Last Station

A Story by Courtney

She laughed at the irony, wondering if she wasn't in a movie.

As the train pulls into the station, I realize I’ve missed my stop. “Fantastic” I mumble under my breath, “I am completely alone, in the middle of no-where.” With my suitcase rolling behind me, I step off the train, pulling up the collar of my coat to shield myself from the rain. As I avoid puddles, I gingerly tip-toe into the station. After spying the ticket window in the corner of my eye, I hasten towards the teller.

“When does the next train to Chicago leave?” I question hopefully.

“No trains until the morning. Next one leaves at ten a.m.” was the robotic reply. Again I curse under my breath and pay for the ticket.

“Where can I get a bite to eat?” The pimply faced clerk pointed to a diner across the highway. Dodging cars as I cross, I’m breathless when I reach the other side.

“Moonlight Serenade” floats through the greasy air of the diner, as the bell on the door chimes behind me as it shuts. Laughing to myself, briefly I feel like a heroine in a film noir. All I needed was a fedora to accompany my tan trench coat, slick with rain, now hanging on the rack by the door. My eyes scan the small restaurant, looking for a vacant booth. Spying an uninterrupted expanse of glitter red vinyl, I squeak my way towards the single empty table, trying to quell my noisy boots dripping on the scuffed white linoleum. I slid into the booth, flipping over the coffee cup sitting on a saucer in front of me. A stereotypical diner waitress, complete with a pink ill-fitting uniform and bored expression approached the booth.

“What can I getcha hon?” she asked, practically rolling her eyes.

“Coffee for now.”

“Cream and sugar?”

“No thanks.” She looked at me with disbelief before sauntering behind the counter.

Gingerly opening the slightly sticky plastic menu, I begin reading through classic diner fare: cheeseburgers, meatloaf, questionable sounding daily specials, and soup and salad combos. As I glance through my options, I hear a sliding sound coming from the opposite side of my booth. Lowering my menu, I see unruly curls of chocolate hair, falling over a pale forehead. Through the curtain of curls, a pair of grass green eyes peer at me curiously. Though I can’t see his mouth, I feel his smirk. My face forms a familiar glare. Before I can tell the stranger to beat it, the waitress returns with my black coffee. She straightens up, spying the handsome intruder.

“What can I get you darlin’?” she attempts a sultry tone.

“I’ll have whatever she’s having.” The stranger’s voice drips with artificial sweetness.

“Are ya gonna eat anything?” Linda, who’s name I learn from the badge on her apron grimaces at me, attempting politeness.

“Cheeseburger, medium well, ketchup and lettuce only.” I spat, through grit teeth. The man across from me nodded an affirmative at the waitress before she trudged to the kitchen. After glancing briefly at her retreating form, I skip my usual manners, demanding,

“Tell me who the hell you are.”

He chuckled before answering, “Huck. My last name isn’t Finn though.”

“May I ask you why you’re invading my booth?” I reply, ignoring the man’s jovial attitude.

“You looked lonely, besides, this is the only seat open. This place is packed. What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” He adopted a poorly executed Cary Grant accent. Despite my love of old movies, particularly Cary Grant movies, the cocky attitude of Huck annoyed me.

“And why are you interested in my personal history?” Everyone talks about stories where people learn something profound about their life by talking to a stranger on their travels, but I never bought it. How could someone who doesn’t know you provide you with insight into your life?

“No need to get defensive, I always like talking to people I don’t know. You can tell them your secrets and not have to worry about the other person telling your friends.”

“It sounds more like you’re the one who has secrets, not me.” Skeptical of his motive, I reply, arching an eyebrow.

“Maybe I do maybe I don’t. Either way, now you want to know, so my plan has succeeded. Seriously though, I don’t think it would kill you to tell me your name.” He tried out a reassuring smile, but it looked out of place on his face, like he hadn’t ever used that expression.

“Rachel. My name is Rachel. Maybe if you stop trying to force information out of me, I’ll be nicer to you.” Taking pity on the lonely stranger, I decide it couldn’t hurt being nice. Linda approached the table with our food. Wordlessly, she dropped the plates onto the table with a clatter, and walked back into the kitchen. After inspecting my burger for the correct doneness, I take a petite bite and almost have to restrain myself from devouring it whole. The juiciness of the burger matched with the melted cheddar cheese formed a heavenly combination of flavor in my mouth. Huck looked at me amusedly as he popped a fry into his mouth.

“Good burger?’

I nod vigorously while chewing another bite. Abruptly I realize my grumpiness was attributed to hunger.

“Sorry I was so rude earlier. I’m not exactly traveling for pleasure.” He waves off my apology, and a little weight I didn’t know I was carrying was lifted off my chest. We ate mostly in silence, enjoying the food on our plates. I toyed with the idea of telling Huck my secret, wondering if what everyone said was true.

“So you asked me what I am doing in a place like this, right?”

“I did, but I was just trying to make conversation” he replied uncomfortably, squirming. He was probably remembering the rocky start of our meal.

“Well, I’ve decided to pity you, so you won’t go to sleep wondering what my secret is. I left my husband. Please, spare the pitying looks. He was cheating on me. I was just waiting to leave until he admitted it.”

“Damn, I’m sorry! I figured you were doing some kind of ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ journey to self-enlightenment. Sometimes I’m a little too curious.”

“Yeah, not exactly. I was supposed to get off my train in Chicago, I figured now would be a good time to visit my parents. It’s been years since I saw them, they weren’t the biggest fans of my husband. Anyway, I fell asleep and missed the stop. Speaking of which, do you know anywhere I can stay tonight?” I rattle these facts off tiredly, the richness of the food making my eyelids droop with fatigue.

“I know a place, but it’s not exactly the Ritz. In fact it’s probably the exact opposite.” I could see Huck inspecting my clothes, a loose-fitting cream cardigan and skinny dark-washed denim, suede cocoa colored riding boots on my feet.

“Oh, you think that because of the way I look I won’t be comfortable in a roach coach?” I reply smirking, countering his thinly veiled comment.

“Hey, a lot of women hate places like that!”

“Who would like a place like that? Besides, I’ve stayed in cheap motels before and I doubt this will be the last time I will.”

“Touche.” He writes down the name and phone number of the motel in question on a napkin, sliding it across the table. Picking it up, I stash it in my purse, and take out my wallet, extracting my credit card to pay the bill.

“No, no, no. No way. I’m a gentleman. I will be picking up the tab.” I smirk a little at Huck’s insistence, sliding my card back into it’s place in my wallet.

“Thanks for the dinner Huck, it was… interesting talking to you.” Rising from my seat, I sling my purse over my shoulder and l grab my coat before leaving the small diner. After spying Huck’s suggested motel, I jog across the highway.

The rundown paradise comes into my vision, complete with a blinking neon sign, and chipped white stucco gracing the outside of the building. Walking in, again I feel like a character in a movie, this time a B-grade horror movie. Dingy carpet, worn down with traffic and smudged wallpaper hipsters would’ve called “retro” adorned the walls. I was reluctant to touch the greasy handbell that beckoned the desk attendant, but I felt myself swaying with tiredness. The off-key ring brought into my view an ancient looking man with a stained tank top, who was limping his way up to the desk.

“Can I help you miss?” He smirked at me with a toothless grin.

“Any rooms for tonight?” I ask, mustering a polite tone despite the old man’s leer.

“You betcha. Just one bed?” He wriggled his eyebrows lecherously.

“Yes.” I reply with disdain. Pressing the platinum card on to the counter, he snatched it up greedily before sliding me my key across the counter.

“Room eight” he said, eyes straying from my face, “down the hall, last door on the left.” He finished, handing me the card.

Picking it up, I walk down the dimly lit hallway. After passing what seemed like an endless row of doors, I see the tarnished brass eight on the chipped painted door. Turning the key in the lock, I open the door to darkness with the red neon light of the vacancy sign providing the glow streaming through the window shades. As I make my way into the room, I sweep my hand along the wall to my left, attempting to find a light switch. The tacky plastic finally identified itself under my fingers and I flip the switch. As light floods the room an involuntary groan escapes my mouth. My eyes travel around the space and I try to shake all the episodes of CSI that began similarly to the back of my mind. If the floor was dingy in the lobby, this was dirt by comparison. I knew I wouldn’t be taking my shoes off until I went to sleep. The grimy yellow wallpaper was peeling off, dotted by generic landscape paintings breaking up the bland pattern.

When I finally force myself to look at the bed, I avoid thinking about the invisible stains spotting the sheets. I quickly decide that sleeping under the sheets is out of the question, no matter how cold it might get. After shoving my suitcase on the top shelf of the closet, I turn on the beside lamp, lock both of the locks (deadbolt and chain), and switch off the overhead light. As I am plunged into relative darkness, my feet drag on the journey to bed. Before I fall asleep, I think briefly that people who have had profound conversations with strangers are crazy. Sure, Huck was nice to talk to while eating the cheeseburger, but I didn’t learn anything about myself from it. Sometimes brief moments of companionship are more meaningful than some sort of ‘deep’ conversation. I wondered if a simple, mundane conversation could be more helpful than baring your soul over a Coke at a greasy spoon.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP! My cell phone screams electronically; waking me up from my slumber. For a confusing moment I forget where I am before surveying my surroundings. I realize that I like the room better in the dark. The sunlight illuminates all the stains, smudges, and smears that adorn every piece of furniture, including the outdated floral bedspread I slept on. Stretching slightly as I stand, it is concluded that mouthwash shall have to be sufficient oral hygiene, as I am genuinely afraid to step foot in the bathroom. I swish the minty liquid around my mouth as I apply deodorant, hoping I won’t disgust the other passengers on the train I’ll shortly be boarding. I spit out the Listerine in the ice bucket (after checking it for bugs), slip my coat on and grasp the handle of my suitcase before exiting the room.

Again I cross the highway, my sight set on the train station. When I enter the station, all the cliches were present, couples giving tearful goodbyes, families separating as dad leaves for a “business trip,” he looks far too excited for, and runaways blasting music so loud from their headphones that I could hear the angry lyrics. Refusing to dwell on my surroundings, I make the short journey to my train. Climbing the steps I look around for a vacant seat. My choices are again limited, but I end up sitting next to a guy with a mop of curly brown hair and grass green eyes. When I sit down, he spares me a quick glance before returning to his book.

“Where are you from?” I asked the stranger.