Arm in arm we marched to the train station, intent on a ticket to wherever. Anywhere
was good enough. You
told the ticket seller to surprise us, and he did. We closed our eyes. As the paper touched our hands, we
shoved it into the darkness
of our pocketbooks. He said we had an hour until our train, so we explored
the rest of the station. It was exciting, just the two of us.
We wandered, laughing and dancing around the people. So this was life without form
and consequence – but oh, there would be consequences later, I was sure of it. After we parted,
the trip’s excitement would be melted
and only the memory would remain. That one
independent outing; the most defining of moments
in our young lives thus far.
We passed a man wrapped in newspaper, lying on the ground like a fish we’d buy at the market. Was he
breathing?
No, you probably shouldn’t poke him – what if he gets upset? Singing a song won’t help, you loon – your
voice isn’t that sweet. But of course, I love it when you sing to me! Look – he’s using the Sunday
funnies as a pillow, and Beetle Baily’s imprinted
on his cheek!
Whistles sounded over the chatter of the train station. Too shrill to be the train already… They’ve found
us! I could hear your heart
beating over the voices; drowning them out. We have to make a break for it. Run! Our feet barely touched
the ground, except to catch that pesky bump on the stairs. I fell,
skinning both of my knees on the concrete. I bet that ticket salesman wonders
just what the hell’s going on… I bet he wonders just who he sold those tickets to. Who were the women
singing ad-libbed lullabies
in the middle of a train station? Why would whistles with uniforms attached chase them to the ground,
erasing the purity
of a Monday afternoon? What did those women possess?
I thought of the ticket salesman as the whistles took us away. We passed the place where the man had
been wrapped in newspaper, and I expected to see Beetle Bailey grinning at me from his cheek.
But the man’s drool had smeared the ink until it was just an outline.
So this is how it ends, I thought, our independent outing. What an exceptional journey!
Our tickets were still stowed in our pocketbooks, but I’m afraid they were bought to be kept in the
darkness.
The uniformed whistles shoved us in the back seat of their car. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was
nowhere we hadn’t been before. Back to the Bin for you, you sang, and back to the Bin for me.
The road behind us disappeared, along with the train station, as twilight
came. Our Monday afternoon was over, and back to the Bin it was. The excitement melted, and only the
memory remained. The memory, and the train ticket that we would never be able to validate.
