Rails

"Your ticket, sir. Sir, your ticket please."

The conductor's voice woke Rich from a restless sleep. The rhythmic clacking of wheels always inevitably made him lose his place in whatever paperback he was reading, whether a mystery or sci fi or, his favorite, horror, to while away the boredom of riding alone with nothing for company but his bag of goods for sale.

"Sir, your ticket, please."

Rich's hand came up empty when he reached for the ticket he was sure he had put in his coat pocket. "I can't seem to find it," he replied, "but I confirmed my prepaid reservation to St. Louis when I boarded this train. Richard Archer."

"I need to see your ticket, please, sir." The conductor was relentless.

As Rich looked about him for the ticket, his eye caught the view out the window, moving ever closer, lights in clapboard houses, like eyes barely glimmering in their silent reverie. Judging by the clock framing the conductor's staring eyes, he should be seeing the arch, and the lights of skyscrapers.

"I'm sure I got a ticket for St. Louis when I boarded. I must have misplaced it."

"Sir, this train is not bound for St. Louis. If you show me "

"What, not St. Louis!, Rich interrupted the Conductor's monotonous command. "I must have gotten on the wrong train. Mr. King will be so upset. He's sending someone to meet me and show me what I need to provide. I hope he doesn't cancel the order before I even meet him."

"Sir, please"

"So, where is this train headed?"

"Sir, your ticket will show the destination."

"Tell me where this train to nowhere is headed."

"Sir, even nowhere is somewhere. Please, your ticket."

Rich stood, half thinking he would punch the guy and toss him off the train into this nowhere place they were crossing.

"Sir, you dropped this," the Conductor bent to the floor, picking up Rich's paperback.

The Conductor thumbed through the book before handing it back. "Thank you, sir, for showing me your ticket. Your somewhere is next, the end of the line."

Rich thumbed through his book, looking for the ticket. A the train stopped with just a slight jerk, he looked out the window, and saw no more track. This was the end of the line, he realized, he was headed nowhere. His shaking hand dropped again the paperback, his eyes fixed on the jacket. He shivering despite the muggy summer night, as he approached his somewhere, Mr. King's "Salem's Lot."

***

Kate

Striving to live the ordinary life in a non-ordinary way.
Kate - Writing & Reading