by AJ Wilde
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Torquere Press
www.torquerepress.com
Copyright ©2007 by AJ Wilde
First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2007
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There's something surreal about a train station. The vast space seems formless and vague, like a Salvador Dali painting. A blank canvas, ready for a portrait of a thousand disconnected lives. You stand alone in the concourse, surrounded by bodies rushing in all directions, like faceless figures from a tangled dream.
Your fellow travellers don't appear to see you; they jostle and bump you without apology or even acknowledgement of your presence. Some even try to walk right through you, as though you had no physical existence at all. Maybe in the night, you swallowed a drug that rendered you transparent? You swirl your invisibility cloak with a smug flourish, and blunder your way to the ticket kiosk.
"Destination?” The gray-suited ticket clerk looks down. Even he cannot meet your eyes.
"Cochrane."
"The end of the line.” He makes a face that you assume is intended to be funny. If he only knew. You fumble for money.
The Bedford limestone facade of Union Station in Toronto is an architectural glimpse backward to the 1920s, when the railway was the backbone of the nation and Toronto was still Hogtown: the gritty hub of Ontario and Point A of journeys. Around the high interior walls of the great hall, the names carved in proud capitals evoke the dreams of travellers long past—exotic, faraway-sounding places: Sarnia, Sault Ste. Marie, Moose Jaw, Prince Rupert. Japanese tourists crane their necks, peering through Nikon lenses at the cathedral-like vaulted ceiling. Afterwards, they feel dizzy.
In these hallowed marble halls, heavy with the legacy of the Canadian National and Canadian Pacific, the dream lives on in every backpacking student, sullen commuter, squabbling family, and trolley-trundling CEO that pounds these platforms every single day. In the underpass that leads to the warren of underground tunnels that swarm through the city, piles of old clothes lie in corners, discarded, swept out of sight with crumpled pizza boxes and yesterday's papers. On closer inspection, you see that they are people. Their dreams died long ago. Spare some change please? I don't have any change. Get a job. Spare some change pleassse? Their toneless mantra follows you, hissing like a hungry viper in your guilty ears. A pigeon flies up almost into your face and you run through the stifling crowd, to your train and safety.
* * * *
The small brown door has an old-fashioned round knob, worn smooth from constant buffing by the man in the shabby shopcoat whose job it is to polish the brass every morning. The fingerprints of lawyers are hard to erase. Every morning at precisely 6:45 a.m., the smart young man in the Harry Rosen suit strides briskly through the lobby and blasts through the brown door. He whistles happily.
"Lovely morning, sir,” the doorman murmurs, deferentially.
"You bet, Simms,” yells the young man, cheerfully. You'd think it was the nineteenth century.
But this morning the young man does not barrel through the lobby at precisely 6:45 a.m. He is late. Simms checks his watch, shrugs, and greets the tall blonde lady, mid-forties, walking her Shi-Tzu at precisely 6:50 a.m. He isn't paid enough to place wake-up calls to the residents of Mayhew Place. Maybe it's not the nineteenth century after all.
* * * *
In Suite 620, all was quiet except for the rustling of paper. Nick sat on the edge of the bed in his ecru Italian cotton pyjamas, raking his hands through his hair (chestnut brown with #35 dirty blond highlights, texturized by Bodie of Mikado Salon), reading and re-reading the crumpled page in his lap. He knew this would happen.
Dear Nick: (why couldn't his name have been John?) I can't do this anymore. I've cleared out my stuff from the closet, and I took my CDs. Sorry.
He screwed up the paper and hurled it at the bin, where it rimmed and then missed, bobbing sadly on the parquet.
"Fuck you,” he snarled. Even his Blahnik leather slippers failed to comfort. What the hell was wrong with women anyway? All this constant whining about self-respect. Men just had to get on with it; nobody threw bake sales for abused men. There were no self-help books for men entitled How to Balance Career and Family.
The bathroom mirror showed a damp twenty-eight year old with clear blue eyes and a perfectly straight nose. He rubbed his chin and wondered about shaving. But he'd already called in sick; what was the point? She was gone. He traced her name on the steamed-up glass. He had already begun to forget the color of her eyes, but evidently, his body remembered more intimate details.
Dammit! The sound of the shower covered his eventual release, but afterwards he felt empty.
* * * *
You finger the wooden beads around your wrist. When you're nervous, your hands just refuse to rest. Should you take up knitting? A wry smile crosses your face as you imagine his reaction. The antithesis of Bloor West Village style: a little doormat, sitting in the corner with clacking needles. He doesn't even approve of you wearing wool. Irritated, you slide the bracelet off your wrist and unwind it, clicking the beads through finger and thumb like a rosary (you're not even Catholic).
Your stomach takes a turn as the train lurches suddenly forward, and a thin, disembodied voice warns of the dangers of high-speed trains which may pass in either direction at any time. You make a mental promise to the voice, to always stand well back of the yellow platform lines.
The carriage is comfortable, well lit and air-conditioned, with blue velour seating and foldaway tables. There are restrooms and a dining car with white tablecloths and silverware. The eight-hour journey to Cochrane, exhausting by road, is almost an adventure by train: striking out beyond the city and surrounding suburbs, into the still-wild north. If you kept going, you'd hit the Arctic Circle. You feel secure, comforted by the capsule-like carriage dotted with non-threatening strangers, all going somewhere, purposeful, not owing you anything, not on the take. You feel safe.
And you feel free. The past few months have been suffocating: you felt as though you were slowly strangling to death in a sterile, spotless, designer vacuum. The apartment was an eternal clean room where any evidence of human biology was persona non grata. Over the nearly ten months since you moved in, your eclectic mix of almost-antique furniture and yard sale finds have been gradually replaced or eliminated. The space you used to call home was now a cool, brushed-stainless steel reservoir of minimalist chic; it was practically Japanese.
As well, he's been displaying oddly obsessive-compulsive behavior of late: flicking the light switch off and on, off and on, off and on until you screamed at him. At night, he tossed in wild nightmares, and more than once you've had to shake him awake, him dripping in cold sweat; you trembling from the violence he displayed in sleep.
* * * *
The carriage door slid open with a crash, snapping the single occupant out of his reverie.
"Fuck!"
Nick's bag slid off his shoulder and onto the floor, followed in short order by his BlackBerry, which fell out of his coat pocket. Upon hitting the linoleum it broke apart, the batteries skidding under the opposite seat.
"Fuck, shit, goddammit!” Nick kicked the disembowelled remains of the BlackBerry, untangled himself from his coat and scarf and tossed them into a corner. He flung himself into the nearest seat.
"Um, you okay?"
Nick looked across the row of seats. He
was in no mood for company.
"Yeah. Yeah. No. Not really, no.” He laughed, to himself rather than to the stranger sitting opposite him. Another spike of rage tore through him and he fumbled frantically for the broken bits of BlackBerry, scrambled them all together in his hand and hurled them at the carriage door, where they shattered into fragments of blue plastic. The Rogers logo skittered cheerfully on the floor.
"Fucking piece of shit!” Nick spat, then slumped back into his seat.
"You want a Valium?” The stranger grinned.
Nick looked up, a little chastened now that his anger had vented. “Sorry. I'll be okay in a minute.” He ran his hand through his hair. He could feel those eyes watching him. Oh yes, he'd noticed. Dark espresso-brown, long black lashes, a subtle trace of eyeliner. He shook himself. Don't.
"You really don't like that thing, do you?” the voice persisted. Cynical, cavalier, slightly amused. Taking the piss.
"I hate it. I hate everything about it, okay? And what's it got to do with you, anyway? Mind your own business—I'm in no mood for smart remarks."
"I noticed."
Nick put his head in his hands. He was just looking for a bit of peace. The other cars were full of moms and kids, wailing babies, assholes talking loudly on cell phones, gossiping teenagers, chattering housewives who didn't take a breath in between words.
The train clunked over a switch. Nick looked out of the window and took what felt like his first breath in an hour. His head ached like a sonofabitch.
"Uh, sorry, this is going to sound rather stupid,” he said. His companion looked up.
"You want to be alone? I can move. Just ask."
Nick shook his head. “No. I mean, yes, but no."
"Yes, you want to be alone, or no, you don't want me to move?"
Nick stared. “Um..."
"You were going to ask me a question, I think."
"Jesus! Yes. Sorry. Where is this train going?"
"You're kidding, right?"
"No."
"You just got on a train, and you have no idea where it's headed?"
Nick stared at the floor. “Yeah. That's about it, yeah.” He wanted to cry. I'm lost. Lost.
The brown eyes shone with private amusement. “Well, you might want to get off at the next stop then, because this is the Ontario Northlander; it goes all the way to Cochrane."
"Where?"
"My point exactly."
"And you're going there, I suppose?"
"Yep."
"Why?"
"Why not?” Flippant. Infuriating.
"What's there?"
"A big statue of a polar bear. Tim Hortons. And my grandma."
Nick suppressed a giggle. “Your grandma?"
"Nothing wrong with visiting your grandma once in a while. It's a very relaxing trip. Although maybe not for you,” the stranger said, glibly. A smirk, then a frown in Nick's direction, followed by the curious arch of an eyebrow. “Where did you mean to go?"
"What?"
"You got on the wrong train, obviously. Where did you mean to go?” Kind. Concerned. Patient.
Stop it. Don't be so nice to me.
"Uh, I don't know. Nowhere. Anywhere. I just ran for a train, any train. I jumped on the nearest one."
"Wow. Did you rob a bank?"
Nick was silent.
"Look, I didn't mean to pry. But if you want to talk about it, it's cool. I'm a good listener. And I have cop friends."
Nick managed a smile, and let out a deep sigh. “My girlfriend left me. I just—I guess I kinda snapped. I didn't go into work this morning. I just ran, all the way here, and jumped onto the first train I saw."
"And you broke your little corporate toy."
Nick grimaced. “Corporate leg-iron is more like it."
"What's your name?"
"Huh?"
"Your name. Or did you leave that behind as well?"
"Nick. Pleased to meet you, um?"
"Chris.” A smile, a handshake. Polite conversation.
"So what do you do that's made you so neurotic?” Chris grinned disarmingly.
Nick felt a strange sensation in his knees. “I'm a lawyer."
"Ah.” Chris nodded. “That explains a lot."
"What are those?” Nick pointed to the wooden beads on Chris’ wrist.
"Worry beads."
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah. Look, try it. Just scoot them between your fingers. Very calming. Helped me quit smoking, in fact.” Chris took off the bracelet and uncoiled it, handing the beads to Nick. Their hands brushed together. Don't touch.
The train trundled on. Nick gazed out of the window at the endless suburbs, sprawling out of control over what was once prime arable land, now a seamless ticky-tacky patchwork of semis and townhouses, condos and strip malls. They passed through North York, Vaughan, Richmond Hill, Newmarket. All the same.
"Subdivision Hell."
"What?"
"You're really quite rude, you know. I was just making an observation."
"Sorry.” Nick looked down at his hands. He needed a cigarette. Badly.
"Makes you think of that old Cree proverb, doesn't it."
"What?"
"You're doing it again. No wonder she left."
"What? Who?"
"Forgotten her already, then. That's good. A step forward."
Nick felt nauseous. He shook his head pitifully.
"Some lawyer. Your girlfriend! She left you. Which is why you're on a train to nowhere, with me."
With me. Nick's head began to spin. “What proverb?"
"'Only when we have cut down the last tree, and paved over the last blade of grass, will we realize that money cannot be eaten'."
Nick nodded. “Yeah. Progress sucks."
"Which is why you're a lawyer, presumably."
Ouch.
"So you're getting off at the next stop, then?” Chris asked.
"I don't know. Where's the next stop?"
"Washago."
"Where in the wide world of sports is that?"
Chris stifled a giggle. “Just south of Gravenhurst. Muskoka, you know—cottage country. Your clients probably own half of it."
Nick sighed. He'd had his fill of lawyer jokes.
"You've never been north of Eglinton, have you?” Those eyes again. Twinkling. Ironic.
Stop flirting with me.
"Actually, I used to spend summers at Pickle Lake, just outside of Haliburton. So yeah, I have too been north. Well—not as far as your polar bear, but..."
Nick felt Chris’ eyes on him. He swallowed hard. His mother's voice nagged at the back of his mind. Don't upset your father. Get yourself a girlfriend. Think of your career. For God's sake, don't upset your father.
"Come with me,” Chris said.
"What?"
"Come with me. To Cochrane."
"How far is it?"
"The end of the line. Eight hours. Well, seven and a half now."
Nick looked at his watch.
"Why not?” Chris urged. “What have you got to lose? You're already running away from everything."
Eight hours with you.
The silence between them fell softly and settled like the spring mists coating the faraway pines. Nick rested his chin in the tuck of his palm, and watched as the endless drear of the suburbs flicked past, then melted into the lush rolling pastures of rural Ontario. The early morning world seemed drenched in browns and greens. Chris’ eyes traveled to the same spot on the horizon, and they seemed to coast there in an unfocused rendezvous, soaring across the tops of sugar maples, down into misty green valleys, dodging along the banks of rushing streams, flashes of sunlight through pine stands, and up again into the clear sky. Their eyes met at the same moment, brown into blue.
"Want a smoke?” Chris suddenly blurted out.
Nick stared. His heart gave a little hiccup, as though someone had stuck him with a Taser. “You said you'd quit."
"I lied."
Nick struggled to his feet
and followed Chris, who had bolted down the narrow compartment like a rabbit from a snare. Nick tried not to notice the slim hips in faded Levi's, the impossibly long legs and slender body, the tie-dye T-shirt and long, wild layers of black hair with oddly placed bleached strands. He tried not to notice, like he tried not to smoke.
"This is it.” Chris slid open the door to the dining car.
"I didn't know they allowed smoking on these trains?” Nick looked around at the other patrons, and loosened his tie.
Chris made a face. “Only in here. What the hell are you still wearing that for? Dump it, for God's sake. You look like a lawyer. Wait—you are one."
Nick grimaced at the joke, slid his tie off, and paused for a moment, staring at it. He thought about all his other ties, hanging in sad single file in his closet. A tie for court, a tie for client meetings, a tie for dates with girls he didn't like. Something inside him burned. Nick's heart pounded wildly as he crumpled the tie into a ball and tossed it out of the window. “Good riddance.” Nick watched helplessly as it caught on a tree and flapped in the wind like a defiant rebel flag. A mild panic gripped him, and he clutched at the nearest seat back.
"Here.” Chris offered Nick a cigarette. They leaned on the window ledge and inhaled deeply.
"Oh, thank God!” exclaimed Nick, exhaling smoke with his eyes closed. Chris smiled knowingly. “Back in a minute,” said Nick, as he rested the precious cigarette carefully in the ashtray and headed to the restroom at the end of the compartment.
* * * *
You inhale the sweet nicotine and the burn hits the back of your throat just before you breathe it down. It's been so long. You're not allowed to smoke in the apartment because he's allergic, and besides, filthy habit, ashtrays stinking up the place and residue staining the paintwork. You lapsed once and had one, you had to have just one, out on the balcony where you thought he wouldn't notice, but he did. All you remember is the shouting, shouting all the time. Your hands start to tremble and you curse under your breath. Stop it, stop it, you left him, you're strong. But you know you're not strong and your hands start to shake so violently, you drop your cigarette on the floor. You blink back the tears that are pricking your eyelids and swallow hard. Don't. Don't let him see. A warm hand covers yours, firmly, stopping the shaking in its tracks. You let out the breath you didn't even know you were holding.