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Display a printable version Reflections
She sat down on a bench and stared out across the station, its walls covered in graffiti, litter drifting across it on the wind. It was as empty and dirty as she felt. She was only twenty-eight, but she felt tired and used like the last sliver of soap in a dish. Her hands were worn and dried out from the sanitizer in the kitchen and her body felt like it was draped in wet towels. It was almost too much to walk the six blocks to the station at the end of the every night. From her bag she pulled out a worn composition book and flipped idly through the pages of her novel. As with every other night for the past few months, no inspiration came to her; they were nothing but dead words on the paper. Aggie graduated from college years ago, a double major in literature and creative writing. At the time she had been full of ideas and inspiration, writing prolifically about everything she could; now, thinking back, Aggie snorted at what she had thought then. She had held dreams of being the next 'great American author', exploding into print like a sun going nova; now the idea was almost enough to drive her to fits of bitter laughter as she leafed through what was supposed to be her greatest achievement. Her mind wandered away from the dull words on their pages, back to a year and a half ago when she had walked into Glen's Good Diner after seeing their "Help Wanted" sign. She told herself that it was just a temporary job to make a little bit of extra cash while she finished her novel. Then she met Scott. Her eyes drifted from the book, settling on the steel rails that gleamed like silver spines under the lights of the terminal. Scott brought a light into her life she hadn't felt before. Aggie could still remember his eyes, the way his crooked teeth fit perfectly in his smile, the smell of his sweat. Her mind clung to those memories as if they were the only way out of this moribund life. He was gone and his death killed her creative spark; she hadn't worked on her novel since, despite carrying it around with her like a pilgrim's burden. Seeing the wreckage of his car ended something inside of her even though the rain washed the inevitable blood away. "Excuse me," a voice said above her, bringing her back to her miserable reality with a start. As her hand dipped into her bag for her pepper spray, she looked up into the face of an embarrassed old man. His hair was white as fresh snow and wreathed his head like a halo. His skin was an old person's yellow, like ancient book pages, and his eyes were a soft blue behind the glasses perched on his nose. He was dressed in shades of brown, all of which had seen better days, and in one hand he held a dark gray fisherman's cap and in the other an old suitcase, the silver handles gleaming in the night. His face was shyly apologetic and his eyes had the tired sadness of a martyr. "I'm sorry, miss, I didn't mean to scare you," he said quietly. "No, it's ok, I was just lost in thought," Aggie said. She kept her hand on the pepper spray. "Would you mind if I sat next to you?" he asked, his voice gentle and miserable, the look on his face pathetic. She looked around at the empty platform. There was plenty of open space but, for some reason, she looked into his hopeful face and moved over for him. He sat down next to her. "Much obliged." They sat quietly for a while, the red LED clocks overhead marching their way towards midnight. Aggie wondered, not for the first time, if taking a new shift would improve her life. Perhaps if she got up early, did the day shift, she'd be able to start making moves towards "normal" again. She would have a regular day. Maybe she would be able to get out when other people were about. She'd tried going out after she had been moved to swing shift, after Scott, but it always felt like the night was used up, like everyone had their way with it and left the unwanted remnants behind for her. "So...are you waiting for the train?" he asked unexpectedly Aggie's mind snapped back to the present, her eyes still riveted on the tracks. The question was ridiculous to the extreme. They were sitting in a train station; what the fuck else could she possibly be waiting for? She looked around and said sarcastically, "Nope, thought I'd catch a parade. Maybe see a few juggling clowns or an elephant or two." He smiled softly and bowed his head, "I'm sorry...it's been a while since I've made conversation." "Really?" she asked acidly. What the fuck was it with these types? Why did they always sit down next to her and open up like she's their new, special friend? Damn non-consensual conversations. "Yes," he stated with a nod before continuing, not understanding or possibly ignoring her sarcasm. "Twelve years ago my Rachael finally passed on. It'd been a long time coming but I think that only makes it more horrible. Most people get to remain ignorant of the time they have left and that gives them a bit of freedom. Rachael wasn't lucky like that. Once the doctors diagnosed the cancer it was just four days shy of the three year mark when she finally let go, each day was just another in a horrible countdown until the end. "Rachael was...well, she was the most incredible woman I'd seen," he reminisced. "But the thing that got me, that sealed the deal, was her voice. She could sing like no one I ever heard before, with a clarity and a...a purity that you could swear you heard angels crying because of how beautiful it was. "It was painfully ironic that the cancer would start in her throat, a tumor growing in her esophagus," he said as she turned to look at him, her annoyance fading beneath the heartfelt honesty and pain. "The surgery took her voice away, but not the cancer. It had already spread; the doctors said it was incurable. It is to my utter shame that those last three years were selfishly the worst of my life. I should've been doing what I could to make the most of the time I had left with her. That was a lesson I didn't learn until it was much too late." Aggie waited for him to continue but he was silent as he settled back against the bench, his body deflating slightly as if that story had been the only thing keeping it up. "Why are you telling me this?" she asked, frowning. He smiled as he looked up at her, his eyes wet behind his glasses, "Judging by your look I'm thinking you'd understand. I wanted to tell someone and I'm pretty sure you're probably going to be the last living person I ever see." Aggie was off of the bench in a flash, leaping away from the old man. She spun on him, her hand brandishing the pepper spray. "What the hell is it with you people?" she shouted. The old man's eyes widened and he leaned away from Aggie at her outburst. "I have had the worst day in the history of worst days and now I've got some nut-bar making it worse by telling me sob stories like I'm his goddamn shrink before he offs himself. God, you people are so fucking selfish it makes me sick!" The man was speechless for a moment before he leaned forward and said, his voice horrified, "Miss, you think I'm going to harm myself?" "You're in a train station in the middle of the night, and you just told me that I was going to be the last living person who ever saw you so, yeah, I think it's a pretty fair assumption." The man vigorously shook his head and replied, "Miss, I apologize for leading you to that conclusion, I can see how I've done that, but I promise you that I do not mean to kill myself here or on any other night. Rachael would be sorely disappointed in me if I ever did do something so foolish." "But you just said-" The man stopped her with a look and interjected, "I understand what I said, but it wasn't what I meant. What was the question I asked you?" "What?" "After I sat down, what was the first question I asked you?" Puzzled by this twist in the conversation, Aggie frowned, "You asked me if I was waiting for the train." "Well, are you?" "Of course I'm waiting for the train!" Aggie's voice rose in frustration. "We're in a train station in the middle of the night; what else would I be waiting for?" "I didn't mean the last train," the man said with a smile. "I meant the Ghost Train." The oddness and surety of the statement gave Aggie pause. "The what?" "The Ghost Train." The old man went on to explain that the Ghost Train was a locomotive that traveled all over the world, stopping at thirteen different locations each night, pulling in to each station at 12:01 exactly. The engine of the Ghost Train was the engine from the first train that ever had its boiler explode. It was made from old bones stained black with the souls that had died in that first explosion. Its thirteen cars were from different eras and no one could say why they were so mismatched. Its conductor was said to be the Lindbergh Baby, all grown old. The faces of the staff were the faces of the first person whose death the viewer took delight in. Stories about the Ghost Train said that before locomotives it was a spectral wagon train and before that a set of barges; no one knew what it was before that. "And they say that if a person who loved someone with all their soul sits in one of the passenger cars set aside for the living they'll see the reflection of that loved one in the window beside them," the old man said with a catch in his voice. "It's been twelve years since the light in my life left me and...and I've begun to forget things." His voice was horrible as he looked up at her, thick with guilt and fresh grief, and it echoed the hurt and shame in Aggie's heart, "I've forgotten what she smelled like, the sound of her laughter. Every morning she'd call me downstairs to breakfast and every night she'd tell me that dinner was ready and I can't remember how she said it. "I'm not sure how tall she was and I can't picture what her hair looked like in dawn's sun or the moon's light. The only things I have to remind me of her are a tape recording of her church choir and some fading pictures. I...I lost her once and now I lose her a bit more each day and I can't go through it. I can't, and I'm afraid of what I might do if it doesn't stop." They were both quiet a while, the man silent while he composed himself and closed the doors to his soul; Aggie was dumbstruck by what she had just been allowed to witness and how much it resonated with her. "How do you get on this train?" she asked as she looked up at the digital clock above their bench. It was two minutes to midnight. "The cost of admission varies. It depends on who you are, and where you're going." the man said. "A fellow I knew, an old conductor who worked for the Pacific Rail Company years and years ago, said that if a destitute person gave their last dollar, they could take the train back to fix the mistake that had ruined their life. A gentleman in Memphis told me he had worked the Ghost Train for a year and a day after buying a ticket with the memory of hurting his best friend; he also said that even with all he saw and learned that he'd take that memory back if he could. A man from Tallahassee said that a musician could ride the rails and join the band in the canteen car if they really gave up hope of ever becoming famous through their music." "And what about you?" Aggie asked as she sat back down next to the old man. The clock read that it was midnight. "Why, I just paid," he said as he held out the ticket to her. It looked old but it wasn't fragile, the paper still stiff and firm. It was about two inches wide, four across, and looked like something that might be given to someone boarding a train to the Wild West. It had the man's name printed on it, Earl Stevens, and the fee for the ticket was listed as twenty dollars and seven cents. "That's an odd amount," Aggie said as she handed it back. "Supposedly, it's the year I'm to die," he said, giving her another of his small smiles. "If you prick your finger and use the bleeding tip on the automatic ticket machines below the last option, it'll bring up your fare. I don't suggest it unless you're really ready to know." They both jumped as a blast from a steam whistle tore through the night; it was like a woman shrieking in rage and sorrow. The noise of the Ghost Train coming down the tracks was the voices of her college friends, telling her she was nothing at the loneliest point of her life. Around the bend it came, black and gray, the steel of the engine like skeletons under the faulty moonlight, and the smoke that billowed from the blasted smokestack was as crimson as Hell's own fumes. It terrified her and a small voice inside of her screamed in primal fear; an equally small voice wondered at it, intrigued. It slowed as it entered the station, and then came to a shuddering halt. A door in the car before them slid open and a figure in a rail man's uniform stepped out; it was her literature professor from freshmen year of college, the one who had suggested some interesting ways to raise her grade. He looked them over before holding out a gloved hand, murmuring, "Tickets?" Earl Stevens stood up. He put on his cap, picked up the suitcase and turned in the ticket. The conductor looked it over for a moment, scrutinized Earl, and then nodded before extending his arm to usher him in. Earl let out a pent up breath as he looked into the smoky interior of the car. He turned to back to her. "It was nice to meet you, Miss—" "Aggie, Aggie Jacob." "Aggie," he finished, smiling, and then stepped onto the train and into the smoke. Ahead of them the engine was rumbling and growling as the boiler built up steam. The whistle blasted again and her professor looked intently at her, his head tilted to the side. "Ticket?" Aggie considered, taking in the station around her with its graffiti and drifting litter, and the macabre glory of the train. She thought about her work in the composition book, and her job at the diner and its toll on her. She thought momentarily of what Earl had said about his wife and her mind flashed to Scott. She wondered if she'd see his reflection in a window on the train. "All aboard!" the conductor shouted from the engine; the whistle screamed again. "Ticket?" her professor asked her again, his head tilted to the side. Aggie put the composition book in his out-stretched hand. He pulled once and frowned. She would not let it go. He tugged again as the train began to move forward, then he was the one to let go with a sad smile and stepped backwards into the train car. The Ghost Train cast off red smoke as it built up speed, until it faded from view down the rails, leaving Aggie standing on the platform, her book clutched in her hands. She sat back down on the bench, lost in thought and amazement, and looked up as a woman's automated voice announced the incoming presence of the final train of the night. Aggie began to move toward the tracks and stopped abruptly. She turned around, moved purposefully to a trash can near the platform's edge and stopped beside it, her book held over the void. She thought again of the Ghost Train, Earl, Scott, and, with amazement, the new words that were coming to her. Aggie did not look back as she boarded the train. She quickly chose a seat near the front and dug furiously in her bag. From it she took a black pen, flipped to the first blank page she came to and began a new story about vacant train platforms in the night. She looked up from her book to consider her reflection in the window, and the dark night beside her before going back to her writing, a small smile upon her face. END
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| Last updated on 1/3/2008 8:46:43 PM by Jennifer Brozek |
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It had been the shittiest day in the crappiest week in the most horrible month of the entire godforsaken year. The cherry on top of the sundae from hell had been two assholes who decided that Aggie's charming-yet-fake work smile wasn't false. The one with the scar had pinched her backside as she was walking away from their table; annoying, to be sure, but your standard male ape behavior. The real winner was the other guy, the one with the bad acne; he thought it would be really charming to run a finger up the inside of her thigh while she bent over to refill his cup. Startled by such a "gentlemanly" gesture, a pot of hot coffee to the groin settled the issue of his wandering digits, but her boss said that he would pay for the man's dry cleaning bill. Even after she explained what happened, he made blubbering proclamations regarding "liability" and "assault" and informed her that the fee would be deducted from her tips. Miserable toad. At least the day was over.
Matthew Marovich is a native of California and lives, writes, and works in San Jose alongside his girlfriend and fan Michelle. He attended the University of California at Santa Cruz, receiving a Bachelors of Arts in Psychology, and much of his fiction features small, crazy little towns by the sea. A fan of dark and modern fantasy, Matthew has been writing since the age of seven when he wrote down a series of nightmares that he’d been having at the time; occasionally, they show up again to give him feedback and encouragement. He gives much credit to his friends and family for their support of his work, especially the group he refers to as the Women’s Studies Irregulars. Reflections is his first published work and he can be contacted at