Member-only story
Riding the Rails
Beats laying your head on the track, waiting for the vibrations to clue you in.
The air inside the train was no fresher than the stagnant and oppressive atmosphere of the station platform. I found an empty seat — they were all empty, but some were less dilapidated than others, and a few had upholstery that had rotted through, with flecks of bonded Naugahyde dotting the metal floor like faded confetti.
A thin film on the glass, and a spiderweb of cracks radiating from what looked like an old bullet hole, made the view more interesting as the train slowly heaved itself away from the platform and clattered down the tracks like an old hobo pushing a shopping cart with one stuck wheel.
My backpack was heavy. I pulled from it one of the many blank books I’d accumulated, over the years. Good God, but they were heavy. I’d packed, in my wheelie-bag, four pair of slacks, ten pair of underpants, four pair of wool socks, a dozen threadbare t-shirts proclaiming destinations I’d only imagined or pithy slogans I let speak for me, like, “LMTFA.”
But into the backpack, I had somehow shoved 982 blank books, some with a third of their pages ripped out, and 1,257 pens, only three of which I really liked to write with.
The thought of lightening my load caused me more pain than carrying it, and so I pulled out one of the books — not…
