Tracks

The room trembled as the train roared on by and caused the lights to flicker. Matt had left the light on when he headed for the tracks that night. He waited beneath the light post. The ground began to shake and he could hear the steel leviathan approaching. The beast let out an arbitrary blast of the horn as it neared. He stepped forward to greet it.

His world had become smaller and suddenly everyone he knew disappeared. It can happen, just like that. He had nestled into his life at the bar and that bar. He had removed himself, pulling the plug. The alcohol that runs through your bowels kisses each cell along the way as it nurtures, soothes and lulls. It makes people braver while others crumble. The weight brought on by the alcohol will crush the weak, exposing you. You can pick out the strong ones by how they carry themselves, composed. They too will fall and one by one they’ll drop like flies and their lights will flicker and fade.

Matt had felt as though his light had gone out. Lost in the sea of lowlifes, the lonely and downtrodden. There was no beacon home, no one waiting on the shore, they held no lantern. After so many conversations he felt as though he had heard it all. He could gleam no more from their melting faces and he could see that their lights had been snuffed as well. They were hunched over with heads down, no longer capable of bearing the weight of their burden. He looked into the reflection and noticed he had the same posture. How sobering the sight of your own flickering can be. The drinks had run dry and his wallet was empty. What was there left to do for someone who mainlines wine? The reality shook him like that train shook the ground.

He paid his tab and made his Irish goodbye and began his walk home around ten. He had put in his hours that day and was there to witness the changing of the guard, shift change. The street was not illuminated by anything but the moon and to his left the tracks. He walked over road kill and broken glass. You would be surprised how many dead animals are strewn about. Along the edge, empty beer cans in brown paper bags and a legion of cigarette butts coated the ground and median. These corpses would never rot but the landscape they invaded. At this point your inner voice whispers a warning, it knows something you don’t. Someone is watching you, he thought, but he didn’t care. He would either die or put up the fight of his life. The only true fear is the thought of uncertainty. What happens to me if I should pass? He had just upset a young woman that night by claiming that god was created to control the lower class. She left abruptly and he had felt guilty for upsetting her. Matt had broken the cardinal rule, do not bring up politics or religion at a bar. He had gotten ahead of himself and wanted to open up, but she was not interested. So without the prospect of entering heaven or the fear of hell, what do you have to look forward to? It’s like staring into an empty bottle, not much can be gathered other than nothing. There was nothing else. He remembered everyone was gone. He was alone with the dead animals and empty beer cans. If the anonymous onlooker didn’t step up, he knew the train would be reliable.

The train was always on time. The train named certainty was destined to arrive in the uncertain at midnight. The walk was longer than he had thought as he passed the gas station near his house. The lights were on but it was closed so it meant it was past eleven. He had plenty of time to catch the train. Matt was hardly a prompt person but he had finally made plans. The adjacent parking lot was well lit and riddled with overnight cars. A simple strip mall without a bar. Why would there be so many abandoned vehicles? He thought. Idle minds asked the right questions. Now turning onto his street he could see the sides lined with cars. Every home had too many cars. This also meant they were home, in bed, safe and warm and probably sleeping. Their bellies were full and he was envious. His stomach was talking, reminding him that he had not eaten anything. He did have a pound of tilapia waiting at home but he reconsidered eating. People shit their pants when they die. Matt was certain of this after watching a video, a mare had kicked a stallion on the face and killed him instantly. The stallion collapsed into its death throes and let out an audible fart. Eating the fish meant he might leave behind an embarrassing scene. Shitting your pants or dying with your dick out are two fears he held. He decided not to eat. Better to leave this world with an empty stomach and unsoiled pants.

Upon arriving home, he made his way to the bathroom, he did not want to leave anything up to chance. Afterall he was adamant about one thing and that was certainty.  Matt made his way to the fridge for some water and saw the soon to spoil tilapia and there it would remain. The fridge was stuffed, his roommate monopolized the whole damn thing. Jars of pickled anything, doggy bags from every restaurant in a ten mile radius were piled on top of each other. He had no money and wondered, how could she afford all of this? After All they worked in the same bar, she was a server and he a cook, so maybe the grass was greener. He noticed the pitcher was missing, it was left on the counter in order to make room for the chinese food that had taken residency in the highly sought after realty. All of this food and all he had was on the edge tilapia and the now warm water. Upon further inspection he noticed the sheen of a recognizable can in the crisper. There was his beacon of hope. He had forgotten he placed some beers in the compartment prior to heading out. The lack of space meant he had to ration it to four beers at a time. After drinking one he would place one right behind it. There was always a cold one.

The drawer slid out revealing four silver bullets ready to be placed in their respective chamber. Not all is lost he thought, he still had himself to keep his beer cold. He sat down in his office chair and peered out the blinds towards the tracks that were dimly lit by one lamp post. In between sips he thought about where to place himself. The least likely place to be discovered would be ideal. Maybe some lucky kids playing hooky would stumble onto his decaying body and gain a life experience seldom achieved. You hear about it, read and see it on tv. If you took the numbers into consideration, it was a miracle he had not walked into one on the way home. There were the animals though, quite a number of them he remembered. Some kittens never saw mommy again, her body just lying there. What a shame if one of the kittens should discover her.

His dog was a victim not too long ago. He had escaped the yard at dusk, being as black as the abyss, some poor woman struck him with her car. Matt searched for him and came across the scene of the accident. He noticed the lady was pacing and crying hysterically. As he neared the woman he could tell his life was about to change. Matt saw the black dog lying on the side of the road, the lady promptly apologized and hugged him. He ran to his fallen pet and could see that he was still breathing and his eye was staring into Matt’s soul. The lady’s name was Angel, he never saw her again.

Matt continued savoring his cold beer. He enjoyed the burning sensation as it coated his tongue and throat. Only a soda had the same feel but all it gave you was diabetes and more girth. Beer at the very least got you fucked up and intrinsic. You become cynical and begin to philosophize about dead animals and their denied redemption. You realize how embarrassing dying really is and circle around to how at that point, it does not matter. 

Nothing matters, he remembered. Not the girl he made cry, shitting your pants, the empty beer cans, the warm water, nothing. He preached it to his sadder friends, to drunk strangers at bars. He neglected his own philosophy compiled from the teachings of Camus, Bukowski and Hemingway. Celine had taught him that life was a precarious dance on your gravesite and when you stop dancing, you just fall in. He would be a hypocrite if he stepped onto those tracks rather than on the train. He had taken himself too seriously. Matt gave out books like an old lady with hard candy. He handed out literature to maintain a sense of time bought. They would have something to talk about, soon, hopefully. 

Matt still wanted to see the tracks. He had another rule of never saying no, especially to himself. He would not deny himself an up close view of the tracks. Matt dreamt about being a hobo and hopping on to a slow moving train with a sack on a stick. He would be wearing a stovepipe hat and patched pants. You could drink a different town every night and never see the same melting faces. But that was a fervent fantasy to which he could never commit because of the uncertainty vagrancy encompassed.

The tracks looked just like he expected as he leaned against the lamp post. It was now twelve and he knew the train would arrive soon. The ground began to shake and he could see the headlight in the distance. The horn blared and it was deafening. A brute force was imminent and it was damn frightening. Matt thought about the mess he would make if had committed, some poor underpaid sap would have to clean up and he could not dare be that selfish. The train now only yards away and he notices the silhouette of a black cat walking along the tracks. He stepped forward to greet it. One less cat left alone.