Moving On

This 11,000 short story follows Sam, a twentysomething, as he tries to comes to grips with the fact his mother is dying. He finds himself at the same train station she used to bring him to as a kid.

You’re going to a place you’ve been before, a place you’ve purposefully forgotten about until now. Repression, your psychiatrist calls it. Your legs are moving, but you’re not sure how. This is what they call an out of body experience. This is what’s happening to me. I’m not entirely sure why I’m here or how I even got here, but nevertheless, here I am. My name’s Sam. As I’m shoved, elbowed, and nearly knocked down the stairwell, I’d like to think that I’m different from these people. The angry mob. But, I’m not. I’m just as angry as they are. They’re just as lost as I am. Regrettably, I glance down at the next step and before I’m pushed into the person below me, I notice that it"and every preceding step"is covered in charred, chewed up gum, resembling tiny slathers of tar. It wasn’t like this before. I remember a time when people actually cared about this place. Hitting each step, I feel the gum sticking to the soles of my shoes. For a moment, I wish I could turn around. I actually try to turn around only to remind myself that there’s another option, but my feet keep propelling forward.

            Anyway, if I went back"even if I could go back"I’m not sure what I’d say. One good-bye was difficult enough, two would just be unbearable. There’s only ever one good-bye in the movies"and for good reason. Exiting the stairs, I’m finally able to breathe as the mob disburses in different directions. Half of them head for the right side of the platform where the 6:15 train is currently boarding and the other half linger towards the left, waiting for the next eventual train. I bend over and scrape the gum off of my Chuck Taylors with my index finger.

            My mom used to bring my sister and me here when we were younger, right after my father had left her; left us. It happened the day after her thirty-fifth birthday. My father had left my mother a good-bye letter in the form of a used napkin on the kitchen table. She never told us what it said, but given her reaction, “That’s just like him,” I could only imagine it couldn’t have come as much of a surprise. Immediately following his departure from our s****y two-bedroom apartment, she brought us here, to the train station. Instead of running to our Aunt Diane"her one and only confidant"she took us here. I think the roar of the trains and the coming and going of all the travelers helped to take her mind off of everything. Perhaps, for her, it was a promise of something better. Though, I’m not sure it ever got better for her.

Thinking back to the countless hours we spent here, it just now occurs to me that we never actually rode the train. My sister and I were only ever allowed to watch them come and go. We begged and begged until our throats were sore, but my mother always silenced us once she threatened to take our cotton candy away.

Surveying the platform, I notice that not much has changed since my last visit. In the middle of the platform is a two-sided, wooden bench, nailed firmly into the checkered cement. On the opposite side of where I’m standing is the outbound stairway, which I have no doubt is no less disgusting than the one I just ejected out of. After the 6:15 train soars into the tunnel, a monotonous voice mumbles over the intercom that the next train’s running ten minutes late. The angry mob grumbles in unison, raising their fists in the air, shouting vulgar obscenities at the intercom. Having spent a good portion of my youth here, I know firsthand that trains are late more often than you would think, but still more reliable than buses. A woman in her early forties, donning a wrinkled maroon business suit five sizes too small, walks up beside me and gives the camera, which is dangling above my head, the middle finger and promptly walks away. It’s clear to me that not a single living soul wants to stay another minute in this town.

After shoving my way through the crowd consisting mostly of legal secretaries, mid-level management, high-schoolers, the unemployed, addicts and recovering addicts, I reach the bench. Underneath the bench there are a few stray fast food wrappers and empty soda cans. Thankfully, though, there’s no gum. Aside from its sturdy steel legs, it’s clear that the bench has seen its better days. It’s lost all of its color, save for the few quarter sized chips of beige paint scattered along its wooden base. Like I said, nobody cares anymore. Just as I’m about to take my seat, some old guy beats me to the punch.

“Young man, I won’t bite,” the old man says to me, after I’ve already turned around, anxious to make my way back through the crowd. “There’s room for two. I can move my stuff.”

I know there is, but the last thing I’d rather do right now is share a seat with a stranger. Suddenly, I discover that I have bigger problems. Twenty pairs of angry eyes are suddenly set upon me, judging me. I’m looking back at them, terrified. The pimple located on the right side of my puny girlish nose draws the ire of the crowd. The same pimple I spent all morning getting rid of is back and it’s all the angry mob can focus on. Not the beard I’ve been growing ever since I dropped out of college last year. Nor are they obsessing over the fact that I’m wearing shorts in December. They don’t even seem, as most people usually do, to have a problem with my extraordinary long curly red hair. Nope, all they can focus on is this f*****g pimple. So I pretend to sneeze, causing many of them to step back, wary of catching my non-existent illness. As soon as I turn around and smile back at the old man, I can feel them move in closer, one of them is breathing heavily down my neck, sending a cold shiver down my spine. After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, the angry mob retreats back towards where they were before, as I nod to the old man and say, “Thanks.”

I wait to take a seat as he scrambles to make room. Gracefully, he reaches to his right, picks up his leather bound briefcase and drops it onto his lap. The torn strap dangles off of his knees, resting itself peacefully against his outdated Nike sneakers and finally, I sit down. Except for the few tiny prickles of hair sitting atop of his head, the old man’s practically bald. For whatever reason, this makes me nervous. He catches me staring at him, so I look away, embarrassed. Furrowing his brow, he ponders something for a moment and then pushes his reading glasses to the top of his glistening bald head, and looks over at me. I’m staring straight ahead but I can still feel his tired brown eyes focusing in on me. I’m hoping he leaves me alone. I’m hoping he just leaves. I’m hoping the next train comes bursting through and that he’s just another one of the angry travelers. However, something tells me he’s not.

He slips off his coat and places it in between us, and extends his right hand. I’m sure if I had a father figure growing up, I would know how to conduct a proper handshake. He would have told me, I’m guessing, that the first impression is made before you even open your mouth. It’s all in the hands, he would say. Instead of shaking his hand, I simply nod. He smiles politely and pulls his hand back and rests it on the briefcase.

            “Are you all right, son?” he asks me. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I say, staring at the desolate train track in front of us.

            Carefully, he lets his briefcase slide off his knees and drop to the brisk checkered cement. After placing his coat on top of it, he inches closer towards me. He wants to talk. But I’d rather snuggle in between the tracks.

“Of course you do,” he tells me. “You’re here to catch a train.” I slide a few inches away from him and catch myself just before I fall off the end.

             “How would you know a thing like that?” I ask. The entire platform vibrates as the train pulls into the track behind us. Luggage in hand, the angry mob collectively rushes towards the nearest open door, elbowing and shoving each other out of the way.    

“Well, if you haven’t noticed, we’re in a train station,” he says, gliding his arm from left to right, emphasizing our current setting.

Briefly, I turn around and watch as the angry mob, now somewhat content, board the train. After a few minutes, the last person steps into the train and the doors slam shut. I look back at the old man to reassure him that I’m still listening, even though I’m not. I glance back at the train one last time as it begins slowly departing the station. That’s when it happens. A blinding white light, so vivid that it causes me to squint as if I’m staring at the sun, rapidly engulfs the train, car by car, as it disappears into the tunnel.

            “Oh. Yeah, I guess so,” I say, turning back around. A bit shaken, I add, “But I’m not here to catch a train.”

            He stretches his right arm over my head and tucks it along the back of the bench, and says, “Then, why are you here?”

            “I’m sorry, Mr. … ”

            “Alvaro.”

“Sorry,” I say, not sure what I’m apologizing for. But, reflexively, I do it again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Alvaro. I think I’d rather just be alone. Not in the mood to talk, if you know what I mean.”

            “I understand and I swear I’ll leave you alone, but can I just tell you something?”

            I lift my eyes from the train track and turn to my left. “Mr. Alvaro, I don’t mean to be rude but like I said, I’d rather just be left alone.”

            “Of course,” he says. Nobody listens like they used to. “But, if I could, just for a moment, give you a little piece of advice.”

I look around and realize that we’re the only ones here. “Mr. Alvaro"’’ He cuts me off.

            “Next time you want to be alone, don’t come to a train station,” he says. “Try a library.”

I roam my eyes back towards the train track and wonder how it feels when you’re lying on the tracks when that train comes rolling in. Is it like a gunshot to the head? One and done. Or, does the train carry you along the tracks, draining you of every ounce of blood before coming to a complete stop? Momentarily, I consider posing this question to Mr. Alvaro. Judging by the stern look imprinted upon his face, I’m not sure I’d like his answer. So instead of asking, I laugh, a poor attempt to ease my nerves. It doesn’t work. It never works.

My legs, out of my control, begin shaking uncontrollably as I say, “You’re right.”

            “So, why are you here?”

            “What’s it to you?”

            “Humor me,” he says. I never understood what that meant. Are you supposed to tell a joke? “I noticed that you didn’t get on the last train.”

            Carelessly, I shrug my shoulders. “So?”

            “So, I think you’re still here for a reason.”

            “Well, Mr. Alvaro, let me just say that you’re very observant.” Lying as best I can, I add, “Anyway, I’m not sure why I’m here.”

            “I don’t believe you,” he says. Then a thought occurs to him and he adds, “My apologies. I never caught your name.”

            “That’s because I never gave it.”

            “Fair enough,” he says, lifting his right arm back over my head, letting it drop onto his lap. “Tell me, son. Why are you here?”

“Why do you care so much that I’m here?” He doesn’t answer me. “Are you homeless or something? Is this your bench? I can get up if you want.”

            “Stop deflecting.”

            “You’re a weird old man,” I say. “For what it’s worth, you smell pretty good for a homeless guy. Clothes aren’t bad, either. Are you one of those fakers you see at the mall?”

            “I’m a professor,” he says. Correcting himself, he adds, “Well, I used to be. I was fired today.”

            “I can see why,” I say, regretting it instantly as he looks away. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”

            “No apology necessary,” he says, rather calmly. “It was my own fault.”

            “What did you teach?”

            “English Lit.,” he says. “Shakespeare, Donne, Milton, Fitzgerald, and all of that.”

            “So, why did you get canned?”

            “Let’s just say I didn’t follow the required curriculum that was assigned to me.”

            “Oh, I see.” I’m not fully listening, just catching every other word. I can’t think of interesting anything to say, so I ask, “What courses did you teach?”

“Many,” he replies. “However, the one that got me into trouble was Science Fiction. Not my favorite subject, but it was something different. A change of pace.” He pauses for a brief moment. “Did you go to college?”

            “Yeah, but I dropped out.”

            “Why?”

            “Too many reasons.”

            “Give me one.”

            “My roommate committed suicide in front me,” I say.

            “Liar,” he says.

            “I was molested by my English professor,” I joke.

            He doesn’t flinch.

            “I didn’t have any friends,” I say. “No matter what I did, nobody wanted to hang out with me or talk to me. Can we get back to why you were fired?”

            “Anyway, week in and week out, I was teaching the same, rehashed lessons to a bunch of students who couldn’t give a s**t about what I was saying,” he begins. “So, one day I decided that I was going to teach what I wanted. You see, the problem with that, was that I omitted this little bit of information from my colleagues, the English department and most importantly, the dean.”

            “So, how’d you get caught?” I ask, half-interested.

            “One of my students apparently didn’t approve of the lecture I gave last month,” he says. “She claimed I was invoking my personal beliefs on the class rather than providing them with any real sustainable knowledge.”

            “What was it about?” I ask. “The lecture.”

            “It was called the ‘Substance, Validity and Structure of Time,” he says. “In short, I examined whether time existed or if it’s just an illusion.”

            “Of course it exists,” I say, looking back towards the stairs where a clock hangs. However, it’s no longer there when I turn to look for it.
            “Time is an especially hot topic in Physics,” he says, “which I’ll be the first to admit, I’m no expert in. I’m an English professor. An adjunct professor, nonetheless. However, since it was a Science Fiction class, I just wanted to open their minds a bit. Explore the unexplored. Transform the impossible into the possible. Do you understand?”

            “Well, to be honest, I’ve actually never thought about whatever it is you’re talking about,” I say. “You know, given all of the actual relevant things going on in this s****y world of ours, like war, famine, poverty, human trafficking, and on and on. You know, stuff that actually matters.”

            “Those things don’t exist anymore,” he says, confidently. Continuing, he says, “Overall, the lecture revolved around a few select theories from the nation’s prominent physicists, and they basically conclude that time isn’t linear. We only perceive it that way. If that young lady who reported me to my superiors was actually listening, she would’ve learned that I wasn’t really focusing on the validity of time, rather, I was focusing on the inability of the human consciousness to perceive time as it should be perceived.”

            “How’s that?”

            “Essentially, the main argument was that everything that’s going to happen has already happened,” he says, smiling. “We, however, are not advanced enough to perceive it as so. So, we simply experience time minute by minute, hour by hour, and day by day. When, in theory, we really should be experiencing the past, present, and future simultaneously. However, according to the experts, that’s simply not in the realm of possibility. At least, not yet.”

            “I’m sorry, Mr. Alvaro,” I say, utterly confused and sincerely frightened. “You went right over my head.”

            “Yeah, I tend to do that,” he says. “You want to know the odd thing?”

            The odd thing? Oh, as if all of that bullshit about time and consciousness was everyday small talk. Now, he’s going to delve into the strange. Why the hell not. “Sure.”

            “I don’t believe one word I just said,” he says. Un-f*****g-believable. “They were just theories. I was simply teaching. My overall goal was to have them walk out of the classroom with knowledge they didn’t enter in with and I think that’s what I did.”

            “So what do you believe?”

            “Honestly?” he asks. “It’s all conjecture, really. Time. No time. Consciousness. Sure, debate is great and all, it helps to get the juices flowing, but ultimately none of that essentially matters in the grand scheme of things. The choices we made yesterday do not matter. Any consequences that may await us tomorrow are simply arbitrary. The here and now is what matters. It’s our decisions and actions that we make today, in this moment that carry any weight. The present is what establishes order for the future. So, Sam, tell me,are you getting on that next train?”

            I must be dreaming. Did he just say my name? I must still be back in the room at the hospital, asleep, clenching her hand. I stand up and begin shouting at him, furiously. “How the hell do you know my name? Who are you?”

            “I know your name, Sam, because we do this every single day,” he says. I begin pacing back and forth, panicking. “Please have a seat. You’re making me nervous.”

Unsure why, I oblige.

            “Who are you?”

            “Professor Joseph Alvaro,” he says. “I’m an old man and I’m tired. So, do me a favor and just tell me why you’re here, so we can get this over with for once.”

            I’m not sure why, but I just start talking. “I’m here because my mother brought me here when I was a child. I’m here because it’s the only place I thought to come to after leaving her at the hospital.”

            “Why’d you leave?”

            I’m on the verge of tears when I say, “I wasn’t going to watch her die, even though I wanted to. You know, she didn’t even recognize me, her own son. The only child she has left. Or had left.” I stop and begin sobbing uncontrollably, holding my head in my hands. Like I did on the last day she took us here. On that fateful day, my life was changed forever. Wiping the tears out of my eyes, I continue, “I suspected all along she blamed me, but I never actually heard her say it until today. 

 “So, yeah, I came here to wait it out,” I tell him, sniffling away the tears. “When I left, the nurse told me they were going to pull the plug tonight. I thought what better place to come to than here. The scene of the crime.” I point towards the train tracks. “That’s where it happened. My sister, Ellie, and I had just finished our cotton candy in record time. We wanted to go home but my mother refused. So we started playing tag. Something to pass the time. My mother wasn’t really paying attention to us. She was reading the paper like she did every other time she brought us here. We didn’t really mind that she ignored us because we had each other and that was enough. Anyway, there we were, my sister and I, just running around. Back and forth, we went. I tagged her. She tagged me. It was when we were both ready to call it quits. That’s when it happened. She was chasing after me. I had to put on the brakes, so I didn’t fall onto the tracks. I’m not sure if she tripped on something or if it was just her momentum, but she wasn’t able to stop. My mom said it was my shoelaces that she tripped on. I tried to catch her, but it all happened too fast.”

            “It’s not your fault, Sam,” he says. “You have to know that.”

            “Tell that to my mother.”

            “So, how ’bout it? Are you going to take that next train?”

            “No,” I say. “I don’t think so. I have to arrange everything for the funeral. I have to call all the relatives and let them know.”

            “Sam,” he begins. “You have no idea, do you?”           

“What’re you talking about?”

            “You come here each day after visiting your dying mother in the hospital,” he says. “And, you tell me the same story each time. Your sister’s death. The cotton candy. The blame your mother lays upon you. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

            “I’m afraid not,” I say, utterly clueless.

            “What I’m saying is it’s time to move on,” he tells me. “If you don’t move on right now, you’re going to be stuck grieving for the rest of your life. Your permanent window of grief. It’s up to you and nobody else to make the next move.”

            It’s when you’re lost that you’re able to find your path. “I don’t know where I want to go. I don’t want to run away.”

            “Who said anything about running away?”

            “I’m confused,” I say. Epiphanies don’t happen like they do in the movies. There’s no montage. There’s not even an a-ha moment.

Unexpectedly, without any announcement from the intercom, the next train comes bursting its way out of the dark tunnel and onto the track in front of us.

            “You have to move on from this,” he says, and hands me a folded newspaper clipping. I unfold it. It’s an obituary. It’s when a stranger knows more about you than you do that you start to listen. It’s when you read about your own demise, that’s when things start to make sense. It’s when you see your dead sister boarding the train in front of you that you begin to realize why you’re sitting next to this stranger. You’re going to a place you’ve never been before. A place unlike any other. This is what happens when you leave the hospital. This is what happens when you say good-bye without actually saying good-bye. I’m standing up. Mr. Alvaro is smiling as he waves to my dead sister. I’m taking a few steps towards the train. I can finally control my legs. I look back and he’s gone. You’re boarding a train with your dead sister. You step onto the train and you look back at what once was. I stand still, frozen. I’m afraid of what it means if I sit down. Then, suddenly, you feel it. Happiness. A jolt of warmth engulfs and courses through my body. Just like the train full of the angry mob, each car is swallowed by a blinding white light, and just before it swallows you up and carries you with it into the tunnel, your sister taps you on the shoulder. She hands you the cotton candy, and whispers, “You’re IT.”

Author's Note

What do you think of the conversation between Sam and the old man?
Does Sam come off as ranty, annoying?
Is the ending clear to YOU?
Is there grammar issues?