Forgotten

"Ticket, please!" a tall slender woman with a stern, lined face and greying reddish hair sighed loudly, her hand outstretched toward two passengers in the middle of the cabin.

Daphne had worked for Statewide Rail for almost 30 years and enjoyed most of it. But working the overnight run in coach was the absolute worst. The wee hours brought out the worst types of passengers, either cranky, exhausted businessmen with an inflated sense of importance or rowdy, rambunctious college kids with more than their share of liquor in them.

And coach, she had come to know, was how all the undesirables travelled, state prisoners on release, indigents who had scraped enough pennies together to scurry to the next town leaving goodness knows what mess behind them and young people, either looking for adventure or returning from it, tails between their legs.

"I need your tickets, please!" she repeated, her voice taking on an urgent shrillness.

A chubby young girl with wide, hopeful eyes lifted her head from its perch against the window, reached into her small bag that resembled a cartoon cat and handed Daphne her phone.

The attendant scanned it and handed the device back to her, nodding then stood staring at the gentleman in the aisle seat.

He was sprawled out on his seat, legs outstretched in front of him. His buttocks were at the very edge of the seat and his head was against the middle of the faux-leather backrest.

His mouth was open, showing a toothless cavern. And he snored.

The young lady elbowed him with a gentle forcefulness, "Sir, excuse me, Sir, they need your ticket."

Daphne stood, rail straight, sneering at the sight before her. A snoring, drooling man, toothless in a rumpled suit jacket, t-shirt and thin denim jeans. His hair was white, much whiter than his face would indicate and fell into shoulder-length spirals.

"Sir, ticket, please!" she tried again, her voice loud enough for the passengers in the back to hear.

The man shifted awkwardly, partly from Daphne's voice, partly from the elbow in his left side. He pulled himself to an upright position, rubbed his eyes and looked around, taking in his surroundings.

A train. He gave his head a shake and looked at Daphne's stern face scowling at him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "were you speaking to me?" He scratched his pointed nose nervously.

She rolled her eyes. "I need your ticket, sir!" she demanded.

The man looked around, confused. He reached into his jacket pockets. Nothing. He stood up, first patting, then searching his pants. Nothing but a medallion of some sort, a piece of lint and a wrapped hard candy.

"Did I happen to have a bag?" he asked sheepishly, "I can't ... I just can't recall..."

"Your ticket would tell you whether you had a bag, sir," Daphne sneered dismissively. She turned abruptly on her heels, calling back behind her, "What's your name Sir, I'll check the database."

He sat back down slowly, running his hand through his curls over and over as if he was trying to pull something out. A memory. A reason why he was on this train. His name. Anything.

Nothing came. Then small flashes. A woman, with bright eyes and a warm smile. The name wouldn't come, but the thought of her gave him some comfort.

Then a boy, about 9, with a wild mop of dark curls and an impish grin. Tall for his age, with a red bike. The woman called to the boy from a step, "Isaac, Isaac!"

He smiled, straightening his shoulders and answered the attendant in the overly starched burgundy and yellow uniform, "Isaac, my name is Isaac."

Daphne stopped short, "Does Isaac have a last name?" she mocked, straightening her shirt haughtily.

The man stared blankly, tears visibly forming in his brown eyes. He reached up again, tugging at his locks nervously. He trembled as panic began to overtake him.

"Leave him alone, lady!" his seatmate snapped, waving a perfectly manicured plump hand, "Just check your little list for Isaac. Can't you see he's upset?"

He smiled at the young girl and nodded in appreciation.

She continued to admonish the attendant. "Look at him! Get him some water or something, Jesus!"

Daphne strode away as nearby passengers began rumbling in agreement with the young female passenger.

"What the hell's wrong with her?"

"She should be ashamed of herself!"

"She can see the poor guy isn't right."

"Real powerful, picking on some mental guy!"

"Bitch!"

The young girl placed her hand on the man's shoulder. "It's okay, just relax." She leaned in toward him, "Where are you headed?" Are you going all the way to Junction Way?"

He said nothing, continuing to pull at his thick mane.

"You got on at Main Street Station," she continued to press, "I saw you sitting on the bench with a woman. You got on, she didn't."

He turned to look at her, a glint of recognition in his eye.

She smiled, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "Just relax, it'll be okay."

The gentleman nodded, "You can call me Isaac," he grinned.

"Okay," she agreed, "Isaac it is."

Daphne returned, her demeanour contrite on the surface, her contempt bubbling just beneath the surface. She reached out a small plastic cup, "Some water, Sir."

The man leaned forward to accept the drink. He realized in that moment he was parched. A loud screeching sound careened throughout the car, piercing his ears and those of everyone around him. Metal on metal, the sound of sparks flying.

Then a jerk so violent it sent both Daphne and the water into his lap.

She stood up quickly, smoothing her uniform and apologized.

The gentleman, Isaac, nodded, wiping the liquid from his lap. He peered over the young girl's shoulder to the window. The train seemed to have picked up speed.

"We seem to be going quite fast," he said.

Daphne shrugged, "Speeds vary. It's not unusual for us to pick up speed in spots." She walked away slowly, secretly concerned about the rapid speed the train was taking on.

Another attendant approached her in the aisle near the front of the cabin, whispering and looking serious. Her face changed in an instant from harsh and unforgiving to a strange mix of vulnerability and fear.

She took a few steps forward, clearing her throat, "Ladies and gentlemen," she began, her voice no longer strong, "I've just been informed that there's been an issue in our connection systems which has caused us to lose contact with the main engine..."

A nervous silence fell over the cabin, followed by simmering chaos and finally full-blown panic. Screaming, crying, praying and frantic phone calls.

Isaac wailed. It was sick sounding, like a wounded animal. He grasped both ears and fell to the floor in tears, muttering to himself, "remember the training, remember the training."

Daphne continued, holding tightly to a nearby seat as the train continued to gather speed, "Please stay calm and seated as we work to resolve this situation." She took in a deep breath, pleased she'd projected the calm, detached message she was tasked with, yet aware she was anything but.

She watched the landscape rush past her as the screams got louder and louder in the cabin. Her mind raced to her daughter, a tidy, almost pretty young lady with a quick mind. Her pride and joy, the first member of the family to go to college. Then to her mother, so old and frail now. She knew if she died on this train, intent on careening toward god knows where the poor thing could never survive it.

As the train, or that was left of it, gathered more and more speed, the rhythm on the tracks sped up, from chug, chug, chug to ratta-tatta, ratta-tatta. The young girl cried loudly, clutching her kitty bag.

Several passengers shoved their way to the front, trampling over Isaac in the hopes they could somehow secure a safer position. He winced with pain as foot after foot stepped on him without any regard. He wriggled, shifting his body this way and that in the narrow aisle, trying to avoid serious injury.

After about the fifteenth foot had left its imprint on him, he stood up, rising first gingerly to his knees, then springing quickly to his feet. He began shouting.

"Out of the way, out of the way!" He waved his arms wildly as he pushed his way forward. He opened the small steel door at the front of the carriage letting in a shocking gust of damp night air in as he disappeared quickly from sight, closing the door behind him.

Daphne half-heartedly tried to stop him, "Sir, sir, you can't go out there!" It was too late.

The cool, moist air whipped around Isaac's long frame, menacing him, threatening to knock him off balance and off the train at any moment. He hugged the steel exterior closely as he inched his way around the side of the cabin, shuffling his feet ever so slightly toward his goal.

His heart pounded, both in his chest and in his head. "Remember the training, remember the training," played over and over in his mind in time with the thumping. His throat was dry despite the damp fog surrounding him.

Seconds stretched into minutes and minutes felt like hours as the train careened onward, picking up more and more speed. Inside passengers were pressing their faces against the windows, desperate to see what was happening.

Isaac didn't notice. His focus was laser-sharp. He reached his target, a small ladder on the right side. Only five or six rungs took him to the top of the cabin.

The rounded metal top was slick with water and ice cold. Isaac braced himself against the slippery surface beneath him and the wind as he slowly inched his body forward, on his stomach.

He reached out, first with his left hand, then his right, and grabbed an oddly placed lever. He pulled. Nothing. He pulled again. Nothing. It wouldn't budge.

He stood up, using the lever as support and tugged again, this time with all the force he could muster. It moved, ever so slightly, creaking loudly as it did.

He pulled harder, so hard he could feel it in his stomach. First a burning, then a tearing as he felt the handle giving way under his force. A loud screech, more of that metal-on-metal sound, pierced the night air as the carriage began vibrating steadily, then jerking, then slowing down and finally stopping.

Passengers and crew alike rushed out the door and into the cold night, screaming, crying and thankful to be alive. The shock and disbelief of their ordeal still fresh as they frantically started calling loved ones.

Daphne called the police and the railway's main office. Then, with her hands still trembling, she called her daughter.

Isaac was nowhere to be found.

The following day and in the days that followed, the harrowing tale would be repeated over and over in the local and state media. There were countless news stories, interviews with passengers and representatives from Statewide Rail, commentary from self-styled experts and more than enough speculation to go around.

But the one interview the media clamoured for, they never got. The hero, Isaac was nowhere to be found.

As days passed into weeks, new stories replaced the old and people got back to their regular routines.

Outside Junction Way station, a middle-aged man, dressed in a filthy black trench coat much too thin for the weather, and combat boots that appeared to be at least 3 sizes too large, dug around a green trash can.

He pulled out a piece of newspaper with a half-eaten egg salad sandwich on top. He pulled the sandwich from the paper and brought it to his nose. He grimaced and tossed it back then shook out the newspaper.

He ambled over to the side of the station, to get out of the wind, sat down with his back against the brick wall and perused the news. A picture caught his eye. It was of a man, young, in a military uniform with soft brown eyes and a slight smile that seemed to convey quiet pride and determination.

There was something familiar about him. The lanky frame, the sharply pointed nose. He read the headline: Body Identified As Local Vet and continued on to the body of the story

Capital City Police have confirmed the identity of the body found at the site of the Statewide Rail incident as 54-year-old Corporal James Allen Smith.

He is widely believed to have been not only a passenger on Statewide rail's ill-fated Main - Junction run, but also the hero who selflessly found and deployed the carriage's emergency brakeing system. Witnesses say he was going by the name Isaac at the time of the incident.

Preliminary reports indicate that Smith likely fell from the the carriage sometime after executing the brake.

According to Dr. Patricia Everett, spokesperson for Veterans Memorial Hospital, Smith had recently been a patient in the Psychiatric Unit and was released and assisted to the train by staff as per their usual discharge procedure. She stated:

"Mr Smith had been a frequent patient here. Upon his discharge, we escorted him to the train station and provided him complimentary transportation to the area commensurate with the address we have on file. We are truly saddened to hear of his passing after leaving hospital property"

Smith served with distinction in the Gulf War and leaves behind a son, Isaac.

The man sat down with the paper and put his head in his hands. He sobbed into his discoloured fingerless gloves.

"Not Smitty, not Smitty," he repeated over and over, wailing. "You promised me, man, you promised, we'd stick together!"

He paused and took a deep breath. He shook his head in disbelief. He thought of all the times they shared. The horrors of war that only brothers in arms can comprehend. The hilarious hijinks of two young soldiers on leave in a foreign land. The struggles after coming home.

The man stood up and began walking westward, staring up at the sky consumed with sadness and bitter anger. It didn't seem fair. It didn't seem right.

"A guy fights for his country and he loses everything, his wife, his kid, that beautiful 4 bedroom place on Elm Street, his mind, and now his life? What kind of world is that?" he muttered bitterly, partly from the injustice of it all, partly from his rumbling stomach, still empty from the night before.

He crossed the street to a small park and made his way to a tree. His tree. A large piece of cardboard covered the ground. A sleeping bag, some assorted bits of clothing, paper and cans lay around in a sort of organized chaos.

Beside the tree stood a large box, almost big enough to hold a refrigerator. Inside it, there were more clothes, a couple of blankets and some books.

The man put his hand on the box and began to cry again, "Smitty, man," he pounded it with his fist, "I even saved your box for ya!"