The Man in Seat 448

Vocal | The Man in Seat 448 | John O Marlowe

The train lurched forward suddenly. His unreadiness, and the kinetics of sternocleidomastoid flexion, snapped back Jim Goodwin’s head.

Previously slack and hanging flat to his body, chin to his chest, his head pitched rearward, pressing him deeper into the contour of his seat –– head straight back, even though the passenger car in which he slumped rocked rhythmically left and right.

The potency of the jolt heeled his head against the headrest, springing his mouth wide open, jutting his lower jaw, as if someone had rocked back his head to get to the sweet candy from the dispenser underneath.

At that same moment, and without his notice, a stub of perforated glossy card stock tumbled from Jim’s loosely clenched fist. It spiraled to the floor in a brief series of flips and turns, landing face down near his polished shoes.

The railcar jerked again. Harder.

Goodwin’s dormant lungs awoke, and he syphoned deeply into his body the stale air hanging within the confines of the railcar. The vestiges of previous riders, humanity’s rancidness still hung heavy despite several open windows allowing in fresh mountain air. The sweetness choked him. It threatened to swell his throat, rousing him even further from his stupefaction.

Where was he? How did he get here?

Jim made out the unmistakable clamping sound of iron on iron. He felt surging power traveling beneath his railcar, tugging at the iron knuckle coupled to the car behind him. The process was repeated for more than a quarter mile of rolling stock, as each segment of the train heaved into motion, like a centipede taking its first strides.

The abrupt, unexpected start of the train hurled four brightly covered children’s books toward the floor from their resting place in the seat next to him. He managed to snag three before they cascaded over the edge, and he slid them back into the seat to join two that never moved.

The remaining book landed upright, propped against his calf, partially obscuring the dropped boarding pass, now being ground dirty under Jim’s foot.

He exhaled a short puff of air –– a brief celebration of his good fortune. The book had not slid across the railcar floor to come to rest out of his reach. It was a good thing, Jim thought. In his condition, he wasn’t sure if he was capable of fishing a book from under the nearby seats.

With his left thumb and middle finger pressed against his temples, he shielded his eyes from flashing sunlight cast by the stanchions lining the track. The locomotives towed Jim’s car through alternating blinks of brightness and lengthening shadow, and the stereoscopic effect dizzied him further.

He slowly bent forward from the waist, focusing intently on the thin spine of the children’s book. He crept in. Deliberately with his right hand he snatched up his prey –– pouncing like a mountain lion –– fearful that his quivering leg could shove the book flat.

The book was now firmly secured. He focused next on the paper beneath his feet. He had no idea if the slip had any significance. He only knew that he wasn’t going to bend over a second time to retrieve it. Better to grab it now, or ignore it forever.

Clutching the redeemed book on his lap, Goodwin peeled the train ticket from its gummy encumbrance. He pressed the stub to his watery eyes, and he moved his entire head up and down its length. His eyes were fixed in their sockets, and any wandering movement threatened to roil Jim’s stomach.

Remarkably, his foggy brain recognized the remnant immediately. It carried the familiar Amtrak logo. On the face, for convenience, security features enabled Goodwin to breeze through the turnstile electronically.

Some things were different.

Across the top, the large red, computer generated letters “DEN” were missing. Those letters stood for “Denver,” his final destination, and Jim couldn’t remember another time when that part of his ticket was left blank.

There was something else. He was assigned Seat 448.

He sniggered when he noticed. In nearly two years of riding the train, Jim had acquired some knowledge of the industry. However, even the most infrequent rider could figure out that 448 was a number too high. Even the economy class railcars could only pack in 294 passengers.

“Somebody’s gonna get fired over that one,” Goodwin breathed.

Jim fumbled the ticket into the hollowed breast pocket of his white Pierre Cardin, the luxury brand dress shirt now unbuttoned at the collar. He began to return the book to the seat, but before setting it down, the front cover caught his attention. He let out an uncharacteristic cheerful chuckle.

The Little Engine That Could –– the arching text across the top of the hardcover proclaimed … by Watty Piper.

A smile broadened Goodwin’s face. He imagined his son’s reaction when he handed him the present. Vincent Goodwin was turning four years old, Saturday –– tomorrow –– and making his son happy was the only true joy that Jim Goodwin felt anymore.

Vincent was already reading at a first grade level. Jim wondered if The Little Engine might be somewhat young for the boy’s tastes.

Nevertheless, his son’s love of trains swayed him. Goodwin was the same way as a child. He could still hear his Mother’s voice reading the same classic folktale to him, night after night. If she was still here, Jim thought, she’d be reading it to Vinny, too.

The children’s classic was more than just a happy tale, of course. The story’s “I think I can. I think I can.” theme, extolling the virtues of hard work and belief in one’s self, will be important for Vinny to learn. Goodwin, however, was resigned to let the book convey the message. Optimism was a lesson that he felt no longer capable of teaching.

Goodwin gently nestled the book into the seat, and restored his head to the headrest. He peered through slitted eyes past his nose, and distilled his surroundings. He hoped familiarness would act as a beacon, and his brain –– still adrift in a sea of booze –– could use the signal to find its way to shore.

He surveyed the spacious observation car. The railcar was conspicuous by its emptiness. Normally, riders filled every first come-first served seat, and more crowded onto the two opposing benches. A cacophony of cheery chatter always echoed throughout the car, as first the children and then the adults pointed through the tempered glass sidewalls at the grandeur in the hills.

That wasn’t the case on this trip. Only three passengers inhabited the entire car.

Near him reclined a young woman. Her pallor mirrored the way he himself felt inside. Jim noticed how commodious her yellow print dress looked on her emaciated body. Dark rings rimmed the bridge of her sunken cheeks. Her breathing was shallow and labored.

“Boy, she’s had a rough time. Cancer probably,” Jim speculated quietly. “Likely going to Denver for treatments.”

He figured she was pretty once. But now … now it was difficult for him to even look into her vacant eyes. Someone should have driven her to Denver, he thought. “She doesn’t have much time.” he said, but he was glad no one heard him.

He moved his focus beyond the young woman to the old man in the corner berth.

His wrinkled face and waist length white beard betrayed his angular chin and strong hands. He wasn’t old. He was ancient. His wardrobe perpetuated the image. He wore a traditional changshan –– or “long dress,” as his colleague Connie Tan explained to him once. The colorful silk gown was perfectly tailored to his slender frame, and was hemmed by what might be real gold filament where it dropped to his shins.

He balanced on his nose stereotypical wire rimmed glasses, and adorning the top of his head rode a gentleman’s black silk skull hat embroidered with images of chrysanthemums and dragons. It, too, was fretted along the edges in gold thread, signifying that the elder was a man of considerable wealth, or was held in high honor in his community.

It wasn’t that unusual to see traditional Chinese in Denver. People of Chinese descent had settled in Colorado as far back as the mid-nineteenth century. They came for jobs, and to work the mines. Still, Goodwin could not recall seeing one on this train another time.

The man acknowledged the scrutiny by gracefully dipping his head in Goodwin’s direction. The courtesy was returned with a nod, and Jim swung back around toward the windows.

It must be Friday, Goodwin decided. He had no way of knowing, of course. He simply supposed so. Every other Friday evening, Jim Goodwin hopped aboard the Granby Express, not far from his temporary home in Granby, Colorado. The Express was the last leg of Amtrak’s famous California Zephyr route, before it descended into Denver. The ride eastward erased 2,656 feet of elevation from the point where Jim boarded, nearly 8,000 feet above sea level.

The train’s cortege consisted of eleven observation cars. The railroad company deemed them sightseer lounges. The double-decked aluminum liners were normally teeming with tourists making the multi-day trip across the country –– 2,320 miles from Emeryville, California, near San Francisco, all the way to Chicago. Since a rider could purchase tickets for any segment along the route, The Express was also a great way for skiers, shoppers, anglers and other day-trippers to conclude a breathtaking adventure in the spectacular Rocky Mountains.

For Jim Goodwin, however, riding The Express yielded no sensation. He no longer enjoyed the company of people. The glorious mountains outside his panoramic windows lost their magnificence long ago, and the snow-capped giants were now only abstract backdrops to a weekly drama that reminded him of just how miserable his life had become.

“Ten thousand dollars, and twelve months probation, including a concurrent six months of home detention,” the judge said. “Also, for a period of time no less than two years, regardless of circumstances, the state of Colorado revokes your privilege to operate a motor vehicle.”

Everything Goodwin faced now was an inconvenience, not the least of which was losing his driver’s license. He had to rely on friends and ride-shares to find his way. The choice of riding the train was neither a luxury nor expedience. It was simply his way of limiting the nuisance to his friends on a Friday night. It relieved them the burden of thinking up excuses to back out of driving him places.

“I think I can quit this time,” Jim pleaded with the judge. “I think you’re exaggerating the entire situation. It was only a property damage accident, and really … [he paused] … really, she shouldn’t even have been turning there in the first place.”

The conviction cost Goodwin far more than the ten thousand dollar fine the judge levied. There were court costs, and the cost for bail, too. The attorney fees were outrageous, even though his friend and colleague, Ben Overton, handled much of his case pro bono. Ben was also the person who was tasked by the partners at Pierson, Miller, & Melloh with telling Jim Goodwin that his services with the firm, as an actuarial attorney, were no longer needed.

Driving under the influence in Colorado is normally a misdemeanor charge, and the fine usually much less. But this was Goodwin’s second offense. If the prosecutor elected to confer felony charges, Jim would lose his license to practice law in Colorado.

“I can quit this time,” Jim reassured the partners. “I can. I really think I can.”

There was no relevance in his promise, however. The partners lost patience with him long ago, and this court proceeding served only to validate their decision to terminate his employment.

Being fired from a $120 thousand per year job was humiliating. Until now, he had done very little to hide his ambitions. Being wealthy was important to Goodwin, and he wasn’t afraid to climb over people to get to the top. He imagined that everyone who fell victim to his determinations was now laughing at his demise.

Jim Goodwin was the rising star at PM&M when he joined the firm immediately after law school. At age 25, there was talk of him becoming a junior partner by age 30. But there was always a cocktail hour looming after work … or a ballgame, or the theater. Jim always passed his limit long before last call, the last out, or the fat lady singing.

Give him credit. Goodwin was always contrite. However, the lure of alcohol on his lips was relentless, and more powerful than shame. All that he worked for was now gone. His reputation was shredded. Friends avoided him.

As his losses climbed, deeper he fell into the bottle. Jim lost direction and purpose. And when his wife, Linda –– home from work unexpectedly –– turned the doorknob to the couple’s noisy bedroom on one particular dreary and lonely March day, Jim lost her, too.

For two years she listened to Jim’s promises. For two years she endured every broken vow –– but she couldn’t this one. This was the most sacred of them all. “I am really going to quit, Linda. I think I can do it, but I need you to be there for me.”

Six hours later, Jim was tossing a single gym bag on the end of the bed in Corporal Isaac “Rad” Conrad’s two bedroom Granby, Colorado apartment. Jim and Rad had been friends since high school, and after a tour of duty in the Gulf, Rad returned to Colorado, and now was a veteran trooper of the Colorado State Patrol.

More than once, Rad helped Jim out of an alcohol induced scrape, and this time was no different.

“I’m going to quit this time, Rad,” Jim said. “I think I can.”

“You’re an idiot, of course,” his best friend said matter-of-factly. Jim pulled shut the apartment door behind him. “Just don’t use up all my hot water.”

Goodwin was coming to grips with the disintegration of his prestige, but losing his independence was a bigger obstruction. He loved driving. He missed the freedom. He loved heading into the mountains on a sunny day, and feeling the rush of cool air buffeting his face as he raced downhill home.

What made the shaming worse was that a brand new Mercedes E-Class Cabriolet sat idle in his ex-wife’s garage. The sexy Patagonia red coupe was his dream car, and at age 30, was the trophy he awarded himself for climbing the ranks as a junior jurist at PM&M.

Jim purchased the car for Linda, he told everyone, although few believed him. He told himself that she deserved the luxury. In truth, he relished the thought of impressing the couple’s friends. For her part, Linda could care less. Part of her liked the idea of a little showiness in their lives. They were certainly better off than many young couples, and she was proud that Jim was making his dreams come true.

On the other hand, they weren’t making that much money. Vinny was starting kindergarten in the fall. There was college to start funding, too. Above all, Linda wanted another baby.

She wasn’t ready to accede to having no child at home that needed her care. Another baby –– hopefully a girl this time –– could help her transition from new mother to grade school parent, she thought.

A fancy car just wasn’t worth giving up that dream. Not to her, anyway.

Besides, Linda knew her chances of actually driving the Mercedes were few –– and she was right. Jim settled behind the wheel nearly every time, except for those rare occasions when he realized that he was hoarding the driving privileges. “Here, you drive,” Jim would say. “It is your car, you know.”

Goodwin laced his hands across his stomach. He hoped what he was suppressing was only a belch. It was 3:17 PM when the last railcar lugged into motion, relatively on time for a Friday. The train was scheduled to leave Granby Station at 3:12 PM. The weather was fair, so the engineers should be able to pick up those few extra minutes during the descent. Otherwise, the two hour, thirty-two minute ride through the Never Summer Mountain Range should be routine and predictably boring.

With any luck, they will roll into the heart of the state capitol, arriving at Union Station sometime around the scheduled 6:38 PM. By 7:15 PM, he should be at Linda’s.

Out his window, as as the train entered a lazy curve beyond the rail yard, two giant diesel-electric power plants came into view, towing the linked cars. In the mountains, the tandem General Electric Genesis locomotives were a necessity. Each engine was capable of generating nearly 4,000 pounds of horsepower, sending 280.25 kilonewtons of force to the wheels. It’s vital capacity, needed to drag heavy loads up steep Rocky Mountain grades –– or in the case of the ride downhill –– enough stopping power to slow the train before entering treacherous curves.

Jim knew the route by heart. There was really no reason to stay awake, so he intended to nap –– or drink. He preferred drinking, but The Express was dry. No alcohol was served onboard, although more than once he had slipped a flask under his his raincoat to enjoy during the most monotonous moments on the tracks.

He swiped his mouth with his tongue, hoping to impart some moisture to his throat and inner cheeks. He watched his hand involuntarily reach into his back pocket, instinctively groping for the flask that wasn’t there. He remembered promising Linda he wouldn’t drink on the train.

“Don’t worry. I can do that, Linda,” he told her. “I think I can.” How grateful he was that drinking beforehand was never discussed.

The Express snaked downward, hugging the silhouette of the Fraser River –– eighteen miles until it reached the Fraser-Winter Park Station. Here, the Denver riders endured a lengthy lay over to accept new passengers. From the Winter Park station, it was only a brief ride east through the resort town, until they reached the Moffat Tunnel West Portal.

Moffat Tunnel was unsettling for Jim Goodwin. The passage always appeared unsound, although there was no reason for it to seem so. Built in 1928, the 6.2 mile mile tunnel under the Continental Divide receives routine upgrades. The single line tunnel is safe and modernized, including a ventilation system to remove diesel fumes from its corridor.

Nevertheless, the Amtrak conductor always made an announcement prohibiting passengers to travel from car to car while in the tunnel. Goodwin figured the conductor knew something the rest of them didn’t.

The train exited the Moffat Tunnel East Portal near the town of Rollinsville. Goodwin couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief when they broke into daylight, and he no longer had 2,800 feet of Rocky Mountain poised overhead.

From here it was a dash into Denver.

Jim rose, and stretched. He took the opportunity to survey his fellow passengers. If possible, the young woman looked worse. He feared for her, and wondered if it would delay his arrival at Linda’s if the poor thing died right here.

The Chinaman sat unchanged. He stared out the window with the same vacant look he had the entire trip. He was probably meditating, Jim thought.

Just for something to do, Goodwin decided to break the silence.

“We’re almost there,” he announced. Neither spoke in return, but the woman nodded her head in the affirmative. Jim now wished he had remained silent. He was certain she had wasted much needed reserve energy.

As the train approached the flatlands, it was greeted by a series of large gentle curves as it paralleled the South Boulder Creek. Jim knew the area well.

On weekends, he enjoyed taking the Mercedes up into the mountains, and “putting the car through its paces,” as he liked to say. It was very easy for the car to reach 120 miles per hour on the straightaways, and the tight mountain curves were no match for German engineering.

He loved the exhilaration of pushing the Mercedes to its top speed, then charging deep into the corners, letting the tires squeal as they ached to hold the asphalt. The sensation was titillating, almost prurient in how it excited his senses.

Jim nearly always finished his “fun” on Colorado 72 in Gilpen County. There was an obscure watering hole there, the Last Stand Tavern. He’d knock back a few beers before continuing on home.

Much of the roadway he traveled was right beside the BNSF rail bed –– the very line The Express was on now. He loved drawing alongside the coaches, offering the passengers something to look at, now that the mountains were behind them.

Goodwin played with them. It was a game.

He’d punch the accelerator, kicking on the turbocharger. Then toyed with them again by lifting his foot. The engine-braking sent loud, deep rumbles from under the car through the passenger compartments next to him. It was always something the kids enjoyed.

When Colorado 72 turned south near Boiling Gulch, and away from the train, the race was on. Goodwin exited on to Coal Creek Canyon Road. Back and forth through the valley floor he raced, feeling the rush of adrenaline redden his face.

The endpoint was the Gross Dam railroad crossing, and when Jim emerged from the bypass at Chute Road, he was only two hundred yards away from the finish line. He’d press the accelerator firmly to the floor, outracing the locomotive to the crossing. Once safe on the other side, he watched behind him as a plume of sandy dust filled the crossing, left there for the train to run through with its air horns blaring, and no doubt the engineers cursing him.

His mind was clearing again, and the course of today’s events angered him. He had promised Linda that he wouldn’t drink, and now he wondered if he would be sober enough to even show up at her house. One whiff of alcohol, and he would miss seeing Vinny on his birthday.

Goodwin wasn’t sure he could survive that.

He cupped his hand over his mouth, and inhaled through his nose. He vented his lungs. As he did, he caught out of the corner of his eyes the sight of a bright red car traveling Colorado 72. It was in the distance, but it was unmistakably gaining on the train.

He craned his neck toward the back of the string of railcars, bending forward to enhance his view. The car –– a Patagonia red Mercedes –– was overtaking each of the trailing cars, one-by-one, like a serpent gulping down a line of baby chicks behind their mother.

The Mercedes drew alongside Jim, and maintained synchronicity with the observation car. Goodwin stared with incredulity. He was transfixed, unable to understand the scene outside his window.

He wanted to know now! Who was driving? Maybe it was a friend of his, playing a cruel joke. Maybe it truly was a coincidence. Probably it was the booze.

Jim rubbed his eyes hard, hoping to erode the scales that separated him from reality. Narrow-eyed, he leaned even closer. He stared intently, hoping his gaze could penetrate the heavily tinted auto glass. As if on cue, the window slid open.

The person inside was indeed someone he knew: Jim Goodwin sat behind the wheel.

Goodwin leapt to his feet. He shoved his face to the window, as if the clear glass impaired clarity. Palms out, he pressed hard to catch himself.

The Mercedes belched out black/grey smoke when the driver stepped on the pedal. He let off, and shockwaves nearly drove Jim back into his seat.

“No! It can’t be!” Goodwin screamed. He pivoted to see if his outburst alarmed his co-riders, but neither moved. Again the car accelerated. It slowed. Again. Again. Fear replaced confusion in Jim’s mind.

“What is this all about?”

Suddenly, the car turned right. The Mercedes accelerated quickly. It and Colorado 72 disappeared into the southern horizon.

Jim sat heavily into his seat once more. He was sober, now. Shock took care of that. Ironically, he was more deeply confused than before. This must be the DT’s, he assured himself –– delirium tremens, or alcohol withdrawal delirium. He’d heard stories like this, but he never thought it would happen to him.

“Maybe I can quit. I can quit. I think I can. I think I can quit, now,” Jim incanted.

A tiny dark image pierced the distant skyline, and the momentary silence that stilled the little voices in Jim’s mind was broken. For just for a moment Goodwin forgot how he played the driving game.

He jumped to his feet once more, and this time it dislodged the tiny white boarding pass from his shirt pocket.

Dry powder from the Chute Road bypass formed a giant cloud, and in its center, the Mercedes parted the billowing shroud as it pressed through. The car was still miles back, the dusty rooster tail alive, almost growing from its rear bumper. Closer now. Closer yet. Soon the Mercedes will overtake the train, Jim was certain.

Ahead, the locomotives neared the last sharp curve before reaching Gross Dam. Jim swiveled. He glanced alternately, first to the front of the train, then back to the Mercedes inching its way past cars in the center of the column. At last, the Mercedes was again right beside him.

Soon, the engineers must slow the train, Jim knew. The curve ahead is too tight. When they do, Jim Goodwin –– that Jim Goodwin –– will step on the gas, and the race to the crossing will play out like it has dozens of times before.

Please God, let it be so.

“Here it comes! Get ready to brake!” Jim warned the others. He anticipated the sudden thrust forward, and braced for the shock.

It never came.

If anything, the train went faster. The diesel engines groaned. Thick black smoke poured out the top of both engines.

The Mercedes accelerated, too.

“No! You idiot!” Jim yelled. “You’ll never make it!” He listened to the turbocharger scream. “Back off you fool!”

Goodwin watched the car inch up on the twins in front. Again the engines throttled up, as the drive piston pounded powerful strokes into wheels. The railcars in tow, rocked violently back and forth, and Jim turned just in time to catch the Chinaman, who was standing right beside him.

“Sit down, old man!” Jim raged. “There’s nothing you can do here. There’s nothing anyone can do!”

The car and the locomotives were side-by-side, now. Jim pushed the Chinaman into a seat, and climbed over debris fallen in the aisle. He reached the clear glass panel in the front, and open the door to the case, just under the sign that read “Emergency Brake”. Inside was a square red handle, and Jim pulled it down hard.

He should hear escaping air being forced from the brake lines. He should be thrown hard forward, against the bulkhead, as kinetic energy was jettisoned from the procession of cars.

Instead, Jim heard nothing. Nothing but the sounds of the inevitable.

As the Mercedes drifted through the last curve –– the curve that will align the red car with the crossing –– Jim sat down next to the Chinaman. He knew what came next. He wanted to prepare for it, but it sickened him.

“I don’t understand,” Jim mused. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“Here is your answer, my son.”

The Chinaman spoke softly. In his hand, the man held the stub of paper that fell from Jim’s pocket.

“That’s my boarding pass,” said Jim.

“Indeed,” the old man said, “and this is your seat number –– 448.”

“Yes?”

“448 is a death number,” he said. “I have one. She has one, too.”

Outside the window, the car passed the last arc in the curve. It was less than fifty yards from the crossing. Jim lifted his face, and looked up at the young woman. She turned her ticket to him. “Her number is twenty-four,” the old man said. “It means ‘easy to die’.”

Quite aware that Jim still did not understand, he continued. “In Cantonese, numbers that sound like words that mean death are called death numbers. Mine is 14. It means ‘must die’.”

Jim heard the engineer pull on the airhorn. One long blast. One short blast. One short blast.

“And mine?” Jim asked. “What does my number mean?”

“The number 448 –– pinyin: sǐ xiān fā –– in Cantonese, means ‘wealthy on death’.”

With tears in his eyes, Jim sat back in his seat. The engines roared even louder, now. He reached into the the seat by his side, and lifted the top book. He looked at its cover once more -– The Little Engine That Could. Then he cradled it to his chest, as one long horn blast blared through the countryside.

* * *

Early Saturday morning, Rad Conrad pressed the doorbell of Linda Goodwin’s apartment. She pulled back the door, and started to greet him with her usual playful hello, but something on Rad’s face stopper her.

They were both silent for a moment, and then tears formed in the corner of Linda’s eyes.

“There was an accident, Linda … ”

Rad tried to be a professional, but his cracking voice betrayed his emotions.

She stopped him. “I don’t need to know. I wanted for things to be different. I wanted him to stop drinking. I thought he could.”

She fell into Rad’s arms. Rad clutched her tightly.

“I know you did, Linda. We all did,” Rad said. “We all thought he could.”