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I don't know how long I've been sitting here
hearing nothing, seeing nothing. Is it really
my time to die? Has the Dream Train cast a
spell like morphine over me, to render me
senseless to avoid the pain that is to come?
I remember the horror I felt when I heard the
news about the train crashing into the river.
That overkill steam engine was unable to stop
in the rain, skidding right over the cliffside
into the waters roiling in the storm. Where the
tornado came from, no one knew. That was the
only explanation possible for the twisted
wreckage of the bridge span.
They said more than five hundred people went
into the water, virtually all of two high school classes and
their families, fans, train personnel and, oh
God, Coach O'Malley! There were no play-offs
that year. Coach O'Malley and his team were
awarded first place posthumously in the
whole Conference. I always carried an article
about it neatly folded in my wallet. I haven't
re-read it for years.
Ha! I reach frantically for my billfold. Did
my metamorphosis from silverfox to foxhunter
include a change in that? NO! It's here!
The newspaper article is tucked inside!
I look up, my mind crystal clear. I stand.
Everyone seems very quiet. I hear mostly the
rattle of the old railway car swinging from
side to side and the pocket-uh-pocket-uh of
the turning wheels. Everyone's attention is
focused outside. The day has gone dark with
blinding gray rain. Sheets of water sweep over
us like a river in flood. I have never seen its
like, even in Indiana, where a sudden cloudburst
can rush at you across a street like a tidal
wave from which there is no escape. When this
storm occurred forty-five years ago, I was
dozing in a chair beside Grandpa's bed and
never knew that in those moments the weather
was about to destroy all my hopes for love.
I brace myself to make a lurching dash through
the train to show the article to Coach. Surely, it will
prove to him that I'm not crazy. He MUST understand
how much I love him, enough to die with him. Minutes
from now, if I can convince him, we'll go over the abyss
together, locked like lovers in each other's arms.
Oh! There he is, running at me! He grabs me by the
shoulders. "This storm! You were telling the truth!
How else could you have known? I love you, boy!"
He throws his arms around me to give me
the embrace and the kiss for which I have lived
my life of 65 years.
In that embrace, over his shoulder, I see the answer
dangling before my eyes. I sense the train has slowed
in the heavy rain. There is time to save our lives if I yank
on the emergency brake cord running along the top of the wall.
Still pressed tightly in my man's embrace, I
reach upward, but strong hands grip me from behind as
I attempt to reach upward for the cord.
With well-nigh inhuman strength, the prissy
conductor has snatched me free of my lover and
holds me with my arms pinned against my sides.
"You do not control the Dream Train, sir," he
whispers into my ear.
Mom! Dad! Help me, please! Help me stop this
train!
Reading my thoughts, as usual, the conductor
whispers, "They've gone, sir. They've said what
they came to say."
"Coach, for God's sake, pull the emergency
cord! We've got to stop the train!"
Through all this, Coach has stood there looking
puzzled, as if he can't understand what is
happening. I believe he cannot see the conductor.
Suddenly, a whistle sounding like Coach O'Malley's
blasts from the loudspeaker overhead, followed
by Mom's voice as I heard it when I first came
aboard the Dream Train: "Coach O'Malley, pull
that emergency cord. DO IT NOW!"
Shaken out of his torpor, Coach O'Malley's eyes
pop wide open. "Faith, Your Ladyship, that I will do!
Thanks fer the notion!"
That crouch, the old leap, the pot belly bouncing
out, the shirt flying up, that sweet navel ringed
with fur, and damned if his pants don't drop to
his sneakers in mid-air as I always prayed they would!
He yanks the cord. Slam-dunk!
The impact of the braking catapults me against him,
and we crash together to the floor locked
in a tight embrace, covering each other's faces
frantically with kisses. The whole dining car is
topsy-turvy inside. Nobody notices the burly
silverfox and his adoring foxhunter sharing the
happiest moment of their lives.
"This concludes your journey on the Dream Train,
sir," says the voice of the conductor in a sudden spate of
quiet in which I feel desolately alone. Where
is Coach O'Malley? Mom? Dad? Kelly? Ron? Where
are all you guys?
"We hope you have enjoyed this demonstration of
Virtual Reality aboard the Dream Train. You may
reserve the software with a deposit of only $200.
You can expect delivery within six to eight weeks."
The conductor's voice is coming from my PC's speakers!
I shake myself awake and into an upright position.
What the hell? How did I get home? Where's my
Mustang? I go to the window. It isn't parked
in the driveway. I turn back to the computer.
"What is this shit? What have you done to me?
I KNOW I drove into the desert. I KNOW I parked
at that old mine. What are you trying to pull?"
There is a long, but pregnant, silence. Then, the
bastard speaks again. "Sorry, sir. There are
still a few bugs to work out, in the Microsoft
tradition. We hope you will overlook this little
discrepancy."
There is a click. Something - or someone - has
turned off my speakers!
Is this happening to ME? I go to the bathroom
and look in the mirror. Yeah, it's me. The OLD me.
Fuck, what now?
"Hello, Yellow Cab? I need a taxi and a driver.
How much for one way about a hundred miles? Okay,
I pay round trip, but go only one way! Yeah? Sold!"
I bark at the computer as I grab my coat and barge
out the door, "$200 deposit? Ha! I'm headed for the
mine! Fuck you!"
Hey, friend, Mustang, child, it's me! Wow, what
a coat of dust! Poor baby, I'll drive you over to
Vegas. I'll give you a bath. We'll tool along
the Strip. Excalibur! Caesar's Palace! The Mirage!
I'll let 'em get a look at you, baby! Let's show
those buggers some class. You know what, baby?
You've got some miles left in you. We won't stop
here. We'll go on to Albuquerque, Amarillo,
Oklahoma City!
Terre Haute, here we come!
Gosh, the town hasn't changed much. Well, not quite.
That's new. Same site, but new.
"Yes, ma'am, I live in California. Went to high
school here in Terre Haute, though. Really nice new Public
Library you have here. Sure is different from my day.
Oh, you remember? Yes, ma'am, that was a fine
building. I checked out my first library book
there. Still have it! Ha ha ha ha! No, that's
a joke. Sure would be some big fine! Arithmetic,
big time! He he! On the computer? That's how you
do it now? All kinds of stuff on that thing,
I'll bet. Books, old newspapers, wow! On microfilm?
Say, could we take a peek at some of the issues
from my day?
"Looky here! Yes, ma'am, that's me, the lanky kid
right next to Coach O'Malley. Not exactly what I
look like today. Ha ha ha ha! Thank you. Yes, people
always mention my laugh. Got it from my dad. About the
only thing the old boy left me. Except for love. Lots
of that We were a very happy family. Ha ha ha ha!
You will NEVER know!
"That Coach O'Malley was a fine man, too. Really
awful the way he died. You don't remember? The
train? The wreck? Well, let's browse through here.
WHAT? Terre Haute won the state basketball
championship that year? Impossible!
"No, wait, gosh, here's Coach O'Malley again. Lordy,
I didn't realize he was so young! Hmmm. That would
make him only 34 when I was 16! Funny how a kid's
perspective on age changes as he ages himself. I
could have sworn Coach was already an old man when
I knew him. He would be how old if he were alive
today?
"Well, I guess 84 is not as old as it used to be.
People often don't retire these days till they
hit 75. You? Next year? NO! Come on! YOU? My, how
would anybody ever know? Ha ha ha ha! I guess you
don't want them to, eh? What? The eh? Oh, no, ma'am,
I'm not Canadian. I'm Irish-American, but my father.....
"Say, that's a good idea. You've got telephone
numbers and addresses in that computer, too? Oh,
boy, the new age! It's all so different now. Kids
coming up knowing all these technical things. No,
I never knew his first name. Must be in those
reports of his glory days. Nathan? Nathan
O'Malley? He's LISTED? Yes, please, the address!"
I stand at his door. I have not called. I couldn't.
I just couldn't. I ring the bell. Can he still get
around? Does he have a nurse? I wait a long time,
then ring again.
The door opens. He is togged out in Levis and a
red flannel shirt. "Sorry, my friend, I was
fertilizing a pot o' shamrocks out back. Nasty job, but
they're worth the work. A touch of me ancestral home!
This bell rings out there. Still got my hearing. What can
I do for you?"
His Irish brogue sounds much stronger in old age.
"Coach? but is it really you? My God, you look so
fit. You took off weight, but you've still got that fine pot
belly, and you never did grow any hair, did you! Ha ha
ha ha!"
He wrinkles his brow. "I know that laugh! Faith and begorra,
it can't be! No, it can't be you, not after all 'o these years!
You....you...just vanished into thin air. I never saw the like!
'Twere magic, boy! I thought you were a leprechaun fer sure!
Oh, glory, come in! Come in! I want to show you something."
He leads me to his study. The shelves are
studded more with trophies than with books. He
takes a folder from a drawer. Inside, carefully
laminated in plastic, is the newspaper article
I took from my wallet on the train to show him
that I had not lied, that I was not crazy after all.
"This supplied the only real evidence that you had
actually been on that train," he says. I found it on the floor
of the dining car where we fell together. It is the
only thing that held my mind together after you
disappeared," he says. "For years, I read it two,
three times a day to convince myself that 'twern't
a dream, that you really had been sent by some mystical
power to save the lot of us from certain death!"
He looks penetratingly at me. "Yes, 'tis you.
I see me elfin sprite of a boy in that kingdom behind your
eyes. I always hoped someday you'd find your way
back through time...and come to me. Your words
that day in the dining car, that you loved me all o' your
life made me love you for the rest o' mine, but I've
got so old. Such an old man it 'tis that I've become! I'm
no good to anyone anymore."
He falls wearily into a chair.
I kneel beside him. "You're good for me. I still love you,
Coach. Always have. Always will. I don't know why. The world
doesn't understand a man's being gay, but that
changes nothing. We remain what we are. Even the gays
don't understand, and revile the ones like me, who can only
love an older man. I don't understand it myself. I simply
am what I am. I love you. I need you to fulfill my life. No one
else. It has to be you. You live alone her, Coach?"
"I've always been alone, much more so since I lost all
hope o' you on the Dream Train. How many times
I've thought it might have been better if I'd died that day,
but that's a selfish thought, and cruel. So many would have
died with me. Yes, I live alone."
"Not anymore, if you'll have me, Coach."
I lay my head on his shoulder. He lifts his withered
hand to my cheek. "I'll have you, boy," he says, "and if the
Dream Train ever comes again, I pray it won't leave me
behind next time."
I give him a peck on the cheek. "Ha ha! If Mom's still in the
kitchen, we won't need to worry about that!"
THE END
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