“It’s an express,” my father says with a touch of awe. “Much nicer than the train I took when I made The Trip. You’ll be comfortable, they treat you well on rides like this. It’s not an ordinary trip, you know. Just follow the rules and stay the course.” Daren Schuettpelz
That seems like an odd thing to say about riding a train, but I let it pass. I have some money in my bag, but I take the opportunity to stare into my parents’ eyes beseechingly and see if I can drum up some sympathy cash.
“Money?” my parents chuckle when I ask. “Sweetie, it’s not like the other trips we’ve taken. You won’t need any money for this trip.”
I’m confused, but it is clear I’m not going to score a few more dollars, or any more clarification. I take a deep breath, but despite the breeze, the station air leaves a metallic taste in my mouth.
“Trains will depart…do not leave baggage unattended…trenes saliendo…,” the automated recording booming from the speakers startles me.
“We shouldn’t keep you any longer,” says my mother flatly.
“It’s time to board,” responds my father in a tone eerily similar to my mother’s.
“See you,” grunts my brother.
We hug as a family. It’s awkward, I’m not much of a hugger, but this time I hold on longer than is necessary. I soak in their warmth and their scents and determine to cement this into my memory. Like most things in life, it ends too quickly. I pick up my bag, squeeze through the narrow train doorway and into the car. My seat is a window seat, thank God, so I place my bag on the rack above and settle in. I press my face against the glass and allow the cold to sooth my forehead.
My family waves to me and I offer a lackluster wave back as the train lurches and begins to ease out of the station. I take a deep breath knowing there is no turning back now.
The train isn’t full, but there are plenty of other passengers. Most of them are my age. A few are younger, and there are some families. There is more legroom than I thought there would be and the seat next to me is open. An older boy is eyeing me and the empty seat. To discourage him from sitting next to me, I place my bag on the empty seat and try to avoid eye contact, but he’s got that creeper vibe that says he won’t be dissuaded. Just as he seems like he is getting up the nerve to invade my space, I hear a tapping and a woman’s voice.
“I said, is this seat taken?” a tall, older woman with caramel-colored skin, asks, in what I can tell from her tone, is not the first time she has inquired.
Startled out of my revelry, I stutter, “Wh-wh-at?” even though I heard her, my impulse is to question so I can buy myself time to think of a response.
“I asked, dear, is this seat taken? May I sit here?” she asks, rather slowly as if I might not be the sharpest of bowling balls and she may regret selecting me as her seating companion.
“Of course, yes. I mean, no,” I stammer, blushing. “No, the seat isn’t taken, and yes, you can sit there. I mean, yes, please sit there.”
This is going smoothly. Hell of a way to start a trip. I must look like I should have a traveling companion as if I’m not equipped to sit on my own.
She doesn’t have a bag, other than a purse, and sits down. It’s then that I start to notice more about her. She’s near my mother’s age, is wearing dark sunglasses and has a long cane that collapses as she places it securely in her purse. I am about to ask if it is too bright in the train, when I realize she is blind. Wait, can I say that? That’s probably not apro. I settle on visually impaired, but that still feels too sterile. One thing is certain, after the first impression I’ve made, I will not be asking her.
The train rocks slightly as it slips from one track to another. We are still in the city, so the train isn’t at full speed and my stomach is queasy from the motion. There isn’t much to see outside anyway. Just more tracks and concrete embankments marked by the usual graffiti. Tags I don’t understand but somehow feel like I should. I am made to feel slightly uneasy as if they are written in a language I should know but may never learn.
“Here comes the conductor,” my companion mentions to me. “You will want to get out your ticket.”
Rummaging in my satchel once again, I pull out the leatherbound ticket and present it to the conductor. He nods at the destination, checks my seat number, scans the corner barcode with his phone and returns it to me.
“Ms. Washington? Is that you again? How many times will you make this run?” asks the Conductor. I can’t quite tell if he is curious, suspicious, or just doing his job, but there is an edge in the lilt of his question.
“As many times as I need to, I suppose, Gerald.”
“Did you hear about the runner?” He leans in conspiratorially.
“Another one?”
“Yes, another one!” Gerald leans an arm on the seat rest. “It was a boy. He had a ticket for Concordia but hid in the toilet and tried to bolt out the door when we pulled into the Klickitat station. The nerve of some of these passengers. We caught him, of course. They always think they can change The Trip, but it never works. Maybe we should put something about it in the brochures to scare them and discourage it. But then again, it’s fun to nab them. You can almost taste the terror when they realize it’s all over.”
“Mmmmm, hmmm,” responds Ms. Washington in what I’m not sure is agreement or condemnation. “You think the Committee would ever ease up and let them make changes? Explore a bit? Learn something before their destination is set?”
Gerald stiffens. “Why? The rules are in the fine print. They sign it when they get their tickets. No one to blame but themselves. And why would anyone want to change stations? Absurd, if you ask me. Can you imagine me doing anything other than being a conductor?”
I’m pressed up against the window and avoid eye-contact, wonder if I read the terms to my ticket? Of course not. Just like I’ve not read any number of a thousand small print paragraphs when downloading apps or making purchases online. Did I sign something I shouldn’t have?
“Oh, bless, Gerald,” says Ms. Washington. “Some of them are children. But, if that is what the Committee wants, that is what the Committee will get, right?”
“Indeed they will. Good talking to you, Ms. Washington. Enjoy the rest of your trip.” Gerald continues down the aisle, punching tickets and making small talk, and Ms. Washington tut tuts under her breath.
“So, you take this train often,” I ask and realize how dumb I sound.
“I’ve done it a few times, sure hon.” She looks toward me. “But deary, if we are going to be seat friends, I would like to know your name.”
“Oh, sure, yeah, sorry. I’m Clara. I’m traveling to Riverview.”
“Jumped right in with two feet, did you?” She chuckles. “I got your name and your destination. Between you and me, keep some things for yourself.”
“Oh, okay, sure,” I answer, a bit confused. “Have you been to Riverview?”
“Yes, I made it there once or was it twice?”
“What’s it like?” I’m starting to blush and can feel heat rising up my neck.
“What’s it like?” She cocks her head at me. “That is an open question if ever there was one. Can you be ever so slightly more precise with your line of inquiry?” She must be a teacher because who talks like that? But, then again, why would a teacher be on this line?
“I guess, I don’t know.” I stare out the window. We are along the sea now, and the white crests of the choppy waves extend as far as I can see. “I didn’t really prepare. I followed what my parents told me and suggested and picked a brochure that seemed nice.”
“Nice? Clara, dear, please don’t tell me you chose your station, your destination, because it looks ‘nice.’ That is such a vanilla word, and you don’t strike me as a vanilla person.”
“Sorry, I guess the pictures looked like home. People were smiling, the sky a stark, azure color, and,” I pause. “And, I just picked it. But I don’t know what they do there. I don’t know anyone in Riverview. I’m not even sure where I’ll sleep tonight. I know, it’s part of the package for the ticket, but I don’t know where to start. I don’t even know what the weather is like in Riverview. Did I pack too light? Too heavy?” I realize I am speaking far too fast and I’m out of breath. My eyes begin to tear up, but I push the feelings down. I reach into my pocket, snatch a small tissue, dab my eyes, and for good measure, blow my nose. I take a deep breath and let it out as slowly as I can. Thank goodness she can’t see me and the state I am in. Just as I have myself together, a loud and sonorous belch from behind startles me and I jump in my seat.
“Our stop, man.” A man’s voice.
“Already?” Another voice, his companion. “I didn’t get to eat yet.”
“It’s all right, we’ll get something at the station.”
A chime and a polished voice echoes down the train, “We will soon be making a brief stop at SawGrass. All passengers with tickets to disembark at SawGrass should proceed to the exits now.”
I feel my seat lurch backward as a meaty hand uses my headrest to pull up the equally meaty husk of a man. I hear the crunch of an aluminum can being shoved unceremoniously into a trash receptacle. By the sound, it doesn’t fit easily. Two square-faced boys, roughly my age, but seemingly older based on their bulk, lumber down the aisle toward the exit. The first one slides his ticket in the scanner by the door, causing a light above the door to change from red to green. The train glides to a stop, and the two man-boys jostle each other playfully as they exit the train. Once everyone authorized to depart does so, the train starts moving again with a sibilant whisper, and I see the two high-five each other as they move toward the station’s exit.
“Look at them. I mean, did you hear them? They are happy and excited to be arriving at their station.”
“Yes, they did sound very at ease with their choice and their very selves,” answers Ms. Washington. “Have you eaten yet?”
“No, I don’t normally eat breakfast and I didn’t bring anything.” A rumble in my stomach.
“Press that yellow button and call the attendant. I’m guessing a nice meal will ease some of your worries.”
I do as I’m told and press the button and wonder how Ms. Washington knew the button was yellow but let it go.
“I hope it’s not a trolley witch.” I grin.
“A what?” asks Ms. Washington.
“Oh, sorry, nothing, just an inside joke from something I read.”
“Inside jokes are for when at least one other person is in on the joke. When only one is in on the joke, we call it being socially inept,” she says.
I’m about to take offense at the scolding, but I see by the wrinkles behind her glasses she is smiling. And like it or not, she is right. I am socially inept.
I’m worried the meal cart will consist of cold sandwiches wrapped in plastic and a mouth-drying chemical piquant. “This one time, my mother was flying somewhere for a business trip,” I begin. “Well, you know the meals on airplanes, total trash. She said they started the meal service and it smelled exotic. As she put it, exotic on an airplane is not what anyone is looking for. You know what it was?” Not waiting for an answer, I rush on, “They served a spicy Indian vindaloo. And this wasn’t a flight from somewhere exotic. It was a domestic flight from Seattle to Cincinnati. Can you believe that? As passenger after passenger hurried to the toilet, my mother said she never wished for nose plugs as much as she did on that day. She said it was one continuous regretful walk to the toilet, one person after another.”
“And your mother?”
“My mother?”
“Yes, was your mother one of the unfortunates?”
“Oh, she never said.” I probably should have asked. But, then again, knowing my mother, I don’t think she would admit to something that embarrassing. Now I am belly-laughing thinking of my starched mother, awkwardly waddling down the narrow airplane aisle and beating on the door of one of those tiny bathrooms.
“And what can I get you two?” asks a woman from out of nowhere. She is wearing the same uniform as the conductor. She pushes a large aluminum cart in front of her.
“I don’t know,” I respond honestly and with as much politeness as I can muster. “What are my options?”
She stares blankly then a tight-lipped smile. “Have you checked the menu for your selection? Or did you order online in advance? It’s right there, in the seat pocket in front of you.”
Fumbling, I reach into the pocket and extract the menu. It’s much larger than I thought would be feasible on a train ride. There are many options and I am momentarily confused because there is no way she could have all of this in her cart. “I guess I’ll have the fresh fruit platter and the, uh, club sandwich.” I force a smile that says I wanted this all along and it certainly wasn’t the first thing my eyes spotted on the menu.
“And I’ll have the same,” echoes Ms. Washington.
“Excellent choice.” The attendant reaches into her cart and pulls out two trays. “And here’s an iced tea as well.”
I didn’t order the iced tea, but it is exactly what I want at that moment. And the food, it looks too good to be true. My fruit platter contains bright red and plump strawberries, cantaloupe that glistens, and a kiwi the color of an emerald. My club sandwich is warm, toasted to just the right degree, and the bacon looks freshly cooked. I am full-on mouthwatering at this point, but before I can devour the meal, the attendant clears her throat and I stare up blankly. With a flush of embarrassment, I fear we may have a problem.
“Oh, I don’t know if I have enough money,” I mumble, red shame on my face.
“We don’t take cash, Clara,” the attendant responds, the tight smile still affixed.
“How do I pay?”
“Your finger,” she says bluntly.
For an instant, I wonder which finger I would give up to keep this meal. But I see the attendant is holding out a small metal device with a small indentation at the tip.
“Your finger, please,” she repeats and indicates the device.
I slowly place my index finger on the indentation. There is a click and I flinch, pulling my hand back abruptly. A small drop of blood wells up from a puncture caused by a small blade in the device. The attendant looks down at her screen and back up at me, satisfied with whatever she sees on her screen. The same process is repeated for Ms. Washington, but without the startled response to the lancet, and the attendant moves on down the aisle, and through the doors to the next car.
“What the hell was that,” I demand, stunned.
“Payment.”
“I paid with my blood?”
“I’m beginning to think planning and preparing is more of a hobby with you.” She laughs. “I suspect this trip will be one surprise after another.”
My face reddens again. But she’s right, I am woefully unprepared.
“Your ticket, and your reservation, allow you to charge things, like meals, to your account. Instead of money, they track purchases by DNA. You won’t have to settle your debt until you get settled in Riverview. It’s really quite ingenious. Years ago, there were a rash of fraudulent charges and it caused a whole to-do.”
I don’t really have a response to that, so we settle in to eating. To assuage my fears, she explains a little about my destination. She doesn’t share too much but enough to help soothe my nerves. Between bites, she gently probes me about my plans in Riverview.
“I don’t know what I’ll be,” I say with a chunk of cantaloupe in my cheek.
“You already are who you are. That’s not what I was asking. Do not confuse a career or a lifestyle with your identity. That’s a failing in the English language. We ask what people do, and their response is their job, as if that is all they are. No sweetie, what I am asking is what are your plans for your time in Riverview? Goals? Dreams?”
“Other than get a place to live and prepare for my career?” I ask. “I don’t know. Will I even have time?”
“If you don’t make time for yourself, don’t expect others to make time for you.” She is looking in my direction, giving no indication this will end with a joke.
The conductor returns and leans toward the boy who was eyeing my seat and speaks in a stern, flat tone. “Your ticket indicates you were to deboard at the last station. You agreed to the terms, Mr. Wilson.”
“But I wasn’t ready to get off at that station. I’ll pay the extra fare, I have the money,” the boy pleads as he shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out crumpled bills.”
“Put that away and come with me,” spits the conductor.
“No, really, just listen. It was a mistake. I need to go to the next station, that’s where I am meant to be,” the boy entreats.
The conductor reaches down and grips the boy’s wrist too harshly and the boy winces. The conductor hisses, “You will deboard this train with me at the next station and be placed on a special train to your ticketed destination. Is that clear?” He releases the boy from his grip leaving red, angry welts.
The boy stands, collects his bag and is led out of the car. The now familiar bell chimes and the train slows. I stare out the window, transfixed, as two large men, also in uniforms like the conductor, roughly escort the boy down the platform and sit him on a bench. One guard sits with his hand on the boy’s knee, and the other, to the boy’s left, has his thick hand around the back of the boy’s neck. The boy’s eyes are watering and I think of his wrist and the welts.
“Don’t dwell on him,” Ms. Washington whispers in my ear. “The conductor was right. He made his choice and staying on the train wasn’t an option for him.”
“But, it’s not fair. Why couldn’t he pay for a new ticket? He just wanted to go somewhere else.”
“If he wanted to go somewhere else, he needed to decide that sooner,” she says flatly.
‘It’s still not fair. He should be allowed to change his mind.”
“Enough with ‘fair’ and ‘should be’s. You think you can be passive and the world will bend to your will? If you want something, you better start by taking it. That boy’s mistake wasn’t wanting to get off a different station. Do you know what he did wrong? He made his choice and sat idly by hoping life would work out for him. He built his plan on hope but did not take any action to achieve his goal.” Her voice is new and stern and urgent.
“We should be allowed to change our minds,” I insist. “Why should we be stuck at one station because of a choice we make so young?”
“To put it bluntly,” Ms. Washington says, her voice lowering. “Because the Committee decided that is how we do it.”
“So there is no way to change? No way we can chart a new course for our lives? This isn’t your first trip. Do you work for the train line?” I am suddenly less confident about her intentions.
“No, I do not. I merely decided I would take this trip as often as I wanted or needed. I decided not to go to one station and stay. Instead, I made it my ambition to visit all the stations.”
“But, how could you? Did you see what happened to that boy? The way his arm flared and the guards who came out of nowhere. Did that happen to you?”
“No, I made my choice and worked to get my tickets when I needed them. Why?”
“I think I’ve made the wrong choice,” I say softly, hoping no one but Ms. Washington can hear. “You were right, I didn’t think this through. I want to live my life in more than just Riverview.”
“But you bought your ticket,” she replies. “You saw what happened.”
“Yes, but,” I start and then falter. “Wait, he stayed on longer. What if I get off earlier?”
“And how would you do that. Your ticket opens the door. If you don’t have a ticket for that station, how would you get off the train?”
I pause and think. The only people I actually watched depart the train were the two meatheads at Hullbourg.
“I can do it,” I say. “I think…”
“Go on,” she prods.
“When the two guys got off at Hullbourg, only one of them used their ticket,” I say with growing confidence. “I can leave with a group and no one would know.”
“Yes, I think that might work,” she says, but pauses. “However, the Committee’s security won’t be too happy with you. You can’t just walk out on your ticket. Are you sure about this?”
“Yes,” I say, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I am in control.
“When you leave the train, you can’t exit the station through the main gate. You’ll need to find the service exit and escape through there. You cannot turn back, otherwise the guards will take you. It’s not going to be easy.” Ms. Washington advises. By the quick staccato of her voice, I suspect this is not the first time she’s made this pitch and given this advice.
I look out the window one last time as the sun sets in a warm maroon glow. I feel the train slowing and my resolve begins to slip. The train bell chimes and I reach for my suitcase.
“No, leave that,” Ms. Washington insists. “You need to be able to run, and your things won’t help you.”
I am sweaty as I wait for someone to approach the exit door. Three people, suitcases in hand, giggle and talk about what they will do at the station. I slip in behind them and try to act the part. The girl in front scans her ticket and the light goes green. The train stops, and the door opens. Fresh air blows in and the four of us step out onto the platform.
The platform is crowded and everyone moves toward the exit. I inch toward the wall and fight to push past the crowd as I move up the platform against the flow of the exiting passengers. My eyes scan the walls for another way out, and for the guards. I spot three guards checking tickets at the gate. So far, they are occupied and don’t notice me. I can feel my blood thundering in my ears as I scan for another way out. A light reflecting off a metal sign catches my eye and I exult, yes, that is it!
But before I can start moving toward the sign, everything goes pear-shaped. Suddenly, a hand grabs my elbow. I gasp and prepare for the wave of pain to erupt with the grip.
“Clara, is that you?” asks a voice I recognize. It belongs to Mina, one of my former classmates and she is beaming. “It is you! I thought you were going to Riverview, but you changed your mind? This is fantastic!
“I, well, hi, but I…,” I am rarely quick-witted and my tongue fights every syllable I attempt to force past it.
“Oh my god, you are going to love it here. I’m so glad you changed. Alex, Marissa, and Eliot are here too,” she says as she looks over my shoulder. I tense as I realize what she is about to do just before she does it.
“Eliot! Eliot!” she yells. Frantically, I try to hush her, but it’s no use. “Look who I found! It’s Clara! She was going to go to Riverview and she changed her mind.” Her words trailing off, Mina turned back to me, “Wait, how did you change your mind?”
I am struggling for a believable lie, but her yelling caught the attention of one of the guards, who is nodding his head to his companion. I hold still and will them to go back to scanning tickets, but as my grandfather would say, I have luck, just none of it is good.
Mina’s expression shifts from excitement to worry. The lines of her smile tense and her eyes drill into mine.
“What’s going on, Clara, why are you so nervous?”
“It’s great seeing you Mina, I just have someplace to be. Someone to meet, I mean.” I break away.
“Hey, you, in the back, please stay there.” The booming voice of one of the guards.
“Does he mean you?” Mina asks, tension filling her voice. “Are you in trouble?”
“I’ve got to go.” I turn away and lunge toward the sign I saw earlier from the platform.
I can hear the guards moving through the crowd behind me as I push through the people in front. They are moving more quickly than I am. I scream as a hand grabs mine and drags me toward the wall. It’s a boy, my age, with golden brown eyes. “Here,” he says with clenched teeth. “Go through this door and up those stairs. Run and don’t look back. And whatever you do, don’t let them touch you. If you make it, find the Rejuvenate.”
He flings me toward a darkened door and through it, I catch a glimpse of steps leading up. It smells of mold and urine. I slip on the first step, my hands scraping on the stairs. Ignoring the filth I start to climb. The stairs go on forever and my lungs are burning when I hear someone behind me.
“Stop!”
I heed the boy’s instructions and don’t bother to look back but by the sounds of it, the man is gaining on me. I taste metal in my mouth as I push to climb faster. Through a small archway ahead, I can see a light. A burning sensation ripples up my ankle and I lose breath from the searing pain. I stumble and reach for the railing and just miss. I slam my cheek against the stone stairs as my body crumples to the ground. A guard grips my ankle. I roll to my back and with everything I have, kick him in the face with my other foot, but only land a glancing blow. His grip loosens, but not entirely. He is reaching for my other foot and I kick again, this time landing my foot squarely on his nose. The guard howls, blood gushing from his nose. He lets go. I scramble up the stairs on hands and knees.
The doorway opens into a lighted alley. I slam the door shut and limp to a dumpster on wheels and push it against the door that opens slightly and slams against the dumpster. A few choice curse words.
My ankle is burning, my cheek is throbbing, and my hands are scratched. I probably need a doctor. I pick a direction and start walking, one tender foot after another, out of the alley and turn a corner where there is red neon sign. Rejuvenate. I knock on the metal door and there is scuffling inside then the door cracks and I see the same golden-brown eyes from the station.
“You? You’re the boy who helped me at the platform.”
“Looked like you needed it.” He opens the door wider.
“You could have gotten into real trouble. Look at my leg.”
I pull up my jeans and reveal my red and blistered ankle. The cool air soothes it at first then a flare of the nerves and I am lightheaded from the pain. I use the door frame to prop myself up.
“I was seated in the car behind yours and it looked like she took an interest in you. She helped me last year, so I figure anyone she wants to help will get help from me.”
“You know, Ms. Washington? The blind woman?”
He chuckles, not unkindly. “I would guess most of us here know her,” he says, opening the door fully now and waves his hand at the people mulling about inside the warehouse.
I’m speechless as he guides me into the building and to a couch. I sit and he brings a stool for me to prop up my leg. A girl hands him an icepack. I wince, but the cold soon numbs the fire lacing my skin. There are others, my age, and older, milling about the open warehouse. Some are working, others are relaxing. Stairs lead up to what appears to be a second and maybe even third floor. Some machines are thrumming toward the back. It is warm, I can smell food, and it feels right.
“She’s traveled up and down that line for years. She’ll spend a few years at a station but will move on and experience something new. What did she tell me? She wanted to taste and touch as much as possible in her short life. Made me laugh at the time because she is not young. I’m not sure the Committee likes her transiency, but she does it legally. The only time she flirts with the law is when she prompts one of us to make a choice. But WE have to decide. We have to be the ones who make the step off the train on our own.” The golden-eyed boy shakes his head. “So, you made it here. Now what? What can you do? What do you want to do?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. But I want to travel. I want to learn more than one thing and explore all the stations. I’m not ready for one path the rest of my life.”
“Then you’ll fit in here. We only stay as long as we want to. Between you and me, I plan to go to another station next year. Learn what you can here and then, if you are brave enough, make The Trip to another station and see where life takes you.”
“What if I fail?”
“Then you fail,” he answers, matter-of-factly. “You just get up and try again.”
