Tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow

“Tomorrow. The train will arrive tomorrow,” he croaked.

“The ticket says today.”

“The ticket is wrong.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been here a while.”

I strolled over the platform. The rails stretched far beyond the horizon, yet there was no sign of a train. I looked at my ticket stub. A smudge slightly obscured its contents: “Platform B-1.”

“The ticket says that it should’ve been here 30 minutes ago,” I yelled from across the station. 

The man looked ancient. His clothes were far too ragged to help identify the decades of his youth, and there was no hair on his head. Cataracts had made his pupils misty. His eyes had sunk deep into his skull, and rice-paper skin was pulled taut over his jaw. There seemed to be no meat at all on his arms or legs. Rather, only a thin layer of skin, half-an-inch at most, lay between his bones and the elements. He was smiling, or at least I believed he was. 

“It’s difficult isn’t it.”

“What?”

“Not getting what you want.” 

“I’m going to be late.” 

I was pacing back and forth and I had been for some time. His eyes followed every step. He was sitting on a rickety bench which never creaked. The platform itself seemed to be decaying. In spots it was rusted and covered in mysterious stains. Piles of trash littered the floor. Mostly, the trash consisted of ripped newspapers, and forgotten cigarettes. Aside from the man and I, there was not a soul to see.

“Do you want some advice?”

“No.”

“Stop pacing.” 

I stood still for a moment and stared at him. There was no ill will in his smile. I saw something behind his eyes. Our gazes met, and something was shared, something incommunicable with words. I started pacing again. He still smiled. His statement was absurd.

“Why?”

“Time will go by faster if you are willing to wait.”

“Time will go by at the same speed it always does.”

“Hm.” There was a breathiness in his voice and always a slight hesitation, as if he was never quite sure what he wanted to say.

“Someone told me that once,” he continued, “that we set the lengths of our lives, but I don’t know that it’s true,” he chuckled. 

He coughed: “Do you have any water with you? It’s been a while since I’ve had anything to drink.”

“How long have you been here?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know.”

We were both silent for some time, each hopelessly lost in the sweeping deserts of our minds. An hour had passed, and still no train. No one had joined us at the tracks. The old man had closed his eyes, and he seemed to be sleeping. He sat completely still, and I was worried that he had died. His face was wrinkled beyond recognition. It was difficult to tell where his eyelids ended and the rest of his face began. It seemed that he had no eyes at all, only indentations where they were supposed to be. He must have sensed me staring at him, for his eyes shot open. They closed again. 

It was an oppressively warm day, and I was sweating profusely. Earlier, the clouds had obscured much of the Sun’s wrath, but they had since dissipated. A humid breeze wafted through the air. My cotton shirt was soaked through, but it did little to alleviate the heat. I walked over and sat down beside the man. The bench creaked. I still did not know his name.

“What’s your name?”

“Is it that important?”

“We don't have much to do. We may as well talk.”

“I am perfectly happy resting here.”

“But what is your name?”

He hesitated, “Desnudo.” 

“Naked?”

“Yes, my parents didn’t like me very much.” 

I thought I heard him laugh. I smiled.

“If I didn’t know what it meant, I’d think it was a beautiful name.”

“Thank you. Language is funny that way,” he continued, “what’s yours?”

“John. My parents weren’t very creative.”

“He was good, The Baptist. He did his best.”

“Yes, he did.” The sun had moved far across the sky over the course of our short conversation, but I wanted it to move farther: “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”

“Heaven.”

The conversation died. I glanced around me. Over the entirety of my time here, the tracks had never rumbled. The complete silence was eerie. Only feint gusts of wind broke the deafening quiet.

“Do you think the train will ever arrive?”

“I’m not sure.”

I pulled out my ticket and inspected it carefully. The time was clear, but a smudge partially obscured the name of the platform and the date of the departure. 

“What does this say,” I asked, showing him the ticket.

“Platform P-1.”

“Oh—Isn’t this B-1?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Does this platform still operate?”

“I don’t know.”

He stared at me, his old eyes still weathered and grey.

"What do you know?"

"That the train will be here tomorrow."

There was a pause. The sun was just over the horizon now, and the sky was a sea of pink and orange. His paper-skin glowed like a lantern in the light. He wore a bright grin on his face which stretched from ear to ear. The wind picked up and the tracks began to rattle. Old newspapers waltzed across the platform, and ancient wrappers lilted in the air. There were dusts of cigarette ash.

"It's getting late," he said, that strange smile still plastered on his face.

"Yes it is. I didn't expect the train to be this late."

"Was it late?"

“I’ve got to go check something, but I’ll be back soon.”

“Tomorrow. You will be back tomorrow.”

I slowly shuffled away, towards the platform’s exit. I could feel his stare. It was not hostile, it understood. I would have waved goodbye, but I didn't want to admit that I wouldn't see him again. The wind stopped, and I thought I heard a faint whisper behind me: 

“Goodbye, John.”