Train Tract 0204 (Part Two)
To read Part One, go to Train Tract 0204 (Part One)
Train Tract 0204 (Part Two)
The sun is directly ahead, so I look left and right. I drive conscientiously, with my chin up and my back straight. Whenever the horrified pedestrians flail their arms wildly, shaping Vs and Xs, I wave and smile. I follow the center line as we pass through a quiet part of town. Business owners are still ghosting about behind closed doors. On my left I admire the pink and white pansies crowding window boxes before the brick facade of an insurance agency. Next door, a woman peeks through curtains in a tastefully decorated pet grooming shop. I lose a stop light in the sun, and I suspect that I may have clipped a pedestrian, but it’s hard to see behind the train. On my right, there’s a small market with an OPEN sign. I pull over and consider picking up some orange juice, maybe a muffin. My passengers are looking up from their laps and newspapers. I see a few frowns, so I open the right side window and lean outside. A man is running up the street toward the train. I wonder if he is the person I hit. I’m not sure whether or not my insurance would cover the incident, so I bounce back into my seat and pass up the snack.
As we head away from the center of town, the bothersome sun bleaching the windshield, I notice a large brick building on which the words WHITE RUBBER CO. MECHANICAL RUBBER GOODS had been stenciled a hundred years ago. This is a well-known landmark. I have passed it many times while driving on the North-South Thruway which rolls along the top of the ridge before me. In shade at last, I turn south, following an access road that skirts the base of the ridge for a few miles. I know that high above us, families and college kids and truckers and terrorists are gliding on modified asphalt. Then minutes later, I see a tunnel in the ridge, and on a whim I maneuver inside.
I have taken the route to blackness. Unsure of the way, I release the lever and coast. In the dark, it is impossible to know if we are drifting or still. Even the light inside the train does not penetrate the dark outside. I am breathing rapidly. I listen for sounds beyond the windows, but hear only the air moving through a vent above my head. I wrench the lever away from my body, hoping to back out slowly, but the way seems blocked. The engines struggle against an immovable force, and I release the lever. In the mirror, I blink at the concerned faces. There is language in my right ear, a sort of percussive beating, the wings of an insect or air in the bottom of a beaten drum. I am reminded of the barometers we made in elementary school. We stretched rubber skins over mason jars, secured them with rubber bands, and taped straws to the skins. I never really knew what the contraptions were supposed to do. I blink again, and the language is the English of a South Asian native. It seems too close. I turn to find my door ajar. Except for the reflection of fluorescent light in his silver hair, the man is a flat shadow. Next to him stands a young blonde fellow. Both men wear gray sports coats. The blonde man straightens his yellow tie.
“We know a better way,” says the Indian gentleman. His forehead skips forward from the shadow and I see the sweat like diamonds. Beneath his sports coat, he wears a white cashmere sweater.
“If you continue this way, you’ll come to an intersection,” says the blonde man. “Then you turn right.”
I tell them that the headlights aren’t working.
“Not a problem,” says the Indian man. “I’ve got a flashlight.”
“We'll guide you,” says his companion.
The Indian steps back and smiles, waiting. It all seems a bit odd, and I consider dashing past these men to resume my passenger status in the seat I vacated half an hour earlier. But over their shoulders, I see expectant faces, as if the passengers look to us to put our train back on track. Realizing that my joy ride has ended, I nod. The Indian man turns and leaves. I stare at the windshield and in a moment I see his flashlight zigzagging in the glass. The blonde man leans over and sets his right hand on my seat back. “Okay, now ease ‘er forward,” he whispers in my ear and pats my shoulder. “We’ll be home for supper.”
Train Tract 0204 (Part Two)
The sun is directly ahead, so I look left and right. I drive conscientiously, with my chin up and my back straight. Whenever the horrified pedestrians flail their arms wildly, shaping Vs and Xs, I wave and smile. I follow the center line as we pass through a quiet part of town. Business owners are still ghosting about behind closed doors. On my left I admire the pink and white pansies crowding window boxes before the brick facade of an insurance agency. Next door, a woman peeks through curtains in a tastefully decorated pet grooming shop. I lose a stop light in the sun, and I suspect that I may have clipped a pedestrian, but it’s hard to see behind the train. On my right, there’s a small market with an OPEN sign. I pull over and consider picking up some orange juice, maybe a muffin. My passengers are looking up from their laps and newspapers. I see a few frowns, so I open the right side window and lean outside. A man is running up the street toward the train. I wonder if he is the person I hit. I’m not sure whether or not my insurance would cover the incident, so I bounce back into my seat and pass up the snack.
As we head away from the center of town, the bothersome sun bleaching the windshield, I notice a large brick building on which the words WHITE RUBBER CO. MECHANICAL RUBBER GOODS had been stenciled a hundred years ago. This is a well-known landmark. I have passed it many times while driving on the North-South Thruway which rolls along the top of the ridge before me. In shade at last, I turn south, following an access road that skirts the base of the ridge for a few miles. I know that high above us, families and college kids and truckers and terrorists are gliding on modified asphalt. Then minutes later, I see a tunnel in the ridge, and on a whim I maneuver inside.
I have taken the route to blackness. Unsure of the way, I release the lever and coast. In the dark, it is impossible to know if we are drifting or still. Even the light inside the train does not penetrate the dark outside. I am breathing rapidly. I listen for sounds beyond the windows, but hear only the air moving through a vent above my head. I wrench the lever away from my body, hoping to back out slowly, but the way seems blocked. The engines struggle against an immovable force, and I release the lever. In the mirror, I blink at the concerned faces. There is language in my right ear, a sort of percussive beating, the wings of an insect or air in the bottom of a beaten drum. I am reminded of the barometers we made in elementary school. We stretched rubber skins over mason jars, secured them with rubber bands, and taped straws to the skins. I never really knew what the contraptions were supposed to do. I blink again, and the language is the English of a South Asian native. It seems too close. I turn to find my door ajar. Except for the reflection of fluorescent light in his silver hair, the man is a flat shadow. Next to him stands a young blonde fellow. Both men wear gray sports coats. The blonde man straightens his yellow tie.
“We know a better way,” says the Indian gentleman. His forehead skips forward from the shadow and I see the sweat like diamonds. Beneath his sports coat, he wears a white cashmere sweater.
“If you continue this way, you’ll come to an intersection,” says the blonde man. “Then you turn right.”
I tell them that the headlights aren’t working.
“Not a problem,” says the Indian man. “I’ve got a flashlight.”
“We'll guide you,” says his companion.
The Indian steps back and smiles, waiting. It all seems a bit odd, and I consider dashing past these men to resume my passenger status in the seat I vacated half an hour earlier. But over their shoulders, I see expectant faces, as if the passengers look to us to put our train back on track. Realizing that my joy ride has ended, I nod. The Indian man turns and leaves. I stare at the windshield and in a moment I see his flashlight zigzagging in the glass. The blonde man leans over and sets his right hand on my seat back. “Okay, now ease ‘er forward,” he whispers in my ear and pats my shoulder. “We’ll be home for supper.”
posted by Wayne Moon | 1:18 AM
2 Comments:
I think I know where this is going...
Thanks, PJR. You've restored my faith in faithlessness, shaken my blossoms, and rerooted my timber in your sterile soil. From here on out, it's nothing but reality television for me (because I now accept that we'll never have a President Bartlett in the West Wing).
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