The Southbound Train

A slender red ribbon danced through nimble fingers winding around the forefinger and thumb. The ribbon stemmed from a drawing book the woman’s anxious hands worked, no matter if the already worn bookmark would detach. It was better to fiddle with that rather than her hair or glasses or the train ticket protected inside.

Her stomach twisted and pinched, nausea ran rampant since simple tasks made her heart violently pound and palms sweat. The train station was deadly for her. In the station she was a real, living, breathing person with nowhere to hide from cheeky, sneaky, vulturous glares from passersby. There wasn’t not something to glance upon, for people are observers. Observing a face or a body or if the face they made eye contact with smiles with their eyes or lips, or scowls, remains unmoving, looks quickly the other way. Because while people are observers, they are also gossipers who will say: “look at how bland that girl is”, “does she know black really makes her pale”, “those looks will get her nowhere”.

They will gossip for a few minutes then continue gossiping at another's expense. The woman was guilty of such unpleasantries, but the person she would observe and her would never exchange commentaries or anything but a stranger's interaction.

She continued to the platform, ribbon laced between her fingers, silence coming from every step being drowned by the station's bustle. A laser red light scanned the ticket’s barcode, the automated voice prompting her to proceed, and concrete stairs with yellow caution tape plastered to the edges led to the underground platform.

The mustiness and recycled oxygen stung her nostrils as damp air wafted upward from the tunnel. Herds of people rushed the stairs from a recently stopped train. Some ran, others somberly dragged their feet, arriving home from an undesirable job, perhaps to a family who doesn’t talk at the dinner table, the children locked in their rooms.The inevitable workplace disgusted her, but also being pushed out of the crowd for being different, so she settled. The fear of never finding happiness scared her terribly, that living without it was better than never having the achievement.

She transitioned to autopilot treading to the southbound train approaching, brakes screeching. Her heart stammered while fighting through a sea of people until an empty spot emerged. Having her eyes fixated on the seat, she stumbled back grunting irritably as the drawing book released from her hands and spilled to the floor along with a man’s belongings. They locked eyes with each other for longer than she hoped before stammering their apologies. She cursed at herself for being neglectful of her surroundings. While kneeling to retrieve a pile of change, he stared at the drawing book intently, she could not tell if he opened it himself or if it opened upon falling, but she closed her hands tightly over the change, pinching the skin of her palm and locking her jaw tightly so the nerves in her teeth pulsed.

“It is very lovely, your talent,” He studied the open page with pursed lips and furrowed brows. “Again, my sincerest apologies.”

“Of course, thank you.” The woman replied shortly, sliding the change into his hand. She kept a court, slim lipped smile on her face.

“A wonderful day to you, darling,” He traced his thumb over the train ticket, “Elenore.”

Elenore shuddered at the sound of her name in the old man’s voice. A ghastly voice, his was, with an aged rasp like someone who smoked cigarettes religiously. The man’s skin was baggy and wrinkled, he carried eye bags, the black overcoat he wore fit firmly to once broad shoulders.

The incident stretched on for what seemed like hours, but the train had not left the platform. His soft hands folded Elenore’s ticket into the drawing book and returned it with the polite smile that thins the lips, but not quite reaches the eyes, because it was a mannerism taught and followed to not be rude, but conclude a conversation. He strode off without a glance back at Elenore. Then again, she wouldn’t have either. The encounter was over, he would never see the woman again, he had people he wanted to see, she was merely a quintessence of dust in his hourglass; a grain falling into the larger pile where a singular molecule means nothing.

Elenore would have sat, had hesitation not stopped her eyes falling on a small leather bound black notebook that lay meticulously placed on the seat as if planted there, rather than thrown in a hustle. A vision of the man’s droopy face flashed across her mind; he must have placed it down. Just as Elenore reached for the book, the train doors vacuumed closed sealing everyone inside. Peering from the window, a breath hitched in her throat as the man stood with hands clasped in front of him, a mischievous, toothy smile etched across his face. He stood motionless, in a rather annoying way Elenore thought, because if he wanted the book he would not have forgotten it. Instead, as the train jolted to a start, he pivoted and strode away, disappearing behind a cement pillar.

Slumping into the seat resting a shoulder on the glass, the book was examined between her hands running short fingers over the tie and cracking of the spine. Clearly, the man used it diligently. Why leave it? The book must have lacked the sentimentality it once possessed, the importance of having one’s words scrawled onto paper, simply, the pages ended. She undid the bowtie and lifted the dense cover, another page clung to it until she wet her fingertips to remove it. She inhaled sharply. The man’s name danced in sloping cursive across the page reading “Edwin Lintone”. She now had a name to the face, something unnecessarily cared for. Elenore only wanted to read the journal and invade whatever privacy he lost when the book was forgotten.

As peculiar as the man’s actions was the book itself. Nothing on the first page, and nothing on the many following. Only thin black lines occupied them, and no obvious signs of wanting anything to be written. She kept flipping until cursive blue ink caught her eyes. It read a phone number and extension, nothing more, nothing less. How could the book look so used but be exactly opposite? Picking the phone out of her pocket, she dialed the number, the static ring reverberating through her ears. On the fourth toll, the call was accepted, Elenore and the other held each other at a stalemate

“Hello?” Elenore spoke first, the urge to hang up weighed heavily in her stomach.

“Elenore,” the raspy voice replied. “I see you’ve found my book, and well - I didn’t expect anything less - went through it. It’s been a while since I planted the last journal. And I see you’ve put it to use like I suggested.” The red ribboned book suddenly gained a new weight in her lap.

“Enough games, Edwin, where is it?” Elenore snapped.

He inhaled and exhaled deeply at the end of the line. “Patience dear, please. It is only as far as you look.” She rolled her eyes and clucked her tongue in dissatisfaction.

“I have done everything you told me, I have obeyed every direction in your stupid books!” She hissed lowly.

Elenore was appalled by the chase. When the first book appeared on her doorstep, she wouldn’t refuse Edwin’s promise of a prize. Like any desperate person, the bread crumb trail was followed, similar journals were found along the way with dates, times, places, and locations. Except for the red ribboned book that lacked the location of the next.

“It does end today, if you are first to the destination. By my hypothesis, the train is close. I pray you listen carefully. Get to the doors quickly, there are five of you with the same destination on the train.. At the platform, left immediately. There are communal lockers between the ladies and men’s restrooms. Do write this down. 409, 22-24-34. Unfortunately, I must be going. Best of luck my dear.” The receiver buzzed as Edwin’s voice disappeared.

The noise of other passengers suddenly became overwhelming. She was hyper aware of every pungent scent from body odour to the musty train seat, then her vision blurred and fingertips tingled and her lungs would not accept the oxygen she tried gulping down and her lips went numb, and a singular tear trickled down her cheek. The embarrassment Elenore would endure being empty handed, the anger of not being good enough, fast enough, smart enough.

She wiped the tears and patted the puffiness away. After all, the train would stop any minute now according to Edwin’s estimation. He was right. A moment later the gears seized, slowing the train to a near halt. She didn’t bother rising like the others, when one lives in the shadows, passing between people is merely a dance. The doors opened and Elenore moved swiftly amongst the people, turning immediately left. Another man with a notebook ran past her. She watched in horror as the man plowed into a woman, knocking her to the ground, and the man exploded into a fit of rage. His anger oversaw the larger picture: whatever was in locker 409. The end was in sight, a matter of metres; some get caught on the hurdles.

A bright, glistening sign pointed to the men’s and women’s restrooms. A song of victory clamored in her chest but an indecisive thought shot through her mind: what if there is nothing there? Edwin never disclosed the final prize, nor hinted in any books he left. For all she knew the locker could be empty, or there could be a cheeky note commenting on how humans will do anything in desperation. Still, Edwin found pleasure in watching her struggle as he purposely left her hanging for a year, in the middle of the chase, and fed off her uncertainty.

Elenore’s feet lead faster than her sight for she emerged from intersecting a crowd to be overpowered by a wall of grey lockers. Her eyes skimmed the numbers; 409, 409, 409. Intuition jolted her to the running man standing at the entrance of the hallway, his cold eyes staring into her. 409, 409, 409. The locker was the size of a mailbox, a pushpad claiming the majority of the space but black bolded numbers screamed to be looked at. She dashed forward, the man hesitated a second too long.

Her hands chilled against the cool metal and her breath condensated upon it. The passcode glided easily from her fingers as if she used the numbers frequently. The lock clicked. Elenore held a gasp deep within her chest. Only a large envelope lay within. She extended a shaky hand, and grabbed the package to which the weight surprised her. She fit it between her breast and the inside of her jacket, put her head down low, and walked to the stairs out of the underground tunnel, with an astonished look from the man; he held his eyes closed in disbelief.

Fresh oxygen replenished her lungs, the setting sun cast an orange haze over the street. Elenore waved a taxi and within moments she slid into the backseat, gave the driver an address, and the car hummed away. She slid her nail to remove the large stamp sealing the package. Shaking her head, a hysterical laugh sounded from her lips, she had tears streaming down her face. Elenore peered inside, her fingers counting and recounting thin paper filaments.

Warmth spread from her spine down to her fingers and legs. The prize was real. The chase commenced. She won. For once in her life, the deadly sin of greed turned into a virtue. Twenty thousand dollars lay in her lap.