A Train Story

The first step was always the hardest.

The problem did not lie in the step itself: it was a large enough step for one to place their foot comfortably upon it. It was also the proper height; not so high as to make you trip when you'd try to reach it, and not so low as to make your heart skip a beat when you thought for a second that you were falling through the floor. Ergo, the problem did not lie in the step itself.

The problem did not lie in the doorway either. It was a fine, regular-looking doorway: the sas-like entrance to any mode of transportation that required its doors to lock tight. Airplanes had such doors. So did rockets. But it was the only train he'd seen with it.

So, the trouble did not lie in any physical challenge. By the logical process of elimination, the problem therefore lied in what was beyond physical. Metaphysical. Invisible. And rooted so deep and in such an odd place that it could only be experienced when one stepped aboard this particular train. No other mode of transportation created such an unease. 

And as you entered the belly of the iron beast and answered to the porter’s tip of his cap with a gentle nod, it hit you: what you were leaving behind. What you might never see again. What might not be there once you returned.

For if change upon one's return was a possibility of any trip, it was a certainty of this one.

He climbed aboard, paused in the doorway and turned around, embracing all within sight with one long, last look. There was no station, no deck. No building to speak of, really! This was very much the middle of nowhere to anyone passing by. But if you paused for a moment and studied the horizon, you’d see it: the city and all who lived in it. The many lights, lives, longings. The laughter and the tears. He was leaving it all behind.

Running away; that’s what they called it.

The porter said nothing. With the demeanor of a man completely used to all of this, he stood perfectly still, his back straight with one hand on top of the other in front of his pelvis in a respectful position. The immaculate white gloves clashed against his red and black suit. He was dressed every bit like a proper porter aboard a rich, classic nineteen century train, matching the decor that had been selected for this wagon. But anyone looking at it from the outside would not be fooled. This was very much a modern train.

Too modern? It was debated.

The man sighed and nodded a solemn nod; there was no turning back now. It was all for the better anyway, was it not? He faced the porter.

"I'm ready to go, George."

"Very well, sir. And may I say it is a pleasure to see you again, sir."

"I'm sure it would be under other circumstances, George. But it is nice to see you, too. Is anyone else still aboard?"

"Mrs Pellier entertains a crowd in the parlor, as usual. And I believe Mr. Montmartre is in the dining car, sir."

"Very well. Thank you, George."

“My pleasure, sir.”

He stepped in and let George close the door behind him. It made a dry-sticky sound as it brushed against the rubbers in the door frame. George spun the wheel at the door’s center to securely lock it until the next stop.

The Victorian car was a thing of beauty, sprung from an era known for its contrast of romanticism and gloom. The wagon managed both ambiances with disconcerting ease. Depending on how you felt, it would follow your mood completely.

Today, he felt the gloomy side of it. But he remembered the last time when he’d seen the romanticism in it. The promise of an incredible journey.

Perhaps now that he knew what the voyage was about, romanticism had gone. Or perhaps this time, the stakes were simply higher than they were last time.

“Right this way, sir,” George said as he stepped ahead of him. He’d already taken the luggage away from the passenger’s hands without his noticing; the mark of a good porter…or a great thief.

George led the way through the narrow passageway. The walls were plastered in shining, varnished wood and lit by sconces displaying the tiniest pinkish-red lampshades you’d ever seen.

“May I suggest holding on to the handrail, sir? The train will depart momentarily.”

He would have argued that this was not his first trip, but as a great big shiver shook the metal beast, he thought it wise to follow the porter’s advice. The train trembled to life as its metal wheels rolled on the rails, gaining speed, and clacking like any proper train should. But the sound he heard was not one of metal on metal; rather it was the sound of one familiar voice.

“Anthony, kiddo! What a great pleasure it is to see you again!”

“Barbara!” he exclaimed before he even saw her face. He spun around and found her overly-painted face sticking out of one of the rooms, like the most unusual jack-in-a-box. She smiled her perfect smile, her eyes glimmering at the sight of the newcomer…or because of the God-knows-how-many glasses of wine.

She didn’t look a day older than the last time he’d seen her.

“Come and give us a kiss!” She walked out of her room wearing an expensive-looking satin kimono, shimmering in the dim light. She hugged him. The smell of alcohol mixed with her flowery perfume followed her like the stench follows the skunk.

"So, what is it this time?" she asked. 

"The cancer," he said with resolve.

"It's back?!"

"Apparently."

"Oh Anthony… I am so sorry."

"I know you are, Barb."

"How's Grace taking it?"

"...We've said goodbye."

Barbara took a step back and studied Anthony's face. "That bad, huh?"

He nodded.

"Well, are you in any pain? Cause you know the train—"

"I'm not."

"Ah. Good. Well," she exclaimed, placing a hand on his forearm. "I'm glad to know you aboard, Anthony. And should you ever need any medicine," she offered, shaking her half-full glass of red wine slightly.

He thanked her for the offer and she let him go. "Settle him in well, George," she said, turning to the porter he'd forgotten was there. "I'm counting on you."

"Will do, miss Walker," George replied as he bowed respectfully. "Have no fear."

"Never had," she replied, “never will.” She raised her glass and sent the men on their way before taking a longer sip than was thought respectable in the higher circles.

***

The cabin George brought him to stood at the heart of the Victorian car. It was a nice enough room with two single beds that could be folded into comfy benches. A single-leg table was bolted to the floor in-between the benches. A table lamp stood upon it, admiring its Tiffany-worthy lampshade in her reflection in the dark, varnished wood. Sconces above the benches — just under the storage compartments — completed the lighting and provided the room with a soft, golden glow.

Red, heavy curtains had been drawn over the large bay window above the table.

Lastly, the room’s only access was framed by two doors which, he knew from experience, led to a tiny but full bathroom in two pieces: one door hid a toilet and a sink; the other, a shower.

George carefully dropped the luggage in front of the second door.

"I trust you find this room to your liking, sir?"

"It's great, George. Thank you."

"My pleasure, sir. Should you need anything…"

"I know where to find you."

He closed the door as the porter exited, then turned around and studied his surroundings. A sigh lodged itself in his chest and he couldn’t rid himself of it; this was going to be his home for however long it took.

He stepped toward the window and pulled one of the heavy curtains open. The scenery had begun changing already; the train was on the move. By the window, trees and bushes passed by in a flash whereas in the distance, the fields and lakes crawled at a snail’s pace. 

In the blue summer sky, white fluffy clouds looked still, but he knew better. It had been a bit windy that day. A warm, gentle breeze that nudged the clouds away and hugged your skin. 

When would he feel such a wind again?

He shook the gloom as best he could and decided all he needed after all was a drink. He left his room and headed for the dining car where, as foreseen by George, he found Mr. Montmartre who greeted him loudly.

“Ah! Anthony! My boy!” The man stood up. He was impressive, both large and tall, and clad in a fine Italian gray suit. A smoking cigar puffed at the corner of his mouth. “I had heard of your upcoming arrival,” he said, walking toward him. “Glad to see you aboard once again.” Mr. Montmartre planted a great big slap in the newcomer’s back. “Timothy?” he called to the bartender. “Two whiskeys.”

***

The train chugged away gently, rocking him on his barstool. His eyes strained to focus on what little remained of two ice cubes in his glass. The brown liquid was gone. Then refilled. Then gone again. Then refilled. Then gone again.

Now all that was left were sad, melting cubes of ice, waltzing slightly, stuck together as if their lives depended on it.

“You know, dear boy,” slurred his drinking companion, “if I could do it all over again, it’d be different.”

The conversation had pulled in every direction since they’d found each other again, but it always remained on the surface. However, after three glasses of whiskey, the two men seemed ready to dive a little deeper.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Mr. Montmartre straightened himself on his bar stool as best as he could and gestured to the room. “Look at us! Look at all of us! Keeping it all at bay. Bored. Unhappy. Exploring vices like one changes bandages on a wound. But no matter what we do, the bandages get bloody again.” He signaled the barkeep to refill the glasses. The man obeyed without a word. After all, it wasn’t like it could kill them… “Unnatural; that’s what we are.” 

Mr. Montmartre took a great big gulp of his now-refilled glass. “Do you know how long it’s been?” he asked. “How long it’s been since I boarded?”

The newcomer shook his head, to which Mr. Montmartre held a hand up, fingers apart.

“Five?”

“Five, my boy,” Mr. Montmartre confirmed, raising his glass and twirling the golden liquid. “Five blessed decades.” The sour tone in his voice informed that sarcasm had diverted the meaning of the word “blessed.” He brought the glass to his lips, took a sip and slammed the glass back on the counter. “Fifty years!” he exclaimed. “Can you believe it?”

“Hardly,” he said, diving into his own glass. But before he could take a sip, a heavy arm landed on his shoulders.

“But you know what?” Mr. Montmartre’s face was close to his now, the alcohol on his breath burning the newcomer’s eyes. “I would give everything to go back...and I would step off.”

“You could do it now,” he offered.

“To what avail? There is nothing and no one out there who remembers me! Besides, I would last all of a week. What good would that do? Whom could I see? Where could I visit?” Mr. Montmartre finished off his whiskey. “No, my boy,” he said after a sigh of content. “It’s too late for me. Unlike you, this world out there isn’t mine. I wouldn’t recognize the face of it. Nor it mine.”

Mr. Montmartre slid off his bar stool with far greater agility than any intoxicated man should have, and slapped the newcomer’s back one more time.

“Good catching up, dear boy. Sorry to have you aboard once again. But glad of the friend you’ve brought me. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Mr. Montmartre teetered his way out of the dining car, leaving the newcomer to his thoughts. He lifted the amber liquid at eye level and twirled it a bit. 

In the large mirror behind the counter, he could see the other customers. Some were old; some, like him, were on the younger side. Some were greens, some were ancients. But all shared the same story.

Somewhere, down the line of their lives, something happened. Something tragic. Bad news, a departure, a diagnostic... And one by one, they boarded the train. They pressed pause on it all.

One by one, they ran away.

I’ll see you in the morning. How many times had he heard her say those exact words? Every night as she’d leave the hospital room, blowing him a kiss from the doorway. And he’d catch every single one of them; not knowing which one would be his last.

But now…

Now he’d never hear her again. When he’d go home, finally ready, she’d be long gone. So would their children. Maybe… 

For how long does it take to accept one’s fate?

And how does one go about it alone...?

The glass slipped from his hand and crashed onto the varnished counter, spilling liquid on his lap. But he didn’t notice. His eyes had grown wide.

As if his seat had been suddenly electrified, he jumped to his feet, failed the landing and fell. But he scrambled back up and ran out of the room as best he could.

George… He had to find George!

***

The first step was always the hardest.

The problem did not lie in the step itself, nor did it lie in the doorway. No physical challenge whatsoever.

So the problem therefore lied in what was beyond physical. Metaphysical. Invisible. And it had a name: fear. A fear of what’s to come. 

Would there be pain? Would there be loss?

There would be tears…

And an everlasting disappearance.

But somehow, he’d manage. Somehow, as he placed his foot on the first step, he felt a weight being lifted. She made it all bearable.

For if death was a certainty of any life, love was a gift to cherish. He knew that now. That no matter what came his way, it was better to live shortly surrounded by loved ones, than to last an eternity among strangers.

His feet touched the ground. He turned around and met George’s gaze as the porter stood in the doorway. Something had changed in the way he looked back at him now. There was a glint in his eyes. Was it admiration? Respect?

Whatever its name was, it brought a new shade in the porter’s demeanor and for the first time ever, he tipped his hat with a genuine smile. 

A moment later, the door was closed again, and the train shook back to life. He turned heels and headed home.

And he never looked back.