On a Freight Train to Hell

He awoke naked, his back on a cold metallic floor. His eyes couldn't breach the darkness, but the steady clang of steel wheels against the tracks, the vibration, and the constant lateral shifting told him where he was. A woman sat atop him, straddling him, he inside her. Her breasts brushed his chest. She moaned whenever the train turned sharply or hit an irregular patch of track. He felt simultaneously confused, fearful, and masterful.

He had been here before, half a century earlier, in this exact place, in this exact situation, awakening inside a strange woman, in the rear of a boxcar, in total darkness. It had been his life’s most curious and memorable adventure. It cemented his Dharma Bum image and identity. It was a memory he frequently invoked, and it always renewed his sense of self-worth.

Suddenly it was over, and she lept into the blackness. An icy wind blew across his chest. He shivered from the cold and mystery of what had happened and what might come.

Moonlight pierced the trees, and through the open boxcar door, illuminating the woman. She was sitting upright in a corner, softly whimpering, her knees beneath her chin, auburn hair framing her naked legs. The strange woman looked like his wife, Lola, who’d been dead for over 40 years.

He’d seen her exactly like this many times in the five years they were married. She’d awaken from a nightmare, retreating to a corner of their bedroom, knees to chin, shaking and crying. It would take a while to quiet her.

Lola had a hellish history. She had been repeatedly beaten and raped by her father. She ran away at 13, was assaulted and impregnated by a stranger at 14, giving the baby up for adoption but never reconciling the loss. She lit candles on his birthday every year.

After a few years on the road, she met a man who trafficked her, staying with him till witnessing his belly sliced open in a knife fight. She fled that town and made her way through Southern cities living on Southern streets until he met her one Autumn evening as he thumbed his way through Texas. It was love at first sight for him, and she said, for her as well. But he never fully trusted her words.

She told him of her past, but he knew there were more and greater horrors unspoken. He just understood she’d known pain; she’d known imprisonment; she’d known betrayal and torture. She’d known hopelessness and living with an emptiness in her gut. He never asked for the details.

To others, she was a broken person, but to him, she was a delicate flower that needed protection, love, and understanding. He would be her hero and savior.

Unfortunately, he was young, and his patience, limited. Their years together were often turbulent—lots of yelling, frequent breakups, and occasional infidelity. Lots of tears. But he has missed her every day since she died, even during his subsequent three marriages.

Lola, is that you? How can you be here?”

Her response came in a flat, muted voice. “You raped me.”.

“No. I’d never! I don’t even know how I got here.”

Her voice grew louder: “You raped my mind, and then you killed me.”

“You killed yourself,” He said before he could think.

“You dared me to do it.” Her voice was now noticeably louder and angrier.

“I didn’t think you would. I was just tired of your suicide threats.”

Her volume now rising, “You could have stopped me.”

“I thought I had. I thought I destroyed all of your drugs before I left that day.” He pleaded.

There was a palpable rage in her voice now. “You were relieved!”

“No, Baby, I loved you.”

Her words, now so loud and angry, he cupped his ears to mute them. “You only loved your distorted reflection. Your self-image was a fun house mirror. I died alone. I was always alone!”

She paused, then in an instant, rose, darted toward him, through him, and out the open boxcar door.

And he stood there, ten feet from the opening, hands on his ears, afraid to get closer, fearful of falling from the train.

And the vibrations intensified, and the clanging grew louder and more frequent.