In Between

The first thing he became aware of was the press of cool glass against the side of his forehead. He sat up and blinked.

He had been leaning against a window. A quick scan made him realize he had fallen asleep on an almost empty train. He studied the outside in an attempt to determine where he was. The windows went black every couple of seconds as if they were passing through tunnels, but the images that flew by didn’t make sense. One minute he was looking at a beautiful beach, then the window went black. The next minute people were running around on fire. It went black again. Suddenly, he was amongst clouds like they were flying. Black once more. He watched someone walk naked through snow, hunched and shivering.

He pulled away in disgust. Clearly, it wasn’t real. He was about to turn away when something else caught his eye; his own reflection when the window went black. He ignored the alternating scenes of beauty and horror and concentrated on himself. He was white, fairly young, maybe in his mid-thirties, with a square chin, brown hair and eyes. There was nothing special about his face, except he didn’t recognize it.

He frowned, confused, and continued to stare at his own reflection, waiting for his memory to shift and click, for his name, or something, to surface, but there was nothing. He looked down at his lap, examined his hands, noticed his jeans, but he was still drawing a blank. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander, hoping they would stumble upon the information he wanted. No such luck. Panicked, he focused his thoughts and sent them out searching, running down the hallways of his mind, asking himself questions as if he was flinging open doors. Name? Still, no. Job? Nothing. Family? No idea. All the rooms were empty. Suddenly afraid, he opened his eyes and looked around again.

The reason why he had gotten on the train or where he was going was also unavailable. The backs of the seats were low so, with a small raise of his chin, he could see everyone and everything. One person, with head down and shoulders sagging, occupied a spot across the aisle and a couple rows ahead. And there was a conductor at the far end, standing between the door that led outside and the one that led to the next car. There didn’t seem to be any immediate threat to his safety.

He patted his pockets but he had no wallet or ticket. He checked beside him and under his chair but there was no backpack or bag.

Was I robbed? He thought. Did I hit my head? He ran his hands over his hair but nothing hurt. There were no bumps or cuts.

Looking around one more time, at the rough, burgundy fabric that covered the seats, the worn tile flooring, and the smudged metal poles that ran the length of the aisle, he realized he couldn’t learn any more by sitting there. He scooted over the seat, pulled himself up using a pole and walked up to the conductor.

They wore a classic uniform with cap, tie and vest, that would have made any train enthusiast nostalgic. They stood with legs braced for balance, arms behind their back, and they seemed ready and eager to be of any assistance. As the man walked up the aisle, he was having a hard time determining if the conductor was a man or a woman. He was still undecided when he reached the last pole, but they had a round, friendly face that made asking for help less embarrassing.

“Excuse me, where are we?” he asked.

“We’re in between, sir,” the conductor answered warmly. Even their voice was androgynous.

The man stared at the conductor and waited, but the conductor seemed to think their answer was sufficient. Annoyed, the man asked, “In between where?”

“In between different versions of heaven and hell,” they answered matter-of-factly.

The man stared incredulously, mouth gaping. Due to his own lack of information, he couldn’t argue with the conductor, and generally speaking, arguing with someone who was delusional was not a good idea, so he gave a tight smile and nodded.

“Okay, thanks,” he said as he moved slowly past the conductor towards the door.

The conductor gave him a big, closed lip smile that suggested they were pleased with themselves, then turned back towards the car. The man looked the conductor up and down one more time before entering the neighboring car.

The next car was a twin to the first. Burgundy seats, a couple passengers, and when he looked down to the other end, the exact same conductor. His hand was still on the doorknob when they made eye contact. He stared for a moment in disbelief, then opened the door behind him to peer back. The conductor from the first car turned around at the noise and gave a little wave. The man shut the door without acknowledging it, remaining in the second car.

He strode the length of the car and planted himself in front of the conductor.

“Do you have a twin?” he demanded.

“No, sir,” they smiled.

A sinking feeling developed in the man’s stomach as he wondered if he was the one going insane. He rushed past the conductor to the third car. Different passengers, same conductor. Breathing hard, he tried a fourth car. One of the passengers looked up as the door slammed, but the conductor was there, just like before, standing with infinite patience at the other end. The man inhaled deeply, bracing himself for a confrontation as he strode the length of the car.

“You can’t be everywhere!” the man burst out.

“It’s my job,” the conductor said simply.

The man frowned, unsure of how to argue with that.

Finally, in a more controlled tone and with hands on hips, he changed strategies and asked, “What did you mean we are in between different versions of heaven and hell?”

“All passengers on this train are complex cases and are awaiting judgement.”

The man looked at the other passengers in the car who could clearly hear them talking, but they did not argue with what was being said.

“Awaiting judgement?” His arms fell to his sides, “Are you telling me I’m dead?”

“Yes, sir,” the conductor confirmed.

The man looked down at his body which seemed real and alive to him.

“How did I die?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sir,” the conductor grimaced apologetically.

The man stared at the floor, processing. His stomach clenched.

“What’s my name?” the question came out as a whispering plea.

“I don’t know, sir,” they said again.

“Why don’t I remember who I am?!” he yelled heatedly.

“None of us do,” one of the passengers, another man, chimed in glumly.

The man looked back and forth between the passenger and the conductor.

“No,” he shook his head and wagged a finger in the conductor’s face, refusing to believe. “Move,” he ordered with venom.

The conductor stepped aside and the man went to stand in front of the door that led outside. He tried the knob. It wouldn’t turn. There was no obvious way to unlock it and he didn't bother asking for a key. He yanked and shook it violently but it didn’t budge. He started hitting the door with the heel of his hands and then his fists, but he could tell from the impact it was too solid. Several kicks didn’t leave a mark either. He beat at it some more anyway, then looked around for something to hit it with or pry it open but there was nothing. Everything on the train was welded together.

He turned towards the conductor, ready to grab them by the front of the uniform and shake them, but a small part of him was afraid to touch them just in case they were telling the truth. The conductor stood patiently, unconcerned, or if there was concern, it seemed to be reserved for the man, not for themselves or the door. When the man looked around, none of the passengers had moved either. They clearly were not surprised by his failure.

His anger continued to boil but he accepted the pointlessness of his continued assault on the door. He delibrately relaxed each of his muscles and rolled his shoulders back. Despite hitting and kicking the door as hard as he could, his hands and his feet did not sting or throb. He dismissed the observation and whipped around to face the conductor, shoving a threatening finger in his face again.

“You’re a liar!” His declaration was met with a silence that quickly grew uncomfortable, so he stalked away and entered the next car.

Forgetting the conductor would be in that one too. He stopped abruptly, a low growl rumbled in his throat as his shoulders sagged, but he recovered quickly and continued moving forward. The conductor gave him a small, hesitant smile. The man glared back and wished he could punch the smile off the conductor’s face. They seemed to sense his thoughts, the smile slipped, and they lowered their eyes to the ground. The man was determined to prove that none of this was real. He started counting cars.

When he reached fifty, the anger that had fueled his march was starting to fade, and worry started creeping in. There was no way the train could go on forever, he reasoned. He carried on.

Around seventy-five, he started looking more closely at the people he was walking past. They definitely represented every race, age, sex, class and culture. They all seemed to avoid looking out the windows, and he didn’t blame them when he recalled the couple versions of hell he had seen. They all stared straight ahead or down at their laps. Some looked defeated, others looked scared, a few were crying and a couple just seemed bored.

By the hundredth car he had noticed outfits from different eras too. Some low-rise jeans from the 90s, bell bottoms from the 70s, and one woman was even wearing petticoats! They had to be costumes. But if they weren’t costumes, how long had some of these people been waiting?

When he reached the hundred and twenty fifth car, the man had to grab one of the poles as the train slowed down and came to a stop.

“Esther Boone!” the conductor called out.

No one in the car got up but they all turned to look out their windows. Someone was getting off the train. The man scrambled to kneel on one of the seats and peer out with the others.

The scene was perfection. Endless green fields below a crystalline blue sky with a few puffy white clouds. His heart constricted, fingertips dug into the back of the seats and a whimper almost escaped. The train started moving again. Embarrassed by the intensity of his yearning, he reluctantly pulled himself away from the window, but he saw it in the faces of the passengers around him too. The wish that it had been them.

He shook off the thought, reached for his anger again and berated himself for buying their show. He kept moving, but at a slower pace.

When he reached the hundred and fiftieth car, he decided it was time for a different approach. He took a seat at the back, as far away from the conductor as possible, to rest while he thought things through. Although, he realized, he wasn’t really tired.

How are they doing this? He sighed in frustration.

The sensation that they were moving was easy enough to explain. TVs set up behind the windows could display the images that made it look like they were travelling at high speed and a hydraulic system could shift and move the cars, like a ride at a theme park.

The infinite cars were harder. But really, he reasoned, they maybe only needed eight or ten cars set up in a circle. Every time he left a car, the “passengers,” who were probably hired actors, would step off and on, or change outfits. He didn’t feel like he was walking in circles, but who knew?

The conductor. Maybe the conductor really was a twin? Maybe they were taking turns running in between the cars as the man entered and exited? The conductor never seemed to be out of breath though, and the man had been walking at a brisk pace. Triplets?

He could try running through the cars, he thought. There was no way the actors would be quick enough to keep up, especially the conductor. Or he could double back unexpectedly and catch them while they were switching.

He wished he had a pen, or something sharp, so he could mark the cars and find his markings later as he made his way around the circle. But he only had the clothes on his back, and if he tied his shirt around a pole the actors could easily remove it.

There were ways of explaining pretty much everything around him, but he had avoided thinking about what was going on within him.

He was fairly certain that it had been at least a couple hours since he woke up on this nightmare train, and yet he wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t thirsty, he wasn’t tired, he didn’t feel pain, and he didn’t need a bathroom, which was good because this train didn’t seem to have one.

He just was.

And his memory. How did they erase his memory so completely? A brain injury could do that but there was usually physical evidence such as a bump from being hit or stitches from a surgery. Maybe it was a drug? What psychedelics had the government been working on since the seventies?

He didn’t want to think about it, but his mind started creeping towards the possibility. What if it was real? What if he really was between heaven and hell, waiting for his verdict? What could he have possibly done that would make them consider sentencing him to eternal damnation? He didn’t think that he seemed like such a terrible person. He flushed a bit when he thought of how he had wanted to punch the conductor in the face. They couldn’t hold that against him though! It’s a natural reaction to get angry and panic in a stressful situation. Fight or flight. God designed humans that way. The man couldn’t be held wholly responsible. He looked up at the conductor who gave him the same friendly smile he had given him when he woke up. The conductor didn’t seem to be holding a grudge. That had to count for something.

Maybe that was why whoever was in charge had removed their memories. They wanted to see what he would say, think, and do without his memories influencing him. Maybe the train was a test and he had already failed.

The thought made tears well, but he swallowed the lump in his throat. There was nothing he could do about his actions earlier so he would have to let that go, but from now on he would be on his best behavior.

But did it even count then if he was only being good because he was afraid someone was watching? Because he still hoped that he could be saved? Wouldn’t it be a better test if the people on the train didn’t know they were being watched or what they were waiting for?

Maybe the train wasn’t a test then, and the decision would be based solely on the life he had lived. How could he figure out if he had been a good person? He didn’t have much to go on, but he started asking himself hypothetical questions.

Would he try and save someone if they were choking? That one seemed pretty obvious. With no risk to himself he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to thump someone’s back to dislodge some food. He had to dig deeper.

Would he ever steal? He felt he would steal if he was starving but he wouldn’t rob a bank to buy a fancy car.

Would he take a bullet for someone? For someone he loved, he felt there was no question. For someone he didn’t know, he had a feeling self preservation would kick in and he would freeze. That would be another natural instinct though, so did that count?

Could he picture himself murdering someone? He believed in self defense which could result in him accidentally killing someone else. That was different from murder though, right?

Would he run into a burning building to save someone? That was a bit more complicated, but he felt he probably would if there was a good chance the person could be saved. Or was he supposed to be willing to go in no matter what the odds? That would be a suicide mission. Didn’t most religions frown on suicide? Where was the line between suicide and hero in that situation?

All of his answers seemed to depend on context. Maybe they didn’t believe in context though. He felt context was relevant. And part of the context would be his past experiences.

What if someone is bitten by a dog when they are a child, and for the rest of their lives they are fearful of dogs and when one gets too close, they lash out and kick it? Take that memory away, and maybe that person is no longer afraid of dogs and bends down to pet them instead.

What if it wasn’t a dog that traumatized the child, but a person?

Are you even the same person without your memories or do you become someone completely different?

With his memory gone, he was left with just the raw characteristics that he was born with. If one of his raw characteristics is having a temper, is that really fair? He didn’t ask to have anger issues.

He groaned in frustration with all the circular thinking. No wonder the jury was confused.

Maybe they were considering the decisions he made in his life with his memories and the decisions he made on the train without his memories.

He stomach sank. What if the conductor is God? He thought. He glanced at the conductor again.

He had to think of a genuine way to apologize. Another notion quickly followed that one and he couldn’t stop a sob escaping.

What if they’ve already reached a verdict and this is my hell?

He buried his face in his hands. He moved away from the whirlpool of his thoughts before he got sucked down deeper and took a couple deep breaths. He wasn’t sure why they let him retain his ability to breathe if he was dead but he was grateful for the calming effect. He heard the door open and he peeked through his fingers, pulling at the skin around his eyes.

A large man casually strolled into the car. Defined muscle made his jeans and t-shirt bulge. His shoulders were so broad that he had to move sideways to get past the poles. His outfit was plain but every inch of his arms and hands were covered in intricate tattoos with a few crawling up his neck and face. He pursed his lips and swung his head from side to side as if he was looking for something, and he seemed to find it when they made eye contact.

“Did you just wake up?” the man with tattoos asked with a sympathetic smile.

The man sat up, rubbed his hands on his thighs and sighed, “Sort of, yeah. How’d you know?”

“You're not dead in the eyes,” the man with tattoos said.

"Apparently I'm dead everywhere else."

The man with tattoos threw back his head and gave a solitary "Ha!" The first man tried to respond with a small smile but it was more of a wince.

“Mind if I sit down?” the man with tattoos asked.

“Not at all,” he gestured to the seats in front of him. The man with tattoos gave a nod, then took the seat by the window. He rested his back against the wall while propping his feet up on the neighboring seat.

The man wanted to talk, needed to, really, but quickly realized the usual conversation starters like, “What’s your name?”, “Where you from?”, and “Nice weather we’re having,” weren’t going to work.

The man with tattoos seemed to sense his problem, gave him a knowing smirk and saved them from the awkward silence by saying, “I’ve been calling myself Adam.”

The man breathed a small laugh and said, “I’ll have to think of a name for myself.”

After a few seconds of silence, the man asked, “Why Adam?”

“It’s the first name God gave anyone. Good enough for me. Although,” he said with a wry grin and a wink, “I may not be good enough for it.”

The man wasn’t sure how Adam could be so cavalier about their situation.

“Have you been here awhile?” he asked Adam.

“It’s hard to keep track of time here. I played about five hundred games of rock, paper scissors with the nun in the other car.”

“A nun?!” he exclaimed.

“I know! Go figure.” He shrugged then carried on. “One time I sat and counted how many different heavens and hells went by. I got to ten thousand before I gave up. I don’t think I saw the same version twice.”

The man’s eyes widened and his throat tightened. “Aren’t you going crazy?” he whispered.

“To tell you the truth,” Adam said while sitting up straighter and leaning in close, “I’m always relieved when it’s not my turn.”

“Why?”

He was quiet for a few moments and then said softly, “I don’t like my chances.”

Adam turned his head so that the man could see his other cheek. A tattoo in the shape of a teardrop sat by his eye.

The teardrop tattoo had a lot of meanings amongst people who served time in prison. For some it just indicated their own sadness at the loss of their freedom, for others it meant they knew someone who had been killed in prison, and for a few it was to show how many people they had murdered.

“Maybe you were wrongfully accused,” the man offered hopefully.

Adam barked a laugh, “Ha! Then I’d already be in heaven.” He sat back.

The man thought about it for a moment then suggested, “Maybe you found Jesus when you were serving your time.”

Adam laughed, “Maybe. Or maybe I found Allah!”

The man grinned, “Or Buddha!”

They laughed at the absurdity that they were supposedly dead, and yet they still had no idea which god to worship.

The train started to slow. Their laughs cut off abruptly and their eyes locked. Adam’s held fear. The other man’s face was mostly hopeful. They turned towards the window as the train came to a full stop.

It was soft gray. That was all there was to see. There was no distinguishing ground, horizon or sky. There were specks of darker and lighter grey in the distance but they were too far away. They frowned at it, confused.

“Anthony Duveres!” The conductor called.

Adam whipped his head around to stare at the conductor, then at the man, pure joy spread across his face.

“That’s me!” he yelled as he hopped out of his seat. “That’s my name!”

He pointed at himself as if to make sure everyone understood. The relief and delight of finally being given a piece of information about himself and feeling it fit perfectly lasted only a few seconds. His face fell as he realized what his name being called meant. Adam, or Anthony, stood still, eyes wide, breathing hard. The other man’s heart clenched for his brief friend. But Anthony straightened his shoulders, gave the other man a nod and walked down the aisle. He gave the conductor a nod too as he passed and the conductor nodded back respectfully. The door slid open and Anthony stepped out.

He watched Anthony walk into the grey and look around. He couldn’t tell what his friend was standing on. Was it sand or cement? The train started to move. Panicked, the man pressed himself against the window trying to keep Anthony in sight. His heart hammered. Was some of the grey, water, or was it endless land? Did Anthony love dancing in warm rain or was he about to get struck by lightning? Were the grey specks friends or were they monsters? The train picked up speed. He waited desperately for something to move, something to change, something to indicate whether it was heaven or hell.

The window went black and Anthony was gone. The man continued to stare in complete shock. He slowly sank back down into his seat. He watched a swirling mass of colours go by. Then a world with giant centipedes. A beautiful waterfall was next. Then he seemed to be looking at outer space. His throat tightened and he turned away. He took a shaky breath and a tear fell down the same cheek where Anthony's tattoo had been.

Was Anthony’s name called because they had been having a laugh instead of sitting in fear or boredom? Was Anthony an actor sent to befriend him, just to scare him? He groaned as his thoughts immediately began to swirl out of control again. He stared straight ahead; fists clenched in his lap with the black flashing in his periphery.

A woman entered from the front of the car. Wild hair and wild eyes, she paused in the middle of the aisle and spun around frantically. She growled in frustration and their eyes locked for a moment.

“Hi!” the man called. She paused. “I’ve been thinking about calling myself Adam,” the man said in an attempt to interrupt her building panic and entice her to sit down.

She stared at him incredulously.

“Fuck you!” she yelled and stormed out of the car.

Taken aback, he flushed a bit, but then a snort of laughter escaped.

Maybe there’s hope for me, he thought.

He needed hope. He needed a distraction more. He got up and started walking.