A Beggar on the Train

I stretch my limbs and shake myself awake as the train squeals a bit on the rails. As I glance out the window, I'm shocked to see trees, fields and lakes passing by. This isn't the train I wanted! Where are the walls of the underground? Did I follow the wrong crowd in the congested station?

I look around and see people acting the same as they do on the underground trains----staring at their phones, earphones attached, reading, scrolling, some chatting to each other while others already have their eyes closed for a snooze-- but this isn’t the train I usually ride—it’s not as smooth and the seats are plush instead of hard vinyl.

Well, we’re moving, the doors are shut, and there’s no getting off now, so I might as well start my meander down the aisle like I do on the underground to find something to eat. It’s been hard on the streets lately and no one has been overly generous with handouts.

As I nudge passengers in the aisle seats, some give me half-eaten sandwiches, usually with hard crusts, a few peanuts or pretzels while others recoil in disgust, turning their heads away and muttering, “Dirty beggar!”

Well, a beggar I am, but I can’t help the “dirty” part. It’s not like I live with the luxury of gleaming bathtubs full of warm water and soap anymore--like most of them do. Homeless, living on the streets of the city, the only time I get a shower is when it rains, and then it’s a cold one, on nights when I can’t find shelter in a doorway or alley. There are no warm places for the likes of me in my city.

The door at the end of the coach suddenly flies open, and then slams shut behind a man in uniform. I don't like the looks of him...is he the police? I hear him call out,” Tickets! Have your tickets ready!”

I’ve never seen anyone like that on the underground trains and I don’t know anything about tickets: I just melt into the crowds and slip through the turnstiles at the station and board the train.

People rifle through pockets and bags searching for theirs while I look around quickly for a hiding place.

I’ve heard of friends being put off trains and finding themselves in a strange place far from home. I don’t relish that kind of adventure.

Going back to the empty seat at the back of the coach, I close my eyes, feigning sleep. Maybe the man will just pass me by… and he does just that, muttering, “One of them…well, I’ll just let him sleep and put him off at the next station. It’s not far off. Can’t throw him off a moving train after all…poor beggar."

Trouble averted, the train's movement and the warmth of the sun lulls me into a deep sleep, feeling far safer than I would on the streets where I’m ever vigilant of being poked or kicked by someone passing by.

***

The conductor, taking a quick break on the outside platform of the last car, bites into his sausage sandwich and breaths deeply in the fresh air. Knowing the next station is a short distance ahead, he checks his watch and pockets the rest of his meal. Before returning inside, he notices with some concern that the train should be slowing down at this point, but it seems to be rolling along at the same speed as before—or is it going even faster? Has the train sped up?

Pulling out his phone to call the engineer, he begins the long trek through the cars to the front. Passing through each compartment, he becomes even more concerned as he’s certain now that the landscape outside is passing by at a faster rate than before. Repeated calls to the engineer remain unanswered.

And there’s the station just ahead. Passengers, belongings in hand, ready to disembark, look incredulously at each other as the train speeds on and those waiting outside at the station, jump back in alarm as the train roars past.

***

The uproar of excited voices in the car wakes me, but I’m not aware of the danger —only of a man rushing past. And as he does, I catch a whiff of sausage and spot a portion of sandwich poking out of his pocket.

Still hungry from the paltry morsels offered me earlier before the ticket man interrupted my begging, I rise up to follow him, hoping to snag the sandwich while this one’s distracted.

I follow him through the length of the train, staying slightly behind but stepping quickly through each door he opens before it has a chance to slam closed.

Reaching the front, we find the train driver slumped over the controls in his cab.

“Wake up, Sam!” shouts the man I followed, as he shakes the driver by the shoulder. "We've over-shot the station and we’re headed for a curve! You need to stop the train!”

There’s no response from Sam but my man pulls on a lever…the train slows a bit but still moving fast.

“Come on Sam, you’ve fallen asleep! Wake up for the love of God!”

Huddled in a corner of the small space, and hearing the words, “sleep” and “wake up”, I’m instantly alert and memories surface from my past. I remember how I used to wake my human before I ended up in the streets.

I squeeze past the man and jump up on Sam’s lap and start licking--his face, his ears, his hair-- slobbering all over him while making soft whining noises.

Sam sputters awake, pushes me off and stares in horror at the bend in the track advancing toward us, his hand automatically reaching for the emergency brake. Finding it not fully engaged, he pulls hard.

The train halts to sit stationary on the tracks. The world stills and while the humans draw a collective sigh of relief...I manage to pluck the sandwich from the man's pocket.

Sam no longer drives trains—he’s been pensioned off--while I‘ve earned a lifetime pass. I’m now the mascot of Car 4268, my new home on wheels; fed and bathed by the conductors, so I no longer smell or beg scraps from passengers.

I have a designated seat of my own and I’ve even been bestowed a collar complete with a shiny brass tag engraved with my new name and address-- K9 HERO/CAR 4268.

Many of the world’s larger cities have packs of feral dogs, either born on the streets or abandoned by their owners. In one such city, street dogs regularly use underground/subway trains to travel from place to place where they know good handouts to be found. They recognize their stops by scent. I have transposed one of those dogs into my train story.