by Barbara Taub
In answer, I poured a handful of coffee beans onto a plate. Pulling off my gloves, I began touching them. “Buttered popcorn?” I handed him the plate. “After nothing but those sandwiches for four days, that sounds good.” He picked up a kernel and hesitated until he saw me shove a handful into my mouth. “So…” He paused to grab another fist of popcorn. “You turn things into buttered popcorn?” “Actually, that’s one of the more useful things my touch has made.” I shook more beans onto the plate and started touching them into popcorn. “Every day it’s something different.”
“I’ve seen weirder on this train.” He grabbed another handful and went back to his packing.
Possibly because George had already made himself at home on the bed, Jacob insisted that I take the bedroom tonight. He explained that he needed to be ready to leave the train when the Metro calls again at Null City. So I shredded some newspaper into a box to make a temporary litter box in the little exit hallway at the end of the bedroom car. George managed to convey both relief and contempt for my efforts.
•●•
Metro Rider, Part 3
LiveJournal, November 21, 2012 by LetteS
This morning I touched one of the coffee beans, and it made a tiny cupcake. Jacob was delighted, so I turned some of the stale sandwiches into a rainbow assortment of cakes. Mom would have been appalled at cupcakes for breakfast, but Jacob and I didn’t hesitate. The train made several stops, and Jacob told me a little about each station. First was Fallen Court, which he said is where the fallen angels—now demons—who still wanted to interact with humans ended up.
At the Fallen Court Station, the passenger car filled with teddy bears—if teddies came four-feet tall with red, scaly skin. “Imps,” Jacob told me. “They’re not too bad, as long as you make sure they don’t get hold of anything with cherries in it.” He shuddered. “Nothing is worse than cleaning up after imps with cherry-poisoning.”
“Gotcha. No cherries,” I repeated. “Is it okay for them to have…” Before I could get out the word “cupcake”, every chocolate cupcake was in an imp’s mouth.
“Oh, yeah,” Jacob nodded. “Imps are quick. And really into chocolate.” One of the imps took a sip of coffee and spat it out. “And they’re picky about coffee. Most of the ones who ride this train are baristas for one of the Latte’s Inferno coffee shops in the Metro stations.”
I looked at the imps. “How about a deal?” Every imp stilled, eyes focused on mine. “I’ll make more cupcakes—although I can’t guarantee how many will be chocolate—if you show me how to make better coffee.” The rest of their trip was spent in the kitchen car. After donning green Latte’s Inferno aprons, the imps went through the cabinets looking for coffee paraphernalia. Finally, with a disturbing mass screech of triumph, they produced a tarnished brass espresso machine. As they showed me how to take it apart, clean the pieces, and reassemble it, I heard about their life in Fallen Court. With its featureless grey sky and crazed mash up of demonic projects, it sounded like hell, literally, but they seemed to like it. Finally, the first cup was brewed. The leader of the imps steamed milk with the frother and demonstrated his signature technique for making a design on the top.
“Wow. That’s amazing,” I said truthfully as I looked at the anatomically-correct penis design floating atop the brew. The imp, who introduced himself as Pete, the owner of the Latte’s Inferno chain, said the imps were one of his top crews, on their way to open a new shop in the Between Station. While the imps reverently made cup after cup of coffee, I touched the rest of the stale sandwiches into cupcakes. The chocolate ones disappeared as fast as I could make them until we heard a musical voice announcing Between Station. As the imps left to gather their luggage, I handed Pete a box with the remaining chocolate cakes. He looked thoughtfully at my train tattoo. “Imps don’t work for humans.” He handed me a business card. “Although we’re usually happy to bargain. But the thing about the Metro is that it doesn’t care whether passengers are good or bad, just whether they can pay their fares. Be careful, because not every passenger will be as nice as imps. Or as handsome.” He nodded as the train came to a halt and joined the group of imps leaving the train.
The Metro made two more stops that day. At the Watchers Court, two beautiful men in long white robes got on. They sat serenely, ignoring Jacob’s cart, and got off four hours later at Seattle. “Don’t take it personally,” Jacob told me. “Watchers aren’t supposed to interfere with humans, so they tend to ignore us.” As I was thinking of heading to bed, the Metro announced, “Next stop, Null City.” Jacob’s indrawn breath had both of us looking at his wrist. His tattoo was gone.
He wished me luck, but I could tell his thoughts were on the stop ahead. I watched from the window as he stepped down onto the deserted Null City platform.
“Jake!”
He dropped his bags as a slender young man raced toward him, and they leaped into each other’s embrace. My own eyes filled as I saw Jacob wipe away his partner’s tears with both of his hands. Touching him.
•●•
METRO RIDER, Part 4
LiveJournal, Day 47 by LetteS
My days have fallen into a routine—get up, check out the day’s touch, push the food trolley between stations, write in this journal, fight with George, go to bed. I don’t know how to track the date, because the Metro has been looping through time dimensions. And let me tell you, that’s just not right. Before my touch manifested, my parents took me to Disneyland and a few other amusement parks. Mom and Dad loved to ride the roller coasters, but that first dip had me tossing my latest meal. So Dad and I would watch as Mom rode. As I got a little older, she would remind Dad that he liked to ride too. (But a look at Dad’s green face told me where I’d inherited my dip-aversion.) So when I hear the Metro’s passenger announcement to “Mind the Gap” between now and then, I grab George and a stack of those Mind the Gap sick-bags, and head for my bed.
My little room reminds me of the boat my friend Megan’s family had, where everything was fitted into its exact place. Thanks to a paisley-touch day, the faded walls and blankets (okay, and the floor. And toilet…) now sport bright new designs. George caught me considering him, and he hid under the bed all day. Although my room reminds me of my mountain cabin, it’s better, because I’m not lonely. Every day new people come on board, and often they are willing to talk to me. They hardly ever freak out, even when I tell them about the touch. As Jacob said, most have seen weirder.
And the best part? Rag is my… Well, I don’t know what he is except for here. A lot. His latest project seems to be the Metro, because he gets on all the time. Once I asked him how he could afford all those tickets. He tried to change the subject by getting out his NOTES book, but I’ve learned a thing or two about him by now, so I just leaned over and put a gloved hand onto the closed book. He has a great frown, but mine is better. We aimed our frowns at each other, and as usual, I outlasted him.
“I built the Conductor ticket machines.”
“Huh. So what—you coded in a backdoor so you could get freebies?”
“Not exactly.” He tugged at the NOTES cover, but I didn’t budge. “I might have built in a deal where I trade changes for travel.”
“Changes? You mean like your inventions?” I sat back, trying to figure it out.
He nodded. “I can’t use all of them. Most of them won’t be any good for centuries. Some would have been good centuries ago. The Metro isn’t limited to linear time, so I think it takes them to the proper when and…absorbs…them.” Noticing that I was distracted, he tugged NOTES away and was instantly engrossed.
I’ve never known anyone whose interest in everything is greater than mine. Some days I’ll come back into the kitchen after a trolley run to find him with a cup of tepid coffee, papers arranged in precise order over the counter. Almost any topic would have him pulling NOTES from the air and sharing his observations and theories. With every visit, every argument, every theory, I feel something in me unfolding.
>
It isn’t just that Rag is hands down the smartest, most interesting person I’ve ever encountered. There’s that…other…thing. The thing where we’re talking so fast, louder and louder, and he’ll never call me by my name, just Rapunzel or Train Girl or even HatesGeorge. But then I’ll see him just staring at me. Like he has no idea what I am. Like the way I’m staring at him.
•●•
Metro Rider, Part 5
LiveJournal, Day 52 by LetteS
If we end up at a station with Wi-Fi, I download books and movies, and try to check my email. But the email only worked once. My theory is that in the other time-whens my email address or my debit card doesn’t exist yet. Or any more.
•●•
Date: May 18, 2012
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Missing pieces
Hi, Lette:
You’ve never answered me, so I don’t know if you’ll get this email. But I’m going to keep trying.
I’ve had a lot of time to think about things since you left. Until I met you, it always seemed something was missing in me. When I woke up—after you knocked me out with the cat food can—and I saw your beautiful face, I thought, “She’s what I’ve needed. Too bad she wants to kill me.”
Lette, I’ve read your goodbye email over and over, and I think I finally understand why you had to go. You were the part I was missing, but I wasn’t your part. I’m not going to say we can stay friends, because I never once, not for one second, wanted you as just my friend.
The first few months after you left I was so furious with you, even when Kristin told me you bought me the house. She’s been great about helping me move in and get settled. I don’t know what I would have done without my job and Kristin. But I do hope you find what you’re missing out there.
—Stefan
•●•
Metro Rider, Part 6
LiveJournal, Day 123 by LetteS
Oh yeah, like I’m not going to bawl myself to sleep over that one. That’s what I get for being all noble with my, “Stefan, here is a house and a cute realtor to put in it…”
Rag came on board and wanted to know if I’d been crying. I tried telling him I have allergies, but he just grunted and asked if I was still mooning around after that Krampus boy. “He’s not a boy.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“Rag, remember last time you were here, and you wanted to know about my menstrual cramps?”
He looked worried and took a step back. (They were really bad cramps.) “Is this another one of your boundary things?”
I just looked at him.
“Fine. I was only going to offer to go to Null City and beat him up.”
“Rag.”
“Metaphorically speaking. You know he can barely hold an intelligent conversation.” He pretended to smile, as if he was joking.
Or as if I don’t know perfectly well he never jokes. “Rag!”
“Fine. But don’t say I didn’t offer.”
•●•
Metro Rider, Part 7
LiveJournal, Day 123 by LetteS
As Jacob warned, supplies for the dining car are random in every sense. So every time I have a food-touch day, I transform as many of them as possible and freeze any that I can’t use that day. As the days turned into weeks and then months, the giant freezer has filled up with a strange assortment of food. Although bemused passengers might be offered peculiar trolley menus like malt balls, fettuccine, and pistachio macarones, they’ll always get a cup of good coffee.
Nothing could be as strange as the Metro’s passengers. Often I don’t know what they are—human, devil, angel, or anything from dragon to fairy. Some seem happy to talk, while others are almost paralyzed with anticipation of arriving in Null City, or with fear of whatever is driving them there. Or both.
But the Metro itself remains a frustrating cipher, one that Rag and I discuss endlessly. Before Jacob left, I asked him to tell me what he knew of the Metro. He shrugged and said it wasn’t much. “But it’s just a train, right?” I may not have learned much yet about what the Metro is, but one thing I know is that it’s not just a train.
•●•
[Note attached to supplies taken aboard at Fallen Court]
Dear Rapunzel,
How is your tower exploration coming along? Is George paisley yet? I’ve been measuring energy pulses from the Metro, and it does seem to me that there is something coming from the engine. Suggest you investigate further.
—Raguel
•●•
Metro Rider, Part 8
LiveJournal, Day 125 by LetteS
I just got back from another look at the engine. Rag wants me to check it out, but that’s easier said than done. Of course, I’ve tried to look it over before, but there doesn’t seem to be a way into it. From the outside, it looks like the right engine for whatever when it occupies, from the late 1800s to other times that haven’t happened yet, at least to me. But I can’t find a door or any way to get inside.
•●•
Metro Rider, Part 9
LiveJournal, Day 132 by LetteS
I sat up in bed last night remembering Rag’s theory that my touch comes from the same place as the Metro. It almost makes me throw up to even think it, but I wonder what would happen if I took off my gloves and touched the engine?
•●•
Metro Rider, Part 10
LiveJournal, Day 133 by LetteS
I can’t stop thinking about touching the engine. But I realize it could be dangerous if it reacts to a bad touch day, so I’ve been waiting for a relatively minor touch. In the last few days I’ve had pinwheels, chocolate mousse (which, under any other circumstances would have been excellent news), puffs of steam, retro cat-style reading glasses, club sandwiches (okay, given all the chocolate mousse, I was pretty happy to see these), canned tuna, butterflies, old issues of Life magazine, and opals. But so far nothing seemed safe enough to risk on the Metro engine.
George was pleased about the tuna. Like I care. Mom likes opals, so I added a bag of them to my backpack. I miss her and Dad so much, but I’ve promised myself not to go back until my touch isn’t dangerous.
•●•
Metro Rider, Part 11
LiveJournal, Day 134 by LetteS
Today’s touch is stripes. After I striped the counter in the kitchen and then gave George a speculative look, he’s been hiding. But really, how bad could stripes be for the Metro? Only one way to find out.
•●•
Metro Rider, Part 12
LiveJournal, Day 136 by LetteS
It’s been two days since I touched the Metro. Yesterday morning I woke up in my bed behind the kitchen car. I had the worst headache of my life, so bad my eyes wouldn’t focus. Rag was leaning back in the little chair next to my bed reading his NOTES book, his long legs stretched across the foot of my bed. He took one look at me and held out a stack of Mind the Gap bags. I threw up until I thought there was nothing left in me. Then I threw up some more. Rag stayed the whole time and didn’t say a word, just wiped my face with a wet towel and gave me some water. I told him that far as I’m concerned, he is still an angel.
“So when are you going to stop lying around looking like green crap and write up what happened?” He leaned forward and brushed my hair back from my face before sticking a thermometer under my tongue.
A grouchy, antisocial angel. With boundary issues.
I hope it’s okay for SA’s to have sick days because I stayed in bed all yesterday, and I’m not getting up today either. I couldn’t update my journal yesterday while my vision was so fuzzy. Today my brain still hurts, but at least I can see to type a bit. I just can’t decide if I dreamed what happened when I touched the engine, or if it was a vision, or I don’t know—maybe it all happened exactly the way I remember. Hell, I haven’t even decided whether touching
the Metro engine was the best idea I ever had. Or the worst one.
•●•
Metro Rider, Part 13
LiveJournal, Day 136 (cont.) by LetteS
I never thought I’d say it, but I was glad this morning’s passengers were all from Watchers Court and ignored me completely.
It’s late afternoon, and my eyes are focusing better, so I’m in the kitchen car. Today’s touch is dark chocolate bunnies. Between those and the coffee, I’m feeling well enough to write about the Metro. And I promised to show Rag this journal entry as soon as I get it all down. So he’s pushing my trolley, and I’m supposed to be writing.
[Comment: I just took a peek at Rag. His idea of handling the food trolley is to stalk through the cars as fast as those long legs will take him. Passengers who want food have to grab it as he passes. I’ll have to tell him to hang onto his day job.]
•●•
Touching The Metro
by Lette
Two days ago when I had stripes for my touch, I decided it was worth the risk of touching the engine car. I didn’t know what would happen, but if I’d thought about it from now till Christmas, I wouldn’t have even come close.
We had just left the Between Station, and all the passengers had ordered from one of my better food trolley days—cotton candy, sea salt potato chips, club sandwiches, and chocolate mousse. I brought the cart back to the kitchen and went through the train to the front car. Lately, passengers have been wearing coats, and the train is getting colder, so I’m assuming it’s well into the autumn at most stations. George complained about leaving the warm kitchen car, but he doesn’t have much choice about following me if he wants to avoid freezing up.
The door to the engine platform was locked, but I noticed some time ago that the train doors lock and unlock if I hold my tattoo against them. I shut George into the train car behind me and looked across the little open platform to the engine itself. Today the Metro must have been heading for the past because it was an old-fashioned steam engine. I groaned, knowing I’d have to hurry so I could be back in my room before we crossed the Gap. But I wasted several minutes anyway looking—again—for something that might be the door to the engine. Nothing. If I tried to touch the whole engine, even just with stripes, it might leave me even sicker than when I levitated the house.