Train's Talk

“You don’t deserve my image in your head. You don’t deserve my memories in your chest.” ― Coco J. Ginger

                The ticket man pushed the money back to him.

                “You’re not old enough, kid. I can’t let you leave the country without a guardian.” Slapping his hand on the counter, he pushed the money back to the ticket man, straightening his back so he could look taller and older.

                “I have the money. Hey, I’ll double what I’m giving you now. Just give me my dang ticket, schnell!” Chest puffed, the ticket man called for the next person in line. “Whoa, I’m not done yet!”

                “And I have very busy people who are of age. Next person in line, please.”

                Now, he stood his ground, glaring with his bloodshot eyes. “You can’t treat me like this! I have the right to get a ticket.”

                “And I have the right to throw you in jail for the next few months or years, young man,” the ticket man threatened, face turning purple. “Will the next person in line please come up?”

                And that’s how he, the “young man”, was later sitting at the waiting area of the train station. Okay, if he was nicer and bucked up to triple the paid amount, then maybe he would’ve gotten his ticket. He kicked his leg at the wall. Okay, maybe his bro was right about taking anger management classes, but that dude had no right to talk to him like that. Pulling the folded map of America and Mexico from his pocket, he glanced down at the train he was hoping to board�"the one that went right through Mexico and into Ecuador.

                Crumbling the map, he looked around for a family, a Spanish-speaking one. Three seats away, a father and his twin sons were playing a game of I Spy. Even though his Spanish skills were rusty, he was still able to understand a bit of what they were saying. That’s why you’re trilingual, he told himself. Clearing his throat, he moved himself closer to the family, trying to make himself look/act like he belonged. Clearing the German from his throat, he squeezed his brain of any Spanish words it had.

                All he knew was sí, so that was the word he placed his money on. Smiling, he went along and “played” I Spy with the family, nodding a lot and saying sí. About ten minutes later, the father gathered his sons and boarded a train�"a different one. His train was here anyway, so he stayed with them until the last second before boarding his destined one.

                Finding a spot next to a business woman, he sat down and waited for the train to fill. Once the train gets out of here, I’ll be officially on my own, he thought, fingering through his wallet. Did Ecuador even use American dollars? He’d have to exchange at a bank, but what about talking to the bank person? Google translate will be my friend, I guess. Job, he had it planned out. He’d pretend he was a German immigrant and work as the dishwasher until his life magically becomes successful. Yes, that was the plan.

                Nodding through-and-through, he watched as the train station began to disappear as the train lurched forward, building speed. Stretching, he was about to take a nap before hearing the clicks of ticket puncher. The sound…it was getting closer. He looked around and saw a restroom, empty. But, he still needed his spot when he comes back. Brain fired, he looked at the business woman.

                “Excuse me, Miss.” The woman didn’t even look up from the book she was reading. Okay, let’s try some Spanish. Racking his brains, he spilled a jumble of words that seemed to make sense to him. “Señora�"” the woman looked up from her book, interested. “Por favor, comer mi lugar mientras yo voy a nadar. Dígale al oficial que soy tu abuelo.” The woman looked at him, clearly interested. She gave him a toothy grin before speaking�"a language that was neither Spanish nor German. But he didn’t have time to figure it out. He glided to the restroom and locked the door. Pulling down the toilet lid, he sat on top and messed with his phone. Half an hour seems good, he thought, thinking about the life he’d been planning. Scrolling through the phone numbers he had brought back the memories.

                The sweet laugh of his girl as they walked home together one Christmas echoed in his ears. The charred smell of wurst as his brother made dinner. The smiles and jokes his friends provided him on those lonely Sundays when he babysat two Italian brothers. And, the satisfaction of teasing the school’s famed pianist every morning and afternoon for the past seven years. Yeah, while they’re off to college or whatnot, here I am going to Ecuador to be a dishwasher.

                Seeing his friends and brother’s faces as they wore those black hats and received their medals and certificate burned his throat. He was stuck being a dishwasher while they’re off curing cancer and being the next Mozart or Chopin. Sighing, he scrolled through his new messages, wondering how long it would take for anyone to notice he was gone. A message from his girl caught his attention.

Hey, Gil, where are you?
I feel like I don’t see you anymore.
Did you go away?
Are you disappearing from me?
I know I’ll never forget you.
And I and the others and your brother won’t either.
Are you playing hide-and-seek with us?
You’re hiding spot is good, I’ll say.
Remember how easy it was to find you in pre-K?
Tell me where you are, I promise.
I’ll be there for you.

                “The man came around, so I said that my nephew’s in the restroom. He’s going to come back. Leave when this train stops. I saved your spot, but to live in Mexico, you’ll have to do better Spanish than the mush you gave me. It’s not Ecuador or wherever you were going, but it’ll do until you get to your last spot,” the woman said, real fast with French flair. “Hey, what’s up?”

                “N-Nothing, I got dust in my eyes,” he growled, taking his spot. Rolling her eyes, the woman pulled out a thousand pesos.

                “It’s about seventy-six dollars, enough to board another train and take a lesson in Spanish,” she puffed. “Don’t make me regret giving it to you.”

                “Thank you, Missus.”

Reviews

[Sami Khalil]

A wonderful story you share with us in your unique style. Bravo..............