All aboard

The gentle rumble of forward movement and the kind warmth of dappled sunlight on my face rouses me from a deep sleep. Riding in cars had always made sleepy as a kid, a habit I seemed not to have kicked in adulthood. A few minutes pass as my head clears the clouds of dreaming, and finally my eyes flutter open.

Wait.

Am I on a train? That’s not possible. And yet on my right, countryside flies past a window. To my left, in front and behind me, sit dozens of passengers. The inside of the train car looks ornate and vintage, like trains I’ve seen in movies.

Oh, a lucid dream. The kind where I stop and realize that I’m dreaming. I’ve been through this before; all I need to do is recognize my dream and wake mysef up.

Minutes pass. Why haven’t I woken up? Awareness of the dream always breaks it. Yet nothing is changing; the image of the train won’t dematerialize like my realized lucid dreams always do. My brain rapidly files through hundreds of scenarios of what could be happening, but I can’t settle on one that makes sense.

I don’t remember boarding this train. The last thing I remember is being in the car with my mother.

I want to ask someone what is going on, and yet I fear for the appearance of insanity if I tell someone that I am on this train with no memory of getting here. But what choice do I have? I glance up and down the aisles, hoping to find a friendly face. I settle on a woman sitting near me who looks approximately my age and tentatively leave my seat to walk over.

“Excuse me,” I say gently, hoping not to disturb anyone too much. The woman makes no response.

“Excuse me,” I say a little louder. Maybe I got drowned out by train noise. The woman once again makes no movement in my direction, and no one else has looked over either. How assertive should I become? I tap her on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, please,” I say. “Sorry to bother you, but I really need some help.”

She sits silent, making no acknowledgement of me. Desperation starts to quicken my pulse, sending a heated flare to my face.

“Excuse me! Anyone!” I say loudly, turning around now to everyone in my vicinity.

Nothing. It’s as if they don’t see me at all. I walk dazed back to my seat and plop down. I can’t comprehend any of it. As I sit there running scenario after scenario through my mind, something under the seat catches my eye. Isn’t that my suitcase? I’d recognize it anywhere. I pull it out and sure enough, it’s my suitcase with my ID tag. Inside are several items; some of my favorite comfortable clothes, a pack of toiletries, a notebook, and a couple of my favorite books, one a romance novel and one a murder mystery where the crime takes place on a train. Clearly the unconscious version of myself that packed this bag had a sense of irony.

The unease I feel at the shock if it all sinks into my stomach. Glancing out the window, I realize that dusk is upon the landscape.

“ANYONE?” I cry out desperately, even though I can already predict the outcome. No response. It’s all I have not to crumble completely at the feeling of utter confusion and emptiness that follows. I have no thoughts left to think, no capacity left for understanding my situation tonight. A plastic wrapped pillow and blanket sit on the empty seats next to me. I rip the packages open and cocoon myself in the blanket, covering my eyes, lean against the window, and shut out my confusing world as the train rumbles me back to sleep.

When my eyes open again, the sun has just begun to peep over the horizon. My mind stays blissfully blank for a few moments as the haze of deep sleep lingers. Then the dawn of yesterday’s events washes over me. The pit in my stomach feels so deep. And yet, here I am. What am I to do?

I pull my suitcase onto the seat and open it again, fishing for a new outfit. The futility of caring about how I look when no one can see me pulls a smirk across my lips. I grab my toiletries bag and make my way to the train bathroom to change. Irony strikes again when I realize this is probably unnecessary, but habit compels me to do it anyway.

After changing and freshening up, the deep grumble of an achingly empty belly emits from my stomach. Is there food here? I realize that, as painful as it is, I must accept and explore this new world that I find myself occupying. Strolling up through the cars, I pass many occupants in seats, most of them still asleep. Opening yet another door to another car, I involuntarily gasp. This car is beautiful. It’s the viewing car; giant windows line the sides with rows of plush seating in front of them for comfortable sightseeing. The sun is a bit above the horizon now, spilling colorful morning light into the car. I love it here. But my stomach still aches from being empty, so I keep walking. At long last, I catch a whiff of food. Two cars up, I finally find the dining car. There are two early risers sitting at tables, chatting softly. Heaps of breakfast food sit in silver hot dishes, buffet style. The perfect nutty bitter aroma of coffee floats through the air. Oddly, I see no one serving the food, no one waiting to take orders, no one behind the bar. The food is simply there, hot and fresh. I dive in, ravenous. The first sip of creamy coffee nearly puts tears in my eyes. The eggs are soft and fluffy, the potatoes tender and buttery. As I sit, savoring this unexpected moment of joy, more people shuffle into the dining car. I observe them, nursing a large cup of coffee for a long time as I watch the behavior of these inhabitants. They are so close to me and yet a world away.

After a while, something odd strikes me. I had noticed one person eat a small plate of food, make a new plate, and walk out the front of the dining car. Perhaps he wanted to eat more in his seat? But then another person does this. And another. And they all go out the front of the car, towards the same place, and then return a few minutes later without their food. What are they doing?

My coffee long since cold, I finally decide to leave the dining car and head back to the beautiful observation car for some landscape. It’s entirely empty. It’s odd to me that this isn’t the most popular part of the train. I pick a spot in the middle of the comfortable rows of seating and stare out to the east. I settle into the plush seat and admire the landscape for a long time.

The next morning rolls around, and here I remain, not yet out of this new, fever dream reality. So I begin my routine again. A change of clothes, people-watching with my morning coffee, walking through the train to stretch my legs, and admiring the landscape out the east side of the empty observation car.

Weeks go by in this way. One day at a time, feeling like my routine is the only thing keeping me from falling into total despair. And the train moves ever onward, ever northward, never stopping.

One morning after breakfast, I make my way as usual to the viewing car. But today is different. Upon opening the door I am surprised to see another person sitting there for the first time. He rests in the middle of the seats on the east side, right in my usual spot, staring out the window. I can’t see much of his face, but I notice his wavy black hair. Despite knowing full well that no one can see or hear me, I can’t bring myself to sit near anyone. It feels too strange. So I take the west side today, settling onto the seat and staring out at this change in view. The vibrant crimson and orange trees and the rumble of the train put me in a relaxed state. I barely hear it when a voice says,

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

The man across from me must have a companion now. It only makes sense that others would start taking note of this wonderful car.

“Why do you come here every day?”

What? That’s odd. I’ve been here every day and never seen another person. Perhaps they come in at night after I’ve left to sleep? It’s possible.

“May I sit with you?”

I snap out of my trance and turn around to see who he’s speaking to. But the man is turned around in his seat, staring directly at me. How? No one here can see me. I look around the room, sure that someone else is nearby. But it is only the two of us.

“How…are you talking to me?” I ask, voice quivering.

“Yes,” he says. My heart drums.

“I don’t understand.” I stutter. “I thought no one here could see or hear me. How are you seeing me?”

“I don’t know,” he responds. “But they don’t see or hear me either.”

I’m completely stunned. For a few minutes, I can’t manage words. None of this makes sense. I haven’t spoken to another person in so long; for months I’ve assumed no one would ever take notice of me again. But here he is.

“Do you mind if I come sit with you and talk?” He asks, breaking the silence. I nod, still unable to speak. He comes around the end of the seats, crosses the aisle, and up to where I sit. I can’t help but notice his handsome face, warm skin, and dark eyes. He sits near to me without being too close. But even from that distance, I am struck by his proximity. Struck by being in the immediate presence of another person after so long. I can smell a faint cologne.

“I’m so confused,” I say finally. “How long have you been here? Why can’t other people see us? Where are we going?” All the questions burdening the back of my mind for weeks begin tumbling out.

“Those are hard questions,” he says, looking somber. “I’ll start with the simple one. I’ve been here a while. Longer than you.”

“How do you know when I got here?” I demand, feeling suddenly angered.

“I’ve seen everyone there is it to see on this train. When I saw you, I knew it was the first day you were here.” He says.

“You’ve seen me suffer for weeks and you didn’t say anything? When I was crying for help? Why didn’t you say anything!” I cry.

“I don’t know, I’m sorry. I felt like you were going through enough from the shock of it, I didn’t want to make it worse. I thought if I let you settle in for a while, it would be easier.” He said quietly, looking saddened.

“I don’t have all the answers for you, but I’ve been here a while,” he continued, “So I can tell you what I’ve observed in that time. I woke up one day, and I was on this train. I don’t remember how I got here. No one can see me either.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not many answers,” I say, the words coming out snarkier than I meant them to sound.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But you’re the first person I’ve talked to in so long. I realized after no one responded to you that first day that you might be like me. I had hope for the first time…but I didn’t want to overwhelm you more. I just…I just watched you for a while. And you seemed to settle in, so I wasn’t sure if I should rock the boat. And I was afraid of being disappointed. But I had to find out…if you could see me too.”

I sat quiet again for a few minutes. I saw something in his eyes, an innocent longing. He had been without a friend for even longer than I had, and I was nearly broken for it. As confused as I still was, the relief of his presence next to me was overwhelming. I hesitated a moment, and then reached out and touched his hand. He closed his hand around mine and gave it a squeeze. The connection sent tears trickling down my face.

The next morning, we met for breakfast. Over eggs and coffee, we got acquainted. We talked about our jobs in our previous life, our dreams, our families. Then I thought of something that had been itching at me.

“Why does everyone take food out of the dining car every morning? I’ve seen them do it for weeks, every day.” I ask him.

“Oh,” he says, looking unsurprised at this observation. “They’re taking it to the conductor.”

“The conductor?” I was taken aback by the answer. “As in…the one driving this train? Does the conductor not eat or something?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen him. No one has.” He says.

“Huh?”

“Yeah, no one has ever seen the train conductor. I never have. The passengers talk about him all the time, but no one has ever actually seen him.”

“If they’ve never seen him, how do they even know that it’s a guy?” I press.

“That’s just what they call him. They take him meals each morning to make sure that he gets enough energy to keep driving and stay happy.”

“Then they know where we’re going? How long will this ride even take? We’ve already been here for so long.” I say.

“I don’t know where. The passengers say it’s somewhere beautiful though. They say the conductor chose them to be on the train and go there.”

This new piece of information swirls around in my brain. I’m more confused than ever. We finish our breakfast and then walk together to watch the countryside fly by the big windows. I let myself get lost in the bright yellow of the trees and the closeness of my new companion’s presence.

The next morning during breakfast, I decide to investigate. “Let’s go to the first car.”

“Why?” My friend says. “There’s nothing there.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Of course,” he says. “I went up there ages ago to see if I could find the out what was going on. There’s nothing there.”

“Then what happens to all the food?” I question, unease growing.

“I don’t know, it must go somewhere. It never piles up.”

“So what do you think of all this then?” I ask, becoming irritated again. “Having been here for a while - is there a conductor? Why can’t people see us? Why are we even on this damn train?”

He sets his cup of coffee down on the table and ponders silently for a few minutes. Finally he speaks.

“I can’t tell you why we’re on this train. Maybe there isn’t a reason. We just are. I’ve never seen the conductor. But what I do know is that this train keeps moving and we’re on it. I think the others…the others are excited because they believe we’ll get to this beautiful destination. So they just stay focused on that. And it lets them ignore some of the things around them.”

I soak in all of this. I look across the table at my companion. He looks serious, but there’s a softness in his gaze at me.

“Confusing, isn’t it?” He says, offering me a slight smile. The sweetness of it sends a blush to my cheeks.

We finish our food and once again continue our daily routine. In the observation car, I sit close to him. It’s raining today, the sound drumming against the train roof and windows. We watch in silence for some time. Amidst my confusion, I feel the comfort of his presence there, and a tinge of hope for the days ahead.

We spend weeks together in this way. And the weeks turn into months. One day as we sit and watch the snowy hills roll by our window, he takes my hand.

“I’m sorry that you ended up here,” he says and then pauses, hesitating on his next words. “But selfishly, I’m so glad that you did.”

I gaze at him. I had grown accustomed to his kindness, his insight, his calm demeanor. I already knew that I couldn’t be without him. He turns to me, eyes dark. He leans close, leaving only a couple inches between us, and waits for my response. Heart fluttering, I close the distance, letting my lips fall on his. His kiss is warm and deep; there’s a hint of urgency in his grasp on my hand. Caught up in his embrace, I’m happy for the first time since the day I woke up here.

The many months that we’re together on the train turn into a year. Every day I fall for him more. Every day I think less of the doom I felt in my first weeks of loneliness. Each day is he and I and our discovery of each other.

The others still can’t see us. They still talk of our destination; I often listen to them excitedly describe it. Some say it’s a mountainous region full of dramatic peaks with snow for sports and fun. Others say it is some kind of lush green forest with all kinds of plants and wildlife to observe. I hear many variations. I watch them take food up to the first car each day. I lose count of my days on the train. But one day something occurs to me.

“My love,” I say one morning over breakfast. “You said you went up to the first car before, right?”

“Yes,” he says. “And there was nothing there.”

“You’re sure?” I say. “Even in the very front, where the conductor should be?”

“Well you can’t get into that part, it’s locked. And no one answers when you call out.” He says. I’m surprised by this.

“Come with me,” I say, getting up from the table. I start up through the cars towards the front. He scrambles after me as I march from car to car. At last we reach the very front, the first car. As he had described it, no one is there. Only the offerings of food sitting scattered in front of a black, wrought door.

“Is that the one?” I ask. “The one you couldn’t open?”

“Yes,” he says. I walk towards it, trembling slightly.

“Hello? Is anyone there? Conductor?” I call out loudly. Seconds tick past. No response.

I touch the handle.

“You won’t be able to-”

The handle swings down in my grasp. I pause there, unsure if I want to keep going. I have to. I swing the door open.

Inside, there is nothing. No conductor, not even any controls. It’s an empty black room. I gaze back at my partner. His eyes are wide.

“How did you do that?” He asks. Before I can ponder it, I hear voices coming from further down. Passengers ready to bring their food to leave for the conductor.

“Do we show them?” I ask, my heart suddenly heavy. My love looks into my eyes for a moment, indecisiveness flickering through them.

“No.” He says finally. “At least, not today.”

We quickly shut the door and scurry out, passing a group of people. As I pass a young woman in the group, I accidentally hit her arm with my elbow. She suddenly reacts, hand reaching up to the spot I had hit. Did she just feel me touch her? Impossible. No one could sense me. I knew that from the first day after tapping that woman on the shoulder. She turns around and looks in our direction, clearly trying to gauge the origin of the hit, but appears not to see us. Looking perplexed, she turns back to the group, still rubbing her arm.

My partner and I make our way to the observation car in a daze. We sit down together, holding hands and saying nothing.

“What do we do now?” I ask finally.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But as long as I figure it out each day with you, I’ll be ok.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”