Darren's Big Trip

The train was slowing down. Or at least that’s what Darren thought. Was it slowing down? He glanced at the two passengers opposite him. A mother and daughter combination. Or at least that’s what he assumed. They were in the compartment when Darren got on twenty minutes ago. The daughter was about Darren’s age, early-twenties, or so he judged.

One thing that wasn’t up for debate or speculation: the daughter was very beautiful. Not in a flash pop-music-video sort of way, but in a lively, personable, intelligent-eyed sort of way. To meet her for a coffee, say at the Misty Mocha, Darren’s favorite café, would be a guaranteed great time. Plenty of laughs mixed with genuine depth, probably losing track of time...

Ode to a Barista, Darren thought to himself with an ironic smile, realizing he was getting a bit carried away. Train trips could do that. That rhythmic, mazy motion. He gazed out the window at the grass and cows whizzing by.

But the train was definitely slowing down, wasn’t it? Darren sat a little straighter on the comfortable bench seat. They were on the long stretch between Morwell and Rosedale, a full uninterrupted hour of travel before the next stop. The land was flat and the tracks were straight, so slowing down now was unusual, no question.

Altogether there were four people in a compartment designed to comfortably seat eight. Good numbers. In his spot by the window, Darren could almost forget the pig existed, right up the other end, slumped and unshaven in the corner. The behavior of the pig twenty minutes ago, as Darren first entered the compartment, was not something he cared to think about.

If the train was slowing down, it wasn't by a lot: no one else was showing signs of noticing it. And come to think of it, if they were slowing down, Darren should welcome it. For it was the large time-span spread out before him that gave these lengthy train trips a curious sense of excitement and expectation. So get with the program, Darren thought to himself with mock-sternness. He looked out the window at the fence-posts and occasional sheds whizzing by.

Pigs are as pigs do, but the same logic applies to good people. Her name...what would her name be? Be something like Claire or Emma. Something bright, uncomplicated, containing a jolt of positive energy, a burst of colorful pizazz—Hi, how are you? Coffee? Yes, why not! Come on then, don’t dawdle! Ha-ha, yes indeed—Claire, Claire would suit her one-hundred-percent.

Claire’s mother was something, though, wasn’t she? Darren found her very hard to read. Probably they got off on the wrong foot. Never the easiest moment, entering an occupied train compartment at the start of a four hour journey. A rather intimate space for the sudden planting and staring of complete strangers. Well hello! Ha-ha.

The slight stumble Darren had made upon entering the compartment would have gone unnoticed if not for the pig. “You right there, bud?” he’d said, with an implicit sneer.

Thinking back, Darren was glad he kept his own counsel, said nothing in response to the pig’s attempted ridicule and belittlement. Not an easy moment, to be sure, with Darren tripping at the very instant he’d made fleeting eye-contact with Claire. Like some hideous Jerry Lewis movie; one of the less funny ones. Getting his bag up onto the luggage rack was...no, as far as Darren was concerned, there was no need to revisit any of that. The pig was unconscious now. Praise be. Possibly on drugs. The way he’d said it—You right there, bud?—ugh, it made Darren shudder even from a cool reflective distance. Whatever, let the pig wallow in his sty full of lowbrow dreams while the other travelers enjoyed their peace, got to know each other a bit better, etcetera.

Hard to read Claire’s mother, though. A woman of quiet strength, certainly, and proud of her daughter. But beyond that...perhaps not the friendliest woman in the world, perhaps a bit cool and distant and aloof. It wasn’t out of the question that Claire had been a difficult, rebellious teenager: spirited, independent-minded people often are. Claire’s mom would likely be very loyal once you gained her trust. Respecting her was a given, and growing to genuinely like her would follow soon enough.

Right now there would be nothing to stop Darren from musing out loud, with a look of mild curiosity, that it appeared the train was slowing down. (And it really did seem to be—surprising that neither Claire nor her mother showed any signs of awareness.) He could just say: “We seem to be slowing down—odd when there’s no stops coming up and the track is flat and straight for the next sixty-odd miles.” It’d be disappointing if Claire said nothing in response (or even her mother), but the way he’d pitch it, it wouldn’t be a big deal.

If he did end up saying it, he certainly wouldn’t do so with one of his unfortunate, unintentionally intense frowns, as though he was panicked or making a hot accusation. The train is slowing down! Why don’t they tell us anything! Christ, they treat us like idiots! I can hardly fucking breathe! And then segue into some comically grotesque rant about how today’s society is like a religious cult, full of duped morons hell-bent on accessing some self-destroying ecstasy in order to rush headlong to a mute, final destination.

Ha! Darren almost laughed out loud. That was exactly how he wouldn’t say it. He knew himself too well. In some situations, carrying on with hilarious over-the-top rants was quite successful. Darren had seen it done, in pubs and all-night bull sessions, and while he didn’t really feel compelled to act that way himself, speculating about the various lives one might lead had always attracted. Why, in your thoughts, limit yourself to the humdrum and everyday?

That—yes, that­—was exactly the sort of curiously deep subject one could discuss with Claire at the coffee shop. Imagine it! Don’t worry about thinking up dreary waffle like Is the stupid train slowing down? Who the hell cares? No, life, immediately experienced life, red-blooded and right there in the coffee shop—that would provide enough comical and philosophical fodder for hours and hours. Nothing was boring—how could it be?—all was fascinating beyond belief in the right setting and with the right interlocutor. Make no mistake, Darren thought, trailing off a bit hazily. Make no mistake...

Of course the basic truth underlying all their coffee-and-croissant speculations was the vast unknowableness of Nature. If one eschewed man-made religious dogma, as Claire and Darren did, then one needed something else to take on the enormous, blood-curdling, brutally indifferent mystery of it all. To make it bearable. Force the abyss, by sheer bloody will, to cough up a clotted meaning or two. Art, in other words. That was at the nub of all their conversations, even when Claire and Darren were making wisecracks about the comb-overs and malapropisms of other people. Whether creating or critiquing, Claire and Darren would commit to art with religious intensity. You wouldn’t guess it to look at them, laughing and bantering away, you’d never guess their speculations were fraught with pain and torment, but, oh Christ, so beautiful, too.

Darren watched a huge pylon whizz past. He felt a quietly expanding, almost hypnotic exhilaration. The ultimate truth and mystery were mind-blowing and well worth the trip.