out of there!”

“I’d love to, sir,” Walter squeaked.

“Jesus.” The big man stalked toward the door, calling back to Mickey. “I gotta catch this train. Call maintenance.” His face was pale.

“Mickey?” Walter called through the door. “What happened?”

“I’m not… I’m not really sure. You heard that guy mocking me, right?”

“Yeah. He sounds seriously creepy. Did he leave?”

“He…uh.” Mickey drummed his fingers on the door, the rhythm very like the William Tell Melody: badabum, badabum, badabum bum bum.

“Mickey?”

“There was no one else in here. Just the big guy, and a scared little kid.”

“What?” Walter rattled the door, frustrated.

“I’m gonna do what he said and go find maintenance. They’ve got to have tools. Maybe the hinges have to come off, or something.” Mickey sounded grateful to have a plan. “I’ll be back.”

“Okay.”

Walter could hear his friend walking quickly out of the room. He still felt dizzy and sick to his stomach, but thought the explosive diarrhea and vomiting was over. He wanted to sit down, but the stool was lidless, so he leaned against the door, the side of his face pressed against the cool metal.

The voice hissed from another stall: “Sssssaaayfff, now, Walllll-terrrr. Sssssaaayfff…”

Walter’s entire body broke out in gooseflesh, and for a terrible moment he expected to vomit on his shoes. That feeling passed, but the trembling in his limbs was incredible.

God, he wanted out. He wanted to sit. He wanted to be home, in bed and buried under about ten quilts.

The latch clicked open with a loud “Thwack!”

Walter’s heart took a giant leap in his chest and kept up a galloping pace for a minute or more as he slowly opened the door and looked out.

All the stall doors were open. He was alone.

He walked to the sink, pushed back the sleeves of his jacket and washed his hands. He splashed some water on his face, then scooped more into his mouth and rinsed the nasty taste away.

He walked back to the stall that had held him prisoner and stared into it. He made his way back up the corridor, pushing at each stall door.

Yep. Alone.

He shuddered and quickly exited the bathroom.

The station was bustling, as usual, and Mickey was coming toward him, followed by a short fellow with a tool box.

“Sorry. Sorry. I got it. Thank you,” Walter stammered.

The maintenance man looked put out and harassed, but Mickey shook hands with him and thanked him very, very much and told him how much they appreciated his help. He went away, then, mollified.

“The train is gone,” Mickey told Walter.

“Yes,” Walter agreed. “I figured.”

“You look like you saw a ghost. Scratch that, you look like a ghost yourself.”

“Mickey,” Walter stared earnestly into his companion’s face. “We did hear that voice, right?”

“Jesus. That voice.” Mickey shuddered. “Yeah, we heard it.”

“I heard it again, after you left. It said ‘Safe, Walter.’ Only, hissing. You know?”

“He said your name?”

“Yeah. But, that’s no big deal. You were calling my name in there, and so was he. Or… or it.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Okay, yeah, I remember.” Mickey was looking pretty pale himself. “But, Walt? That’s just creepy.”

“Tell me about it. Can we sit down? I feel like I might fall over.”

They sat facing the tracks through the windows, talking about the weird end of their field trip.

“My dad will be pissed that the Museum’s cafeteria tried to kill his only son,” Walter quipped.

“I don’t even like shrimp,” Mickey said.

“Me, neither.” Walter barked a cynical chuckle. “Not anymore!”

The boys were watching the train schedule on the monitors when all destination and arrival times simultaneously switched to “Train delayed.”

“What the—? What’s going on?”

Waiting passengers began milling about, looking for station personnel and information. Mickey started to get up, too, but Walter put a hand on his arm and urged him to sit. “Wait a sec,” he said. “There’s going to be a crowd.”

It was true, Mickey realized. People were heading toward information and ticketing booths in droves. He sat down.

The train depot was always loud, but now the volume was really rising. Walter massaged his temples, absently taking note of the heat under his fingers. Fever. Hurray. "I think I really have been poisoned, Mickey."

Mickey studied him, nodded and patted his shoulder. "Food poisoning is a bitch. Maybe we should just call an Uber and go to the nearest Emergency Room." He frowned. "My mother says seafood is the worst."

"Maybe. I think I chucked up everything." Walter sighed. "I know it's crazy, but I can't leave without knowing what's going on with the trains. Why's everything delayed?"

"I can't tell what anyone is saying," Mickey complained. "It's too noisy."

Suddenly, there was a squawking noise overhead; the public announcement system had come to life. "Attention! Attention, passengers."

Instead of quieting the crowd, the announcer's voice incited them all to beginning shouting questions: "What's going on?" "When will my train get in?"

"Wow," Mickey gasped. "They aren't very good at paying attention, are they?"

Walter shook his head.

From the P.A. system. "Attention, passengers. Passengers! HEY! Everyone be quiet!"

This was largely ineffective.

Then a female voice boomed over the speakers: "SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP!"

Shocked silence.

From the P.A.: "Thank you. Return to your seats, please, and we will attempt to inform you what is happening." Then her voice continued, away from the mic, but still audible. "Jesus, people are rude. Here, make your announcements."

The crowd, chastened more by the comments that were probably not supposed to have been transmitted than by being yelled at, moved to find seats. They muttered and complained—but quietly.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the male announcer began, "we regret to inform you that there has been an... incident on the tracks, and for the foreseeable future, no trains will be able to depart or arrive at this station."

A man in the crowd yelled, "What incident?"

Others took up the question, and the announcer called for quiet. "Look, we don't know all the details. There was an explosion. Track has been compromised. We...hey, please be quiet! I'm not responsible. I don't have any more answers at this time. This is all we know. If you have purchased one-way passes for this commute, we will issue refunds."

The crowd was, in general, frightened. Some were exhibiting signs of anger or indignation, but the true underlying emotion was fear and anything else was a mask of denial.

"Depending on your final destination, there may be alternate train routes from Broadhurst terminal. We have arranged for a bus to take passengers there, if you'd like to exercise that option."

Walter and Mickey were both tapping away at their phones, looking at the trip planner sites to see if that was something they could do. Walter was beginning to feel queasy again, but this time it felt more like the cause was fear. He avoided looking at Mickey, afraid he might burst into tears.

Mickey was likewise keeping his eyes on his phone. But he did speak, finally. "Hospital?"

Walter took a deep breath. "Anywhere but here, at least for a bit."

Mickey nodded. They stood and headed for the street exit.

Outside, they went first to the bus stop, but many other train passengers had gotten there ahead of them. Mickey pointed to the Starbucks across the street, his eyebrows raised questioningly. Walter nodded his agreement, and they went to the crosswalk and waited for the light.

Until they had ordered chai tea and found a small table with charging stations for their electronics, they avoided speaking to each other. They plugged in their phones and laptops. Walter pulled up the Rail line's website. It had no more information than that which they'd heard in the station.

Mickey was dialing numbers. Mr. Baldwin—nothing. Classmates—nothing. "No one is answering their phones," he cried.

"Maybe...maybe their service is out," Walter suggested, feebly. "Just the service."

"Walter..."

"Don't say it."

"We were supposed to be on that train."

"You said it." Walter groaned. "Look, he didn't say a train exploded. It was probably a transformer or something on the rails, and everything just stalled."

"Yeah. Yeah, probably."

They both knew they were grasping at straws. The whole restroom experience with the door lock and the hissing snaky voice stood out in sharp contrast.

"Sssssaaaayyyfff…" Walter sighed.

"Jesus, shit, don't do that!" Mickey cried. "I am so freaked out."

"Me, too." Walter sat up straight suddenly, startling Mickey again. "Hey, call your parents, quick, before they think we're on the train."

"God, I'm such an ass!" Mickey was dialing. "That should have been the first thing I did."

"You and me, both."

Within minutes they had calmed their panicked and sobbing mothers and Walter's mother had arranged for a car to pick them both up. Neither had heard a word yet about what had exploded or the fates of any of the trains, and since the news stations had nothing specific yet to report, speculations were running rampant.

The boys were quiet as they waited for their ride, and they remained quiet during the drive out of the city and back to the suburbs. The driver dropped Mickey off first. They had quickly made sure they had each other's numbers and promised to talk soon.

"You know," Walter told Mickey as they waved goodbye, "I didn't even want to go today."

"I didn't, either," Mickey replied. "College prep crap, you know?"

"Yeah."

Mickey sat with his family watching the news most of the night as the story unfolded. It seemed that a circuit breaker in a transformer shorted out the lines and caused a chain reaction series of half a dozen explosions that derailed six different trains on the line.

Train number 1408—the train Walter and Mickey should have been on—was passing that same transformer when it went up, and the entire thing was blown to bits.

Inspections were planned to determine whether the circuit breaker was defective or if some sort of tampering was to blame.

Walter sat huddled in the corner of the sofa, knees drawn up to his chest. He still felt sick from the bad shrimp, but the sickness he felt over the loss of his classmates on the train was so much bigger and more powerful that he hardly noticed the distress in his lower intestinal tract until he had to bolt out of his seat and make a run for the bathroom.

When he finally returned to the family room, his father was waiting and ready to take him to the emergency room. "You've definitely got food poisoning, pal. Get your coat."

"It doesn't matter, Dad," Walter said. "Puking my guts saved my life today. I don't think this is gonna kill me."

Still, he got his coat, and followed his father out to the car.

**~**

Mickey came to see him in the hospital the next morning. "Well?"

"E-Coli strain." Walter's IV line fed him antibiotics and fluids. He was less feverish and pale than he had been, but he still didn't look great.

"Crap. Sorry." Mickey smiled sadly. "But not really sorry, if you know what I mean."

"Glad you stayed with me, man."

"That voice..."

"God, I heard it in my dreams all night." Walter shuddered.

"Me, too. But... the door, dude. That lock. Was it...?"

"The voice? Dude...I don't know. Something kept us off that train."

"That voice, though... it's just... weird, ya know? To think that something that sounded so damned... I'm just going to say it: scary."

"It scared me, too. But...Mick, I think it did, dude. I think it all sort of...what? Conspired?"

"Yeah."

"God, I wish..." Walter turned his head and stared at the wall.

"What?"

"I wish I would have thought to ask them to wait."

"Stop it," Mickey ordered. "We didn't know."

What they both knew now was survivors' guilt is a thing. They were glad to be alive; they felt awful that they were alive and their classmates and teacher were gone.

"My sister asked me how I missed the train," Mickey said. "I told her my buddy was taking a dump."

They laughed. Hard. It felt good and bad at the same time. "Jeez," Walter gasped. "We need therapy."

"Yeah."

After Mickey left, Walter was alone in the room. He struggled against sleep, fearing the nightmares he knew would come. Nightmares of getting on the train. Nightmares of being still locked in the bathroom stall. Nightmares of a hissing voice.

The voice that came now, from the far corner of the room, just as Walter was slipping into a troubled doze: "Ssssaaaayyyffff, Wall-terrrr…."

Walter sat up straight and covered his mouth to muffle the screams.

End

This story was previously published on October 30, 2020 in the following Anthology:

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