THE TRAIN

A long white hair from his nose curled down and strummed the ridge line of his upper lip as he chewed. The old nasty hotdog he must have bought from the dining car was coated in at least three packets of some kind of dark brown deli mustard he had pulled out of his dusty pocket. The emptiness in his eyes, which never seemed to move, despite the rapid banking as the train twisted and rolled roughly over the dark forlorn track, seemed to swallow the dimness of the overhead light. He chewed sloppily, never fully closing his lips and a droplet of mustard-stained drool dripped out of the corner of his mouth cutting a wet yellow track down his chin and disappeared into his beard. The unkempt scraggly patch of silver hair that bordered his face, kept within it, unyielding, any sense of emotion that he could make out; an impenetrable corral of hate that either kept all sense of happiness out or kept his sadness tightly held within.

“Probably both.” he thought to himself and watched the man eat for another long minute before turning back to the darkening window. The train rolled on.

Dotted patches of civilization would occasionally disrupt the bleak repetitive sameness of the darkened countryside an occurrence that had grown lesser and lesser as the hours passed. A staccato of house and car lights strobed upon his face and momentarily stung his night-adjusted eyes. He closed them tightly and counted to ten silently to himself; hopefully long enough for them to pass. He got to one as the train shuddered and caused him to startle.

“Whoa.” he said aloud, looking at the man hoping for— “What?” he thought, catching himself. “Scared me there.” he laughed. Unflinching, the man continued to eat, silent, without acknowledgment.

“Scared to fly,” he bubbled out loud to no one in particular. “Looks like trains aren’t turning out to be any better.” he laughed nervously.

“Guess—I…uh—I’m not much of a traveler. Don’t travel much…as a matter of fact.” He felt his nervousness growing within him. “Heading home,” he said staring down at his lap.

The man continued to eat. The train rolled on.

“Haven’t been home in—geeze…must be twenty years now.” He looked away again back to the window which seemed even darker now. “No. No, it’s been much longer, hasn’t it? Thirty?”

“I think I’m ready though. Ya know? It’s been too long. Didn’t mean to stay away so long. Just kinda—happened.” He fidgeted with his hat which he had been holding for some unknown reason. He laughed and smiled as he tossed it upon the empty seat next to him as he realized how silly it must have seemed.

“Cold beer…Cold breeze rolling down from the hills and across the field next to the house.” He smiled and thought for a second. “My dad—my dad sitting on the porch reading. You forget right?” he laughed softly. “Ha! Well, I guess that’s the point, right? I mean if we didn’t, we’d never want to leave, would we? Never make it on our own.”

The dimmed cabin lights that lit the aisle flickered and glowed softly. “My mother. Phew. Awful cook!” he laughed shaking his head. “No, I mean it. Just awful. I don’t know why I’m thinking about that. Cookies—yeah well, she could make cookies. Well, store-bought dough, ya know. God spared us there.”

“I never thanked her for them. Guess it doesn’t cross a kid's mind much. She’d bake up a batch every once in a while. My brother and I would eat the whole lot! She always hid a few for Dad though.

Funny how time flies. Ya know? My brother. Hmph, what a ball player. Great arm…course I never let him know that.” He looked down at his hands for a moment, hoping that would elicit something, anything. He examined the long lines that highlighted the tendons and blood vessels on his hands. A couple of scars he had no idea where they came from; a few he did remember. “Died in Nam…never found out what happened—A couple of his buddies came by after it was over to see Mom. Guess they didn’t have much to say about it…probably best. Didn’t go myself.” He looked out into the dark landscape, not that he could make anything of it. “Bad heart. Surprised it’s gotten me this far.”

The man continued to eat. The train rolled on.

He listened intently for a few seconds, trying to make out the different noises around him. A hum. A clicking noise he couldn’t quite figure out. A couple having a conversation a few seats back. “Love is wasted on the youth,” he thought. He wondered for a few moments what it would be like to be them. Still young. Still in wonder about the world. He would do it over if he could. “Life,” he said quietly to himself. The man stirred slightly at the sound but continued to eat.

“I knew this guy once. Beautiful wife. Luckiest guy I ever met. Told me he met her at…ah, what the hell?” he looked up at the ceiling. “Oh—Eagles concert, or something. Man, I was jealous. Brown hair, blue eyes. They lit up when she smiled. Like a couple of fireworks, or—spotlights… It’s like she could see your soul or something. I used to find myself lost in her. Made you feel good just to be around her. You know? Man, she could light up a room.” He sat up in his seat and straightened himself.

“Told me once that he saved up all year to buy her some expensive pair of designer shoes, no—it was a purse. Drove all the way into the city once he had enough. So, he gets this bag, and he’s driving home. Sees this guy hitchhiking. Figures, what the hell? He’s happy, wife’s gonna flip out, husband of the year stuff, right? So, he picks up the guy. They’re talking, chatting it up. Next thing you know, the guy pulls a knife on him! Ha! Crazy right? Ends up—side of the highway—no car, no wallet, and no bag! Ha!”

“Yeah. Beautiful girl—Cancer. Yeah." he said shaking his head slowly, he felt the sorrow showing on his face. Hard to contain it. "Did the whole thing. Chemo. All kinds of doctors. Was beating it he said. Came home one day and found her in the garage with the car running. Guess she’d had enough. Poor guy. Guess he wasn’t so lucky after all. You know, you only come across someone like that once. Someone who…just makes the stars align. Makes you forget time…Have to remind yourself to—take a breath every once in a while. Exhale after you breathe in. No, just once. Once...”

The train rocked gently and seemed to be picking up speed. The man continued to eat. The train rolled on.

They sat there in silence for a few minutes, counting the clicks of the wheels on the track. He looked down at his watch. “What time are we pulling in?” he asked, not fully expecting a response that never came. He sat for another long minute, not moving. He slid his hands over his pant pockets, feeling for the hardness of a thick paper ticket, finding only soft skin under the rough cotton fabric of his trousers. Bouncing slowly from pocket to pocket, he checked his jacket and finally his shirt before looking around his seat. Nothing.

“Conductor hasn’t come by yet, has he?” he asked, again not expecting a response. “I hate it when I do that. I must have dropped it or something.” He got up slightly to look at the seat under him. “Funny. I don’t recall ever having one.” He settled down back into his seat, let out a deep breath, and sank into the soft worn cushions. He thought about that for a second. “How many people have sat here?” he wondered. “Counted their dreams on rails clacks? Suppressed anticipation for reaching their destination?” He played with the thoughts and possibilities. “Kid heading home from Basic. Girl taking off for spring break. A mother feeding her baby. A grandmother looking at pictures of grandkids she never met. A precocious snot-nosed toddler jumping up and down disrupting everyone in the car.”

The world outside was pitch black now, the changing landscape only highlighted by degrees of blackness if there even were any. The land seemed perfectly flat and straight now. No curves or hills to affect the train. He closed his eyes and let himself feel the soft vibrations of the train rolling over miles of laid steel tracks, cutting their way through hills and valleys, pastures, and lands he would never see. He thought of the men who laid them; the back-breaking thankless hours in blistering heat working with massively heavy rails, rock, and tar-soaked lava-hot timber. “Unbelievable.” he thought to himself, “Glad it wasn’t me. Yeah, glad it wasn’t me.”

The silence and the faint hum of the air conditioning lulled him to a light sleep which he seemed to wake up from after only a few seconds. The cabin seemed colder now. Many of the overhead lights had been since extinguished by the other passengers; an odd one still lit the seat where someone was reading or digging through a purse for something or other. He felt relaxed and a sober calmness came about him as he sat there silently. The man seated across from him was still eating. “How can a dried-up old hotdog take so long to eat?” He thought for a moment that maybe he should see if the dining car was still open. “Could use something to eat myself,” he thought and tried thinking back to the last time he ate something and couldn’t remember. Must have been ages since he ate something. Couldn’t really remember anything before the train, he must have eaten something that morning. Or did he? His stomach grumbled, but he decided against it; too dark and who knows in which direction.

His mind drifted. “There was one time—God I was so drunk. Half the story I had to be told by my buddies. Superbowl party. Don’t even remember who was playing—didn’t care really. Not much of a sports fan, I guess. Threw back way too many beers. Not enough buffalo wings or chips.” He rubbed his face and ran his hand back over his head. Man, I got sick. You ever get so sick you swear off alcohol? Ugh. Terrible. The wife and I had split. She uh…well, I didn’t know where she had gone. Just up and left. Only time I heard from her was when her lawyer served me divorce papers.” He fell silent for a moment. “Hit me like a ton of bricks. Buddies tried to cheer me up. Invited me over. Guess they tried a little too hard!” The thought caused him to fidget in his seat. He pulled at the hem of his jacket and examined the fabric with his fingers.

“You know when you get that sick and you think about it, and you relive it over and over again in your head? Ugh, I can still taste it now!” he laughed nervously. “Man, I was hungover for, God it seemed like days. Didn’t drink much after that. Didn’t do too much of anything after that really. Lost track of most of them. Some of them, I guess gave up. Couple of the good ones stayed around. Probably should have told them how much I appreciated that. Guess I’m not too good at showing my feelings.”

The train angled slightly upwards, a long slow incline that stretched for miles. He looked out the window. The sky was clearer now and a few of the brighter stars shone through the misty cloud cover. He wondered where they were. He thought about home. Was that where he was going? It seemed right, but for a moment he wasn’t sure.

“The train never stops.” said the man seated across from him in a low gravelly voice, his eyes darting from side to side as he bit into his hotdog.

“What?” He asked incredulously.

“The train never stops.”

The words hung in the air and settled on him thickly. “Never stops?” he asked, half astonished and half surprised that he had said anything at all. He stared back at the man waiting for him to continue. He sat there, silent, almost as if it had never happened, and slurped in another bite.

He looked around nervously almost looking for acknowledgment from someone, anyone who may also have heard him. But nothing. The train rolled on.

He sat there watching the man eat. How long had they been talking? Was it an hour? Was it two? When did he even sit down across from him? He tried thinking back, but the flood of memory never came. It had been a long day, that he knew because when he woke up on the train they had already been moving. He must have fallen asleep right after he boarded, he had been exhausted and when he woke up, he was already there, sitting there with that big old dumb hotdog. “When I boarded?” The thought pushed through him and broke through into memory. He must have boarded; he was on his way home.

“Funny how you can lose track of time so easily,” he said. “We must be almost there by now.” He looked at his hat sitting on the seat next to him. It was one like his old man had worn. Or at least it reminded him of that when he bought it. Couldn’t remember when or where he bought it. The dark brown silk ribbon which encircled the felt brimmed fedora had slightly frayed over the years. A couple of small pieces of white lint shown in the dim light which he, at first, tried to brush off but ended up having to pick off. It was comfortable, he liked the looks and the feel of it. Not exactly today’s style, but it made him feel distinguished in a sense. It was cold to the touch as he found a few more pieces of lint to pick off. He pressed down on the brim to straighten it a bit in hopes that the form would take like it would remember its’ original shape and become new again.

“That’s it isn’t it?” He paused, the thought chilled him. “To become new again…If only we could all become new again. Young.” He looked down at the felt fabric of the hat, some patches worn smooth where he grabbed it and brushed it with his palm. A scratch here and there. Still looked like a good hat though. He settled on ‘broken in’ and nodded slowly to himself satisfied that it was looking much better. Placed it down next to him back on the empty seat. “I always tried to take care of my things. Guess they were all I really had, ya know? Could never let my car be dirty for too long, or my sink too full of dishes. Things. Just stuff. Stuff, junk. In the grand scheme of things, I guess it mattered very little. Well—to me it didn’t…but I guess that’s the point.” he confessed. “What do we really have in this life? Bruises, scars, memories. Banged up body. A thousand painful memories. Things that wound a person, you know? A thing. Now there’s something you can take care of. Something that doesn’t change unless you want it to. I can neglect it. I can break it into a thousand pieces if want. I can keep it nice. I can clean it. Treasure it. I guess stuff's the only real thing you have control over.” He paused softly, trailing off.

“They don’t love you back.” he said so softly the words barely came out. “They don’t take care of you.” He sat up straighter. “They don’t greet you when you walk through the door after work. Or ask you how your day was.” he said his voice growing louder. “Or…or—make you dinner.” His lip trembled his word almost stuttered. “No, they’re just perfect in almost any sense. Except that which matters.” He paused thinking.

“Funny right? You can be a man who has it all, be the envy of everybody. And yet still be lost in an empty bed. Have a closet that’s half full. And drawers that sit empty. Rooms in your big, beautiful mansion, empty and never furnished or decorated.”

“God, I envied those people.” He resigned himself to the thought and gave into the dark place in his mind that he was scared to go.

“People wake up—morning after morning staring at the back of someone’s head listening to them snore, watching the blankets rise and fall from their breathing. Hear the noise of some ruckus going on downstairs, a mixture of dogs and—uh, faceless children. All fighting over a box of cereal, or whatever else they shouldn’t be eating. And then they get into work and complain? Complain.” he trailed off, his eyes heavy now with water. “I could have complained too. I…I would have complained. Or maybe not. Well, I guess I would have. No…but I’ve got stuff—I keep things nice. I like to keep things nice.”

The man continued to eat. The train rolled on.

“I guess this must be boring you! Right?” he said smiling and pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket. He pretended to blow his nose and squeezed his eyes tight wringing the tears out. “Sorry to talk your ears off. I guess I talk a lot when I’m bored…with nothing to do.” The man sat quietly eating still. He looked down and noticed that the man's shoes seemed muddy. A pair of shabby old work boots that had probably seen a few too many miles by the wear. They had left a few muddy footprints around the seat. He could only see a few and thought to himself he must have made a mess walking on. He looked over to the aisle and up towards the front door expecting to see a trail of muddy prints. There were none. “Must have used the back door.” he thought. He looked around casually not trying to arouse suspicion that he was looking for something. He raised up his arms and twisted back and forth in his seat to get a good stretch. He looked back to the door and down the aisle. Nothing. No prints. Nothing. The aisle was perfectly clean.

He turned back around quickly hoping that the man hadn’t noticed he was looking at something. He met the man’s eyes as he did.

“The train never stops.” The man said quietly looking directly into his eyes. He held it for a long moment and then went back to eating his hotdog as casually as a bird flapping its wings.

“What was I going to say?” he asked nervously. The thought had left his mind as quickly as it had entered. He shook it off and adjusted his seat.

“I was just thinking about something. Ah, never mind.” he shook his head. He scanned the darkness out the window again for something, anything. He got up close to the glass and tried looking down next to the train hoping the dim lights may illuminate the ground right next to the tracks, but nothing. A white fog seemed to surround them as the train followed the track uncontrolled. He thought about an engineer somewhere way at the head of the train busily looking at dials and levers. “He must be, right?” He asked himself. Besides following the track, a train does two things, it stops, and it goes. He felt around for his ticket again. Nothing.

“Any idea when we’re getting in?”

Nothing.

He looked at the man again and felt coldness penetrate him. “The train never stops,” he said to himself softly. The man ate quietly, unflinching. He felt empty now, hollow. He tried to remember where he was going—why he was there. He looked at the man and watched him pull the hotdog from his mouth. It had been whittled down to one bite. The man held it gently between two pale wrinkled fingers in front of him as he slowly chewed.

“I—I tried.” he said. He felt the life and color draining from his face and drew cold. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I tried. I tried…” He looked down at his hands. His eyes were completely wet now, the tears streamed down his face. He put his head down and pressed his hands into his face and sobbed. “The train never stops…the train never stops...the train never stops...oh please.”

The man slowly brought the last bite up to his mouth and closed his lips around it and chewed it slowly savoring the taste and texture of the meat. He looked at his empty fingers and the mustard stains on them. He pulled a brown-stained handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his mouth. He folded it up neatly and slid it back into his dusty jacket and leaned back into his seat. He put his head back and closed his eyes tightly.

A few moments later he opened them. The sun shone brightly through the window and a bright blue sky filled the windows of the train. A small cardboard box sat next to him with a fresh hot dog, a couple of clean white napkins, and some mustard packets. He picked up the hot dog and squeezed a few packets of mustard on it. He looked at it eagerly and brought it up to his mouth and took a bite.

The cry from the seat across from him startled a few of the other passengers. The child screamed loudly for a moment but quickly settled down peacefully. He looked at the child, smiled, and said softly, “The train never stops.”

The man continued to eat. The train rolled on.

The End.