The First Car

2024

Hot, hissing steam, mixed with the bone-rattling rumble of steel wheels grinding against steel tracks, shocked Tyler awake from his deep unconscious state. As he peeled away his cheek from the warm glass window, his eyes adjusted to the light, and the glaze began to fade, allowing his surroundings to become clear. He was sitting alone in a luxurious booth, with a large mahogany table in the center. On that table, was a sweating whiskey glass that was down to its final ice cube.

Tyler relentlessly gave up drinking many years ago, so he was unsure of who the owner of the bourbon was, and where they had gone. He peeked his head out into the aisle, and looked left and right to see if anyone was walking toward him, or away from him. From his seated position, he could only see the heads of a few other passengers who were all sitting alone in their own respected booths. At the south end of the train car, a young, handsome barback tended to a well stocked bar, which was glistening beneath a pair of yellow heat lamps. Expensive bottles of whiskey, scotch, vodka and cognacs shimmered in the rattling light, providing a blissful oasis to all who fancied an alcoholic refreshment. Tyler’s mouth watered at the sight, but he quickly subdued the urge by repeating the unbreakable promise he made to himself, and to his family when he began his journey of sobriety.

As the train rumbled faster, so did his nerves and dark thoughts. He settled back into the burgundy leather booth, and tried to make sense of the situation. The more he tried to remember, the more his head ached in pain. Forcing him to forget. The train car was oddly familiar, yet seemed to be terribly out of place in time. The interior reminded him of the train car he took from Lexington Kentucky to New York City, eighty years ago, before shipping off to Europe to fight in the war. He eased his mind by convincing himself that this was just one of those antique trains that had been refurbished by a wealthy collector to educate the people on the history of locomotion in the country.

But how did I get here?

He had no recollection of how he got onto the train, nor where the train was heading. He checked each pocket in his brown suit jacket, as well as the pockets in his pants for a train ticket, but each pocket turned out empty. Confusion quickly overwhelmed him, but he knew that the answers he seeked were not going to be discovered inside of this booth. So he found his legs, and began to wander the aisle.

He decided to head to the south end, towards the bar, because the north end of the car ended with a thick steel door, which led to the next car. Before venturing any further into this mystery, he needed to speak with someone who was actually meant to be on this train. That was the bartender.

Each step he took felt heavy and slow. Reminding Tyler of the weird feeling of being drunk in a dream. He stopped for a moment in the middle of the aisle, cupped both of his hands around his mouth, then exhaled heavily. He followed up by inhaling through his nose, testing his breath for alcohol. His nostrils were overrun with the crisp scents of peppermint and blueberry tobacco, but no whiskey. Relieved to know that he was still sober, he contributed the awkward heaviness in his pace to the abrupt awakening from a deep sleep.

As he made his way towards the bar, he studied the passengers in the booths as he passed by. The first passenger was a middle aged woman who appeared to be dressed for a funeral. She was draped in a pitch black dress, and her head was covered with a large matching hat with a veil to cover the features of her face. She was weeping at an old black and white photograph, lightly damaged by watermarks, of a young man in a military outfit. Tyler instantly knew this woman’s situation. She was a widow. Knowing he could offer the woman nothing but empty sentiments, he mumbled a silent prayer for her, and continued down the aisle.

Two rows down, a young man in full U.S military garb was sipping a tall glass of golden beer while smiling and chuckling at a black and white photograph of a beautiful young woman with extremely curly hair. Tyler instantly knew this man’s situation as well, and giggled himself as the bushel of curly hair reminded him of his late wife, Maggie. This young man in the booth was either leaving for war or returning home from war, and was excited to be reunited with the love of his life. Tyler knew exactly how this man felt, because it reminded him of how he felt when he left behind his newly wedded wife to fight the Germans in Europe. He paused beside his booth, and offered the soldier some comforting words.

“She is beautiful. I am sure she is just as excited to see you, as you are to see her. Or not.”

They were the same silly, yet heartfelt words a stranger had said to him when he sat on the train in New York, awaiting deployment to Sicily.

The military man peered up towards Tyler, and smiled quietly. He raised his glass of golden beer and nodded. Tyler nodded back and left the man to enjoy the company of his woman.

Finding no other passengers, he continued his path to the bar.

As Tyler approached the curved bartop, he studied the curiously comforting features of the young bartender. He stood just over six-feet with thick, black hair that flowed down to his shoulders. He was dressed in a white button down shirt, with a black bow tie and black suspenders. The cuffs on his dress shirt were rolled halfway up his forearms, showcasing his shitty, old school Boston Red Sox tattoo.

Tyler cocked his head because he knew someone else with that same exact tattoo and placement. His brother. Who’s been dead for twelve years.

Three empty bar stools, each with a slightly different tear in their cushions, welcomed Tyler’s uncomfortable curiosity.