“The Great Train Robbery, The California Zephyr, The Wabash Cannonball, the Rock Island Line, Casey Jones, Murder on the Orient Express, the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe, Soul Train…”
35
Ivan and Zigzag listened to Jimmy Cliff on the stereo of an orange ’72 Dodge Charger. Zigzag rocked slowly with the rhythm, but Ivan wasn’t convinced.
“What’s so great about this music? It just makes me antsy.”
“You need to learn how to relax, mon.”
It was after midnight. Ivan changed lanes, passing some farm equipment infarcting the southbound side of Interstate 95. They drove under a big green sign. Richmond, 1/4 mile. Ivan took the exit ramp; Zigzag unfolded a map and navigated through the city to the train station. They skidded up to the curb and ran through slush to the Amtrak window.
“Two tickets to Miami, The Silver Stingray.”
“It’s sold out,” said the clerk.
“What about cancellations?” asked Ivan. “Standby?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said the ticket man, pointing down the tracks. “It just left.”
“Why didn’t you tell us in the first place?”
The pair dashed out of the depot and jumped back in the Charger.
Zigzag pulled the map from under his seat and flicked a lighter to see.
“What now?” asked Ivan.
“We might be able to get on in Fayetteville, or maybe Charleston.”
“You heard the man. It’s sold out.”
“That’s never stopped me and Louise here,” said Zigzag, producing a shiny .380 automatic from the glove compartment.
“We can’t just go in there blazing! We don’t know where he is on the train. If we cause any commotion at all, he might jump off and we’ll never see the money.”
“You got a better idea, mon?”
“Well, if we try to get on at a depot, we risk problems from the Amtrak people, and they’re the last ones you want to mess with. Plus, the train will be stopped, so it’s easier for him to hop off. Which means we’ll have to get on the train between cities, while it’s moving. It’s the only way we can…” Ivan stopped and stared at Zigzag, who was lighting a joint the size of a bowling pin.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Hopping on board the ganja train.”
“Look at the size of that fucking thing!” Ivan glanced around in traffic to see if there were any cops. “Are you nuts?”
Zigzag exhaled, a small cloud enveloping their heads. “You’re the one who wants to jump on a moving train.”
“It’s possible.”
“It’s suicide.”
“I’m not talking about shooting ourselves out of a cannon at the thing. There are ways to trim risk. I just haven’t figured out the right method yet.”
Zigzag grinned. “I have an idea, mon.”
The sleeping berths were wide enough for sex, if you had the right motivation. But there wasn’t remotely room for a couple to sleep together.
Serge was in the top bunk, Sam on the bottom. She had fallen off fast after the lovemaking, but Serge was still wide open. He was way too wound up from being on a train. Plus, Sam snored like a lumberjack.
A little after two in the morning. Serge lay on his back, head propped with two pillows, looking sideways out the window as The Silver Stingray rolled through the backside of Virginia, rhythmic clacking, a faint train whistle ten cars up, then the crossing guard, the red-and-white bar across the road, caution lights flashing above a metal sign with buckshot dents, two pickups waiting on the other side of the gate. America was on the move, and it was moving away from the train tracks. Serge saw what was left behind, the late-night scenes repeating, Virginia becoming North and South Carolina. Raleigh, Southern Pines, Hamlet, Camden. Crime light, barbed wire, warehouses and liquor stores, alleys, a flashlight in the face of someone pulled over by police, then another tiny train depot from the 1940s hanging on for life, bleary travelers under the cantilevers. Serge hit radio buttons until he found jazz. Perfect. Watching America go by. Homeless people rubbing hands over oil-drum flames to the melancholy of Thelonious. He got out his new digital camera and rested it on his stomach, switching on the tiny monitor, replaying scenes from the last twenty-four hours. The gray Philly switching yards, the Maryland slums, the upscale parks in D.C., the Marine Corps hangar with the president’s helicopter, the blur of a freight train passing the other way, a citadel, a rocky trout stream, a riverboat, a carnival, a fire station, a little girl with pigtails skipping rope in front of a church, a restored Victorian home in an anonymous town with train tracks running down the center of Main Street, and everywhere, smiling Americans waving back at the train like a Ford truck ad. Serge finally came to the last picture in the camera’s memory and stopped: An old guy with a long white beard standing next to the tracks in the middle of nowhere, operating a big Hasselblad camera on a tripod, taking a picture back at Serge, his own future.
A loud scream startled Serge, and he bonked his head on the ceiling.
It was Sam. “You bastard!”
Serge hung his head over the side of the bunk. “What’d I do?”
“You bastard!” she yelled again, talking in her sleep. There were more words, but he could only make out a few of them, and most of those were bastard. Then something about final exams.
“What year is it?” asked Serge.
“1973.”
She twisted violently, a few more bastards, then: “It’s our secret, girls.”
“What’s your secret?” asked Serge.
The sunrise sparkled through the trees as The Silver Stingray rolled into the quiet South Carolina morning. There was still a cover of snow, but now patches of ground poked through.
A bunch of tuxedos sat around the booth in the front of the dining car.
“Tanner find the scripts yet?” asked Andy.
Spider shook his head.
Dee Dee came back from the rest room.
“Hey! Who ate one of my bananas?”
An empty peel sat in front of Preston.
Dee Dee snatched her hat off the table. “If I ever catch you doing that again, I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”
Passengers at nearby tables perked up. They put down their forks and began writing in notebooks.
The BBB walked forward through the sleeping compartment.
“Is it me, or does this train seem to be going faster?” asked Teresa.
“Feels the same,” said Maria. “The important question is why Rebecca won’t tell us where she disappeared to last night. And why she’s grinning so much.”
“I just had a dream, that’s all.”
“What kind of dream?”
“A Brad Pitt dream. We’ll leave it at that.”
The BBB left the sleeper and entered the dining car. The people having breakfast turned around and applauded.
“You were great last night,” said a woman in a sun hat.
“They didn’t tell us more cast members would be hidden among the passengers,” said her husband. “What a performance!”
“What are you talking about?” said Teresa.
“I got it all on video if you want to see.”
“We do,” said Sam.
They crowded around. The man adjusted the tiny crystal screen on his camcorder and played back Preston’s hypnosis show. Sam quacking, Paige scraping her shoe and so on. The BBB began to boil as they watched. But it was nothing compared to Maria’s reaction when she saw herself with the blow-up doll.
“I’ll kill the son of a bitch! Who’s got a gun?”
Passengers took more notes.
Suddenly, yelling and a struggle at the front of the car.
Dee Dee had demanded an apology about eating from her hat, and Preston had told her to go fuck herself with one of her precious bananas. Andy and Spider had to separate them. Passengers scribbled furiously.