Rail Story

The hydraulics of the great train clanged and hissed, the knuckle spasmed. Goat sat in the shade of the grain-hopper car. He imagined his foot being crushed in the train’s knuckle - never step on the knuckle, he thought. With a scream and a creak the freight began to taxi out of the yard, and Goat with it. He covered the cherry of his cigarette as he smoked, so as not to attract the attention of any workers in the yard.

When the train was at speed, Goat pulled from his green pack a half gallon of cheap gin. Burnette’s. It came in a green plastic bottle, but it was better than Fleischmann’s, which came in glass for the same price, but tasted cheaper. Gin was his elixir, not whiskey. With gin, a man could survive. It wasn’t exposure, or poverty, or pride that tortured Goat. It was nerves and cares. By accepting poverty and exposure he saved himself the much greater evils of cares that would be inflicted upon a personage of higher standing.

Goat took a long chug of the gin, letting it fill his stomach like a sweet syrup. But there was a tunnel approaching. He covered his face with a bandanna. Then the train was in the tunnel. It was stale air, warmer than outside. And black. The sound of the train had changed with the acoustics of the tunnel. Peaceful.

Then there was a faint sound….plunk “I bid farewell to old Kentucky…” plink

In the car across from Goat, separated from him by the knuckle, there was light in the darkness. plink “The place where I was born and raised…”

The outline of a man in the car ahead, glowing in the soot-black tunnel. Goat stood, silent. plunk “For six long years, I’ve been in trouble…No pleasure here on Earth I’ve found…”

On Earth…the train sounded different now, and there was a hiss of steam.

“Perhaps I’ll die upon this train…” plunk

The man vanished, his light broke apart into the air like so many lightning bugs.

Goat didn’t move, didn’t breathe. After an eternal moment, he heard a loud crack and a shower of stone.

Again, the noise of metal smashing rock.

And again. Voice - not english. Chinese?

And now Goat had a vision. Mountains under a blue sky. The Chinese men were clearing a path through the mountain with picks and hammers. A hammer arced violently into the stone - but instead of a shower of rock and a crack, there was a spray of blood and a deep cry. the sky was red, and the mountain was bleeding. The men were now skeletons, covered not in dirt, but stained with the mountain’s blood, as they drove spikes into her back with their hammers. Devils with cat-o-nine-tails and horns, white skin, and dark hair drove the dead men to work harder. There was the screams of toil and the pained groan of the bleeding rock.

Darkness again. Reality? plonk

“But there is one promise that is given…” plink

“I’ll see you on God’s golden plain…”

Goat lost consciousness, and as he faded out, he seemed to see the bright light at the end of the tunnel, blinding him…and then he was away.

Goat awoke. He…wasn’t in motion. The train was in the yard. In his lap was the handle of gin, with the cap off. Reflexively, with a shaking hand, he brought the bottle to his lips and drank deeply until he felt his nerves relax, the tremor subside. Only now dide he truly wake. Had he fainted? There was too much gin left for it to have crept up on him and made him sleep. He was aware of the vision, but it was yet to be integrated, it was separate still, the way a dream is upon waking.

Goat stuffed the gin into his pack and looked out at the yard. It was night, with a full moon, He slung his pack onto his back and climbed down off the car. Carefully he made his way across the tracks, out of the yard and into the silent streets.

It wasn’t an exact science, but usually Goat knew where he was going when he rode freight. Sometimes, you’d end up somewhere else. This was supposed to be New Orleans.

There were brick buildings, and these were old streets. It was very quiet. When was downtown New Orleans ever this quiet, at any time of night?

With skeletons in the back of his mind, Goat hiked deeper into the dead city. His hand found the knife in his pocket, stroking the cold metal for reassurance.

The only light was the moon, There was an antiques store and an old botanica. As an impulse of routine he checked each street trash can he passed. Ther were empty, except for some old chicken bones and broken glass.

Past the old botanica, there was a bench under a tree and on the beach was a man in a bright yellow raincoat with a hood pulled over his head. He sat on the bench apparently doing nothing. Probably homeless, thought Goat. He approached the silent man and offered him a rolled cigarette.

“Thanks,” said the man in the yellow coat. But he had no face. Under the hood there was just an impossible darkness. The thing in the yellow coat took the cigarette and held it, unlit.

“Where am I?” asked Goat.

“N’Orleans,” it said. “How did you get here?”

“I rode a train. But there was this tunnel, and I think something happened. This isn’t really New Orleans,” said Goat.

“Hmmm…you did right to offer me tobacco, human. We spirits value it as a token of reverence from the living.”

Now Goat wondered if he was still alive. He was afraid to ask. But if this was the afterlife, he was still able to drink gin…

“I’m known as Goat. Who are you?” He decided to take things slow. I’m not dead, he thought. This is too good for hell.

“Honored to meet ‘cha. Name’s Hocus. Hocus Pocus.

His voice sounds human, Goat thought. And that name isn’t really strange for a street name. But, he has no face. “Am I dead?”

Finally the thing named Hocus lit its cigarette. It raised the cigarette to its hood while looking down, away from Goat. Smoke poured into the air.

“Not as far as I can tell,” it said. “Why don’t you sit down.”

Goat sat.

Hocus began to talk as Goat rolled two more cigarettes.

“This isn’t the afterlife. I’md ead, but this isn’t the afterlife.”

“You don’t seem dead.”

“Thank you. See that moon?”

Goat saw the moon…

“Do you recognize it?”

It was the moon. “But that isn’t right. This…isn’t New Orleans.”

The phantom actually sighed.

“I think this is probably some kind of psychic projection that overlaps your world.”

Sipping gin from a tin cup, Goat looked into the face that was no face. Total darkness.

“But the place you came from must also be indistinguishable from a psychic projection. That’s the nature of perception; unless you’re some kind of omniscient being.”

Goat considered this. Hocus was right - how could an existentialist tell if, while awake, he entered some world that was…an illusion? Everything was an illusion to begin with. There was only one way to get from this illusion back to the other.

“I’ve gotta get back on that train,” said Goat.

“Here,” said Hocus, holding out its hand, fist closed. Goat looked at what it placed in his hand. Three marbles.

“Better not lose those kiddo,” it said.

“Thanks.”

“Good luck.”

Goat had retraced his path through the empty streets to the train yard.

What a lonely place, he thought.

He was just through the hole in the fence when he saw his grain hopper. It was moving west! He ran for it. It was far away, and he carrying a large pack.

He heard a growl and knew he was being chased. Between him and his train was a stationary train of flat bed cars, and his train was only moving faster. Goat scrambled over the knuckle of the inert train, half expecting it to suddenly start and take off his arm…and saw what chased him. It was a bulldog-man. With black fur and a Union-Pacific jacket, spittle flying from his mouth as his jowls flapped in the wind. Goat raced for his train, the bulldog leaped right over the knuckle without touching it. But Goat had the lead and when he reached his train, it was moving dangerously fast; fast enough to get him away from the bulldog if he could grab the ladder without losing his legs…

It’s been a couple hours on the train now. Still no sign of any tunnel, Goat thought. How long had he been unconscious after the tunnel? There was the tunnel, those visions, and then he’d awake in the “New Orleans” yard.

A few hours ago he’d rushed back to the yard, only to see his train - perhaps the only train that could take him home - westbound. But what was home anyway? Goat hadn’t lived in a house, not for more than a few months, in years. But this - this was too foreign, which made him think of ‘home’.

That bulldog in the Union Pacific jacket. Was there a branch of Union Pacific run by Labradors? As the dusty Texas wasteland rolled by, Goat remembered the song of the hobo’s apparition: “I bid farewell to old Kentucky, the place where I was born and raised.”

Goat felt those words. He felt he’d bid farewell to old Kentucky, too.

He felt a deep and unfamiliar need for the companionship of a human. Anything. Even a cranky gas station employee.

The train was starting to slow down just a little.He took stock of the situation. He had most of a gallon of water, half a box of crackers, a few granola bars. Rope, tarp, sleeping bag. Some other garbage - random tinctures and trinkets, extra socks. A pouch of tobacco, not enough papers, and a quarter gallon of gin. That was the most important thing - gin. Without alcohol he’d probably seize out, maybe even die. He wouldn’t be able to travel for days, either.

Shit, he thought. I’d almost rather just hop in front of a train than go through that. What were the chances of finding a 7-11 anytime soon?

He didn’t know. He should be in Texas, but if he was in some kind of Wonderland…

“Mind company?” said a boyish voice.

The train was stopped. It was a rural area and past the tracks were some fields of corn. From the height of the grain hopper, Goat looked down at the speaker. He saw a head of coal black hair and a beaten pack. A human!

“Come on up,” said Goat, not a little pleased.

The boy climbed up and laid down his pack. He was easily Goat’s age but his youthful spirit demanded Goat think of him as a boy. Hands on his hips, the boy asked:

“Got any tobacco?”

“That depends,” Goat replied. “Is this a dimension where they sell tobacco?”

The boy laughed.

He wore nothing under a brown sleeveless jacket and dirty khaki jeans. Goat saw now that he was covered in scars. One of them went all the way down his abdomen. There were kidney operation scars on both sides. One of his arms was a ghoulish gray color.

Goat stopped staring and made the kid a cigarette.

The boy sat and smoked.

“Hey,” said the boy. “I’m Raggedy Andy.”

“Goat”.