One Ticket

      I hadn’t planned to jostle my way through a congested afternoon crowd at the train station today; trying to catch a train long since departed from the platform. If I’m being honest with myself, I would have guessed about every other possible outcome before I considered the well-worn tracks that weaved through the city in every direction but away. Yet looking at it now, it plays out differently in my memory.

        My life for the last several years had become a ponderous replica of days past, a never ending film of the same moments with the smallest variation of shape and color. My mornings would start with the same chipped mug, with the same cheap green tea bag steeped in boiling water and mixed with a dash of clover honey.  I would sit on my couch that always seemed a duller shade of gray than the day before; I would watch the news that always seemed a tad more befouled than the last morning. I’d dress in my usual uniform, the last button on the blouse loose and close to falling off, and I’d say “ I should fix this after my shift is through”, but would never get around to it. The car ride to work would be silent except for the scraping of wipers against the windshield, the mist from the mountains just thick enough to disfigure the trees into ghastly masses of gnarled branches. My car would pull into the same parking space, right behind Sunny’s Diner, where the regular widowed old folk and families with children too young for school would come in and order whatever they desired from the Menu of “made out of the microwave” delicacies . I would work the same 7am-5pm shift, clothes stained with coffee and nails crusty and dry from dish piles stacked too high, and drive back to emptiness waiting for me at home. Keys thrown into the bowl by the door, uniform shucked off and thrown to the wash unceremoniously ; I’d catch a glimpse of haggard eyes and shoulders buckling under the weight of possibilities written off too soon as impossible. I’d shake it off, turn off the lights and shut the door, hoping to forget it was me I saw in that reflection. 

     But today was different. The morning started the same, like a record dancing to the beat of the song it plays over and over. I made my tea, steeped it, and dropped a glob of honey inside the steaming liquid just like always. I went to pick up the mug to take it to the couch, and my hand bumped against it wrong. The mug tipped off the edge of the counter and shattered across the linoleum tiles, tea soaking into the slipper on my feet, burning my skin. I screeched, moving to the side, slipping off the now drenched shoes and stared down. The tea swirled into murky puddles, tiny shards of ceramic like constellations in its depth and I watched every shift that liquid made; like a ship’s Captain watching the white-capped waves of the roaring sea, reading her raging tides. I stood there, for hours or minutes or half a breath, then looked up to see that it was almost 6:50 am, and that I would be late for work. I left the mess for later and scrambled to get dressed, buttoning my blouse with seasoned hands. As I reach the last button, I feel nothing in its place. I look down and see that loose button missing, its thread reaching away from the shirt trying to find its lost match. A voice in my head repeats the same phrase “ I should fix this when my shift ends” , and this time the words seem to settle into my head with a dull ache. As I finish getting dressed, I think of that button, the mug, the things I promised to myself but never followed through with. An image of a child, singing in the choir with vigor and soul and not a dream in the world but to carry their voice with pride flickers to memory, quickly shaken away in favor of grabbing the set of car keys and racing to the car. Driving to work, the wipers don’t turn on; for the first time in months there are small beams of light breaking through the mist and clouds. The trees, illuminated by the first breath of dawn, reach to the heavens in gratitude or silent prayer; no one knows for sure the reason. I pull into the parking lot 15 minutes late, but I don’t bother enough to care. My shift runs smoothly, no angry customers and good tips; the 10 hours race by and 5 o’clock is already here. I say goodbye, and hop in my car, dreading even more the return home. I take the same route I always take, the exact roads and streets I took in the morning, everything the same. But on this particular drive, a small bump in the road changes everything. 

         I feel the bump, nothing fancy, just a small pothole in the road. Yet the moment my car settles down, a bittersweet and hauntingly nostalgic melody drifts from inside that broken radio and shatters me. Because no matter how many times I got my car checked, no matter how many Body Shops I took it to, every mechanic said the same thing.“ I can’t fix the radio you got in right now, I’d have to replace the whole unit” or something along those lines was the constant answer when I questioned what could be done. One pothole, one small bump in the road;  all it took was pure luck to fix what had been broken for years. As if that wasn't impossible enough, the radio had to play this song, the one song I hadn’t been able to touch from inside the DVD player. The simple yet calming tune of the guitar and the husky voice of the female singer gripped onto me, rooting me in my seat. My knuckles grasped the steering wheel as a voice I hadn’t heard since I was Me danced on my heart, pulling out hope I had long since buried from its hiding place. My voice, recorded at a hole in the wall recording studio a town over, reminded me of all that I had desired for myself long ago. To sing, forever and always, and chase that melody wherever it lead.

        I pull into my driveway, sit in my car as emotion after emotion courses through me. I shut off the car, drag myself into my house, barely getting my shoes off before I rip off my uniform and throw it into the corner of my bathroom. I stand there, tears streaming down my face, gasping for air and the music plays on loop in my mind, even after the engine of the car has done and cooled. I look up, and catch sight of bloodshot eyes, and I see everything I never accomplished and everything I ever dreamed possible stare back at me. Where youth had faded and age had crept in sat Me. For the first time in years I saw ME. I stare into my eyes, begging for an answer or a sign. But no mug shatters, button breaks, radio miraculously fixes. The room stays silent with anticipation. And then it hits me, how long I’ve wasted on giving up before I had given things a try. How much longer will I play the victim in a story I have written all on my own?

     I sprint to my room, grab whatever clothes I can find and shove them into the bag in my hands. I get dressed, grab the cash I keep hidden under my mattress and haul everything to my car. Turning on my engine, I pull out onto the street and head towards the only place I know to go. I can hear the whistle of the last train of the day sound as I park my car, and begin to frantically dash to the revolving doors of the station. I enter the building and make a beeline for the ticket stand.  

“ One Ticket please” I say to the man working the desk.

 “ Of course, where to Ma'am?” he replies, already typing away at his computer. 

   “ Anywhere, send me anywhere.”. 

“ Our last train of the day just pulled into the station, it’s headed West along the Pacific Line, does that work for you?” he asks, looking me up and down with questioning curiosity in his eyes. “Yes, Yes, please hurry.” comes my breathy response. 

 All he says is “Just a moment” before he prints out a ticket and reaches out for the payment. I shove money his way, grab the ticket and bolt with a rushed “Thank you for your help” escaping my lips. I make my way through the station, hearing the last call announcement over the loudspeakers for my train; I start quickening my pace. The station is flooded with passengers; loved ones waiting for incoming travelers and staff helping customers of the railway. I skirt around patrons and staff alike, a brief “Sorry” and “Excuse Me” my only form of apology. Just as I reach the stairs leading the the platform, I hear the loudspeaker announce that Train#37326 had departed from the station. I fly down the stairs and land on the platform in time to see the train rolling its way down the tracks, too far to sprint to.  I crash to the floor of the platform, feeling as if once again I had given up, or had been given up on. 

       I stare at the sky, hoping for some miracle, some divine inspiration to tell me to keep going, but nothing changes. The train keeps moving, the time on the clock keeps ticking, and the clouds never stop rolling across the sky. Just as I feel truly hopeless once more, a single raindrop falls onto my check. 

Then another.

And another,

And another until the sky opens up and the rain pours onto me. I sit there, drenched in rain, and I laugh. I giggle and cry and smile with joy because for the first time in 7 years, the day has been different. Things broke, and got destroyed and I was sitting on the train platform crying at the sky, yet I was happy. I was alive yet I had my heart shattered like that mug, my dreams lost like the button, but my soul was fixed just like that radio. More importantly than everything else, the constant voice that told me to give up was gone, left with that train headed to nowhere and everywhere all at once.