This story was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Each month STSC members create something around a set theme. This cycle, the theme was “trains.” If you are a writer, you might consider joining us.
People call me crazy, but I am a Dreamer.
I always have been.
Not crazy, that is, but a Dreamer.
I sit here, day after day, in the dingy corner of this aging train station, watching the crowds ebb and flow like the tide. I meditate in my corner, to the strangely hypnotic sounds of trains coming and going. I sit, hour after hour, lost in thought. My thoughts rage and I think, no, I dream about only one thing - her. The Realist, the love of my life, who left me and disappeared without a trace, years ago, leaving me heartbroken and alone. I guess we were doomed from the start. I mean, how can a Realist love a Dreamer, anyway? Or, maybe, just maybe, she did love me. How can a Realist stay with a Dreamer?
She tried. Oh yes, I have to give her that. She tried hard. She stayed with me as I chased one dream, then another, and another after that. But eventually, I pushed her too far. I expected too much. A Realist needs stability, not more dreams. And so now, I sit here, for I have nowhere else to go, and nothing else to do. Nothing to do except to dream of her.
I look up momentarily and notice that the crowds have begun to thin out as the evening wanes. The trains are growing fewer and farther between. I wonder if I should give up and go home, but, oh yeah, right, I don’t have a home any longer. Of course, I can always Dream about one. I feel that I should go…somewhere. But, today, something inside me, some gut intuition, tells me to stay here this evening. So I stay, sitting on the floor, in the corner of the train station, rooted to my spot.
And then, something unexpected happens. Something that never happens, and I would know, since I sit here, panhandling, every single day. Today, a train I have never seen before arrives; a train unlike any other. Its exterior is tarnished and weathered, and its wheels screech, metal against metal, sparks flying from the wheels as it comes to a stop. Screeeeeeeeeech! Screeeeeeeech! Metal claws on a metal chalkboard. This train looks like it's from another time and place. Strange. The doors creak open, and a figure steps out.
I stand up, my heart pounding in my chest. I can hardly believe my eyes. It’s her! My long-lost Realist, who I thought was lost to me forever.
She looks just as I remember her. Just as I dream of her. The first thing that strikes me about her, as always, is her rich, light brown hair, decorated with just a few hints of lighter blond highlights. In certain lighting, such as the warm lights of this train station, her hair is positively luminescent; a glowing, cascading waterfall down her back in loose waves that suggest both carefree abandon and subtle sensuality. Thankfully, this station is well lit with warm halogen lights, unlike the cool, inhuman fluorescent lights usually found in such dingy places. In here, her hair transforms into a bright amber aura around her head, a halo. She’s an angel. I’m hypnotized by her halo-hair as she turns her head. I’m captivated by the way her hair follows the curve of her neck and falls across her shoulders.
Her face is a study in contrasts. She boasts a delicate beauty, with high cheekbones and full lips that seem almost sculpted. But one glance at her expression and you sense there is also a great strength in her, a sense of purpose that comes through in the way she carries herself. She's confident without being arrogant, and poised without being distant.
Her tailored business suit fits her like a second skin, and the lines of the jacket and pants accentuate her curves without being overly revealing. There's an understated elegance in her style that lets everyone know that she doesn't need flashy accessories or over-the-top makeup to make a statement.
Seeing her again, I’m suddenly, and acutely, aware of my tattered clothes, my unkempt hair, and my bushy beard. I’m embarrassed by my appearance. What have I been doing with my life? But she’s already seen me and is walking toward me, across the crowded station, with long, purposeful strides.
I stand up, trying in vain to push the wrinkles out of my clothes.
"Is it really you?" I ask, my voice trembling.
She smiles at me, and I feel a warmth spread through my body. Her smiles always could brighten my day.
"Yes, it's me," she said. "I had to see you again."
We embrace, tears streaming down our faces, and the world around us seems to fade away. I’m now living in one of my dreams.
We talk as we walk over to the café. I buy her a cup of coffee. As we sit, together, at a table across the corridor from my corner, we talk and laugh and reminisce about our past. We are surprised to discover that we still have much in common, despite the years that have passed, and the obviously divergent paths we’ve taken since we last saw each other.
"I’ve never stopped thinking about you," she says, her voice soft and earnest.
I struggle to keep my voice even, "I never stopped thinking about you either.”
The conversation pauses, and we both chuckle. I look up. The café’s overhead speakers are softly playing Freddie Freeloader, one of our favorite collaborations between Miles Davis and John Coltrane. We used to play it on vinyl while dancing in the living room and pretending that we were discerning music connoisseurs. Coltrane always was our favorite.
“Sublime sax and heavenly horns!” we laugh at the same time. Just a stupid little thing we used to say when we heard Coltrane and Davis together.
The world seems brighter and more beautiful than ever before, full of possibility and promise.
We talk for what seems like hours. But, just as I start dreaming, once again, of a future together, the train’s whistle blows. All aboard.
“I have to go.” She says.
“Why?” I ask.
“I just do. I had to see you, but I can’t stay. You know that.”
Ahh right. She’s The Realist.
And just like that, she pulls out her ticket and walks back toward the train.
As she steps back onto the never-before-seen train, the Realist turns around, to the Dreamer and without a word, they stare longingly into each other’s eyes. Goodbye.
I nod and wave, my heart heavy with the knowledge that I will probably never see her again. As the strange train disappears down the tunnel, I slump against the wall in my corner.
Suddenly, I feel a sense of unease. Had I really been talking to her all this time, or was she just a figment of my imagination? Had anyone else seen or spoken with her? I don’t think so.
Does it matter?
Maybe she’ll come back some day. Maybe not.
But hey, a guy can dream, can’t he?
“Don’t mind that bum.” said the café owner to one of his customers. “He’s crazy, but he’s harmless. He sits over in that corner, every day, panhandling, staring at the trains coming and going until the last train finally arrives, like he’s waiting for someone. He just sits there most of the time, staring, unaware of anything around him except the trains. He was here a few minutes ago, sitting at that table by himself, carrying on, talking animatedly like he was on a date! Crazy. I had to run him off, he was making the other customers nervous. He didn’t even acknowledge me, he just stood up, and walked over to the empty track and stared at it as if he was watching a train pull away, and then went back to his corner. I swear I saw tears in his eyes. Crazy bum.”
Cool story. It makes me think of all the homeless people, all the “bums” populating the train stations of the world and the stories of their lives that we will never know.
Nice story of longing for what you can’t have.