Eggshell White

With a wail, the train let off its final call for passengers. George was the only one still sitting on the platform. His hands gripped one another in his lap, and a foot tapped the brick. There was only a scattering of people to begin with; one for every two cars or so.

               Heaving himself from the stone bench with a visible huff, he walked toward the train, dropping into the black night briefly as he moved from the platform lamp to his assigned car. He’d be the only one in this car, as everyone else would be alone in their own. It was how this process worked, apparently.

               George pulled his coat tightly around him as he placed his hand on the metal rail leading into the car, stepped up into the train, and up a few more steps into the carriage itself. Walking through a door and into the carriage proper, smells of sweet wine buried under cigarette smoke assailed him. They weren’t unfamiliar scents. Far from it. It smelled like his parlor, along with almost every other room in his house.

               Inside, the car was full of lush, red velvet. Chairs, couches, and even the walls from ankle to waist were coated in rich fabric. Most else was dark-wood or brass. George wasn’t an expert on design, but he imagined the dark wood was mahogany. Every wood that looked expensive was mahogany, wasn’t it?

               Despite the rich appearance of the car, his eyes were almost immediately pulled away to the door at the far end. White. Whiter considering its contrast with the rest of the car. An odd white. A stark white despite the low lighting. An eggshell white. That’s what his wife would have called it, right? Eggshell white?

               Beside him, and in time with the jerking motions of a train pulling out of a station, a man cleared his throat, “Feels a little like home, doesn’t it? Your home, of course. Not mine.” George spun towards the bar on his left, and behind the counter stood a man almost of height with him, with a white long-sleeve and button-up black vest. He smiled, and continued polishing a glass before hanging it on the rack above him. It clinked with the other glasses, and set off a series of jingles as all the various shapes and sizes played with one another.

               “Anything to drink? I can bet a dollar we’ve got what you’re hoping for.” George returned the smile weakly, and looked beyond the older, graying gentlemen to the wide array of liquors behind him. Wines, whiskies, scotch, gin, vodka, wine. On the counter stood a few taps of beer, many among them George’s favorites.

               “A beer? I guess? Just pick one, please.” He hadn’t meant to sound rude, as he lowered himself with a small groan toward one of the bar stools. More mahogany, red velvet and brass.

               “Jacket, sir? Planning on staying for more than a minute I’d hope.”

               “Oh, right. Of course.” George stood up again before fully settling, and removed his long wool coat and hat to hang on the rack indicated by the man behind the bar. Straightening his shirt, vest, and suit jacket, he moved back to the stool and sat, finally, heavily. His movements lacked the grace of a younger, more refined man, not being young or particularly refined himself. Others of his age and station would still have practiced, elegant, strong movements. Coming from two different places did that to people, regardless of how long you spent in the same circles. Something always shines through.

               A tall, stout glass found itself on the bar, and a coaster seemed to appear underneath it just before it settled. This man, the bartender, was far more comfortable in his own station. He gave off an air of someone perfect at what they did; practiced, with no unnecessary movement or thought to his tasks.

               “A coffee stout, for your pleasure, sir.” Sure enough, the beer filling the glass was dark. It would look black if not for the browning of the edges typical of a sturdy stout.

               “Coffee? That’s new. Can’t say I’ve tried that before.”

               “Isn’t that the point, sir? Even at our age, there’s things to discover. Good things, bad things, and things that matter or don’t in other ways.” George nodded, not really paying attention to the words, though they seemed insightful enough. A bartender’s words were often as much a part of his trade as his place behind the bar.

               Reaching out both hands, manicured but aged, George grasped the beer. They stopped shaking, and he was satisfied with not having to worry about what to do with them. He’d never liked his hands. Hard labour had set his nails wrong from a young age, and no amount of time spent caring for them would change that. It set him apart, like many things. With a grunt and a slight shake of his head, he picked up the stout and took a long swallow. Coffee, and hints of oatmeal tinged the edges of an otherwise hearty beer. It flowed beautifully; a meal in wondrous, alcoholic form.

               “Delicious.” George looked at the brown liquid filling the glass with slightly glazed eyes. He knew nothing about the brewing of beer, but to him the act of appreciating good drink seemed classy and refined.

               “Only the best. Of course, it’s my job to know what one needs before they know it themselves. That, and all these beers and liquors are top notch. Considering what you have to pay to be here, I’m pretty confident I’ll never go wrong.”

               “I hear that.” George didn’t really know what to say to keep a line of conversation going. His mind fumbled with potential words as he again scanned the rows of alcohol behind the barkeep.

               Looking from the bottles back to the man behind the bar, he wiped his hand across his graying mustache. Sometimes foam would linger. “If I may say, you look familiar,” George said. “Have we met?” It was true. Something about the tender struck him as oddly relatable and recognizable, though he knew he’d never seen his face before. Good memory and all. Faces and numbers.

               “No, can’t say we have. That’s another part of the job though. Familiar face. Dead father? Lost brother? Old friend? I think it’s half the reason management hired me. Something recognizable keeps customers comfortable.”

               “That’s a fair point. Good eyes, management.”

               “The best. Can’t speak badly of ‘em. They’ve never done me wrong.” The bartender finished polishing the last of his glasses, and with a wipe removed the soap and water from his hands. A second later and with a few flips the small wash towel was set nearby, perfectly folded.

               “So, if I may, sir. You don’t seem to talk much.” The barkeep said, eyes moving from the towel to George. “Better than talking too much, course, and those seem like the only two types that board this train. It’s always pulling teeth or stuffing socks.” He chuckled, not so baritone, but it still set the bones to vibrating in a pleasant way.

               “A lot of people say the same.” Words. George would take numbers over words any day. “I guess now I’m mostly concerned with what I’m supposed to do next.” He pulled a long sip from his beer, trying to hide the nerves running through his face and hands.

               “Oh! Two sentences. Hurrah for that!” A pause from the barkeep. “I’ll speak seriously though. Isn’t that what everyone thinks about? What to do next? I think most people spend their whole lives living with that thought.”

               “Fair point.”

               “So, tell me about yourself. I need something to play around with. Married? Children? Hobbies? What’s your work?”

               “Divorced. No. Not really. Accountant.”

               “Rough stuff, that. Divorce that is! Of course. Though I imagine accounting and not really having any hobbies can fall into that category too. Never had a head for numbers, myself. Do have quite a few hobbies though.”

               George nodded knowingly, “I get that. Never thought I would have a head for numbers either.” His job was one of the only things he could bear talking about.

Another drag of beer. Without realizing it, he’d managed to down about half the glass. “Good stuff, this.” Flicking his chin down towards the glass grasped in his hands.

               “Personal life is a tough topic. Sorry for prying.” This one was sharp. George had never been one to talk about his personal life. Was it shame, or simply not having a personal life to talk about? Thinking on it too hard caused wells of emotion he’d never had the time or energy to deal with.

               “It’s alright. No harm no foul.” Another swig of beer, and a glance toward the odd, white door at the far end of the car. It had been lingering at the back of his mind since he’d first entered the train car. “Can I ask about that door? Why so… white?”

               “Oh. I thought it was obvious. That door leads to your pleasure. Management likes how much it stands out. Adds to the mystery don’t it?” He looked at George, and his brow furrowed a bit. “You know, what you came here for?” The tender paused again, grinning toothily and letting out a few chest shaking chuckles. “Unless you thought this was it? A fine car, bar and company. I’m honored at the thought, but no. Sure you’d agree that even this, lovely as it is, isn’t worth the cost?”

               “I suppose you’re right.” Another swig, this one at the thought of what he’d given to be here. Condensation was running from the glass and onto his fingers. He hadn’t let go of the beer since it was served to him.

               “So, how’s this work?” George’s eyes again flicked towards the white door, then to the barkeep, and back down to his beer, now nearly empty. When had that happened? A cold glass of beer never seemed to last long enough. It made sense though, that it’d be so empty, given the lightness flitting around through his head.

               “Well, you finish that glass in front of you, and I send you on through that door.” The barkeep placed his hands along the bar, spread fairly far apart, and leaned forward. “I can’t really tell you much more than that, except that maybe everyone is changed by their experiences.” A chill rolled its way up George’s spine as he listened. The barkeeper’s voice slowly took a sharper edge, as he squared his shoulders and leaned a little closer across the bar. “Maybe some come out the other side broken, or healed, but all are fundamentally different than when they’d entered. Maybe.”

               A moment or two passed in silence before George tapped a finger on the glass held in his hands, “I suppose I can’t ask for a refill?” His voice hitched, and he had to clear his throat while reluctantly pushing the glass that had become a clutch towards the barkeeper. What had he signed up for? What was the pleasure promised him going to be?

               “I’m afraid I can’t indulge you. Management wants a head on your shoulders when you head through. Obviously, too much alcohol interferes with that.” His smile from earlier slowly returned, and his face lit up again. “I can however offer you a smoke, if you partake in that sort of thing. I’m of the opinion that you are indeed a smoker.” With a flourish, his hand vanished behind the bar and reappeared with a fairly ornate brass casing. Flipping it open, it revealed an unbroken row of immaculately rolled tobacco.

               “You’re right, though it has been a little while. Cutting back and all.” George reached out with a hand, shaking slightly harder now that it wasn’t steadied by the glass, and picked a cigarette from the case. “I’ve always been a fan of good tobacco after a meal or drink.” Closing the case and stashing it away with one hand, the barkeeper produced a lighter with his other, holding out a flame which George leaned into. Pulling strongly, he felt the headiness that comes with an initial drag after you’d been away for a while.

               Silence followed. Not awkward, but resigned, as George pulled eagerly at the smoke. Every few moments, his eyes darted again to the door at the other end of the car.

               “You’ve got a few minutes yet.” George looked back to the barkeeper, who gestured to the clock sitting above the door. About seven minutes to midnight.

As good a time as any.

               “Thanks.” Removing the cigarette from his mouth, he forced it out in an ashtray now sitting at his elbow, courtesy of the barkeeper. “Can’t see what difference a few minutes will make though.” A pause, and then George heaved himself from his seat. “I appreciate the hospitality, truly. Never been one for conversation, but this has been nice.”

               “Of course, sir. It’s quite literally why I’m here.” Another chuckle and a smile, as he removed the ashtray with its half-finished and extinguished cigarette, and the now empty glass from the counter.

               “Can I leave my coat, and hat? Will I have a chance to get them later?” George had half-turned towards the white door, but looked back at the coat rack and then to the barkeeper.

               “You won’t need them, and maybe won’t even want them once you walk through that door. But, it’s up to you George.”

               Grunting appreciatively, George turned back towards the door, straightened his suit jacket again, and took a few tentative steps. Had he introduced himself to the keeper? Well, it didn’t make much difference. It wouldn’t be surprising if the keeper had been told his name in advance.

               A few more steps, and the door stood before him. The stark, unblemished white still stood out strongly amongst the dark, subdued tones throughout the rest of the car. Eggshell white, his wife would say.

               Hand on the doorknob now, he noted how all at once it felt as cold as it should, being some kind of metal, but also warm, as a teapot left to steep for a few minutes. Odd.

               Turning the knob, he pulled the door slowly on its hinges, and eventually had it open before him. On the other side, only darkness. George briefly glanced back throughout the rest of the car, and felt it less alive than it had been moments before. Looking to the bar, the keeper stood there, arms behind his back, and a broad smile on his face. A genuine smile. Quickly, in a blink and you miss it kind of way, the keeper winked.

               George smiled, turned back to the open door, and walked through.