Dead Man Narrative

Judgemental, no I'm anything but judgemental. More observant than anything. I'm sitting on an uncomfortable seat by myself, observing them! Not judging. I prefer to sit by myself, keep to myself; I enjoy the leg room, the space. There is more room with not as many people near me. My hard shelled leather suitcase, can sit to my right, providing an almost arm rest and extra barrier against the wall of the train.

The train cart is dark, dusty light streams through the wooden blinds. The slots in the wood provide a way for me to look outside. It helps to deal with the stuffiness of the cart. Outside the window a small fragment of the Appalachian mountains stands out. The tops of the mountain are masked with fog. Tall, skinny, and other squatty, fat pine trees fill in the space between the mountain and the train tracks. The dead, orange needles from the pine trees litter the ground.

The ticket stub sticks out of my briefcase, "Heading West, take the Train! Time cut in half!," it is smart but I have been sitting for so long it almost seems quicker to walk the terrain. I have a window seat, the best window seat, if it weren't for the lantern hanging above my head. It's unlit and squeaks with every chug of the boxpoks, creating an annoying and bothersome sound. The rest of the passengers don't seem to notice; how can they not notice? Is this normal to them? I find this ridiculous. Back home we would've complained about it, but I have not seen train attendant travel through the car yet.

The people in the cart are dressed fashionably with that of the urban inner city. They stare at the plaid suit, I'm wearing. Don't they have any manors? This is exactly why I'm leaving the city. Everyone has lost any level of class; everyone scrambling for the best position, no manors. There is a smear on my glasses, probably from me rubbing my eyes, taking them off I clean them, placing the wire rimmed glasses back on my nose. I desire a high level of elegance. My eyelids become too heavy to hold open. How long have I been here?

The squeaking lantern swings back and forth; it almost feels louder than last time. I wake up to a ton of hillbillies filling train cart. Their beards are peppery and unkempt, disgusting. A woman towards the front of the cart watches me play solitaire. I flip the cards hoping to win; I'm quite terrible at solitaire. It's uncomfortable, why can't she just look away? I don't even finish my game because she doesn't seem to break her stare with me. I look back out the window hoping to deter her from looking at me. An old, abandoned, tattered wagon lay on the edge of a coniferous forest. It's unsettling; we are leaving civilization. Snow covers the tips of mountains makes me shiver; I am tired yet again.

I wake up; men with beaver fur caps sit, hugging their muskets. This is even more unsettling. One man brings a silver flask to his lips; the flask reflects light from the window outside. These people were more rural than the people who joined who left the station from New York with me. I must've slept through the stop because I don't remember these people getting on the train. I can feel the ticking of my pocket watch in my jacket; what is the time? I grab the silver watch and check the time, only three o'clock. I stare out the window once again, some time has passed since the last time.

The land outside the train is a barren almost wasteland of red-orange sand and odd rock formations that jut out of the sand. Nobody else seems to be unsettled by it, but if the train was to breakdown now, no one would know. The train powers forward to a mountain range; the whistle sounds as we get closer. A tunnel coats the train in total darkness blocking out all light. The average speed is around twenty miles per hour and in no time we are into a new landscape.

Black smoke billows out of the railway engine cart. The conductor has been been hard at work stuffing the pit full of wood to power the train. Every once and a while he appears and is coated in black oil smudges and sweat. I sit reading the magazine I have on beekeeping; I heard there were better seasons in the west. The east coast experiences cold, harsh winter seasons which is foreing to the west. Outside grassy plains are littered with abandon teepees from indians. We took their land. I hold my suitcase closer to my chest; I look at my watch yet again, how far are we from the final train station?

There has been so many people getting on and off the train that if we stop one more time; the squeaking lantern stop momentarily. Everyone on the train stands up and starts moving for the door. I am the only person left sitting in the same spot for what seemed like days. I shift my weight and stretch because the uncomfortable wooden seats have caused my back to ache.

New passengers board the train filling in the vacant seats; I wonder, are they aware of how long they will be stuck here for? I doubt it. This is new technology; it's advanced. I lean back and grab my cards, solitaire will waste some more time. The door swings open an ominous man in a long black trench coat sits in the seat across from me. Why couldn't he sit somewhere else? He studies my hands and how I shuffle. Mind your own business.

He slides some money unto my suitcase, "Know poker?" His invitation is enticing, but I've been down this road, however one game won't hurt. Right? I deal the cards. The conductor gives a final call. The whistle sounds, and the lantern above me starts to creek again. He doesn't look like he is that good. it's definitely just an act, yet again I'm not judgemental... just observant.