On a Train to the Moon
Ladders.
She’s got a paycheck’s worth of a twenties in her pocket. Her cell phone is turned off in her purse. The MP3 player she’s using in place of her iPod is blaring in her eyes. She shows the lady at the counter her ID and rattles off the number of the train leaving soonest, twenty three minutes from now. She hands the lady a fistful of twenties and takes back the singles and change, stuffing them in her pocket.
She walks down the stairs and thinks to herself how ironic it is that this is her first time in a bus station. Or maybe not ironic. She’s never understood irony. She buys a soda and a candy bar from a vending machine and then goes to get on the bus.
Denver, Colorado. She’s fairly certain she doesn’t know anyone in Colorado. Or, wait? Did her mother’s biological mother live there? Not that it mattered. She’d landed in Denver plenty of times for layovers between flights to California and Texas before though.
It’s seven thirty four in the morning when they leave Omaha. It’s five forty three when they arrive in Denver. There aren’t any overnight trains to anywhere she wants to be going so she just leaves and walks. She goes to McDonalds and gets a chicken McNugget kids’ meal. It comes with a miniature Barbie toy.
She walks back to the train station and waits on a bench. She falls asleep and gets woken up at four by someone taking out the trash. She goes to the bathroom, brushes her teeth, her hair, puts on deodorant, changes her clothes. She buys a six thirteen ticket from a man at the counter. She waits for the train and eats a box of Russell Stover’s chocolates in her bag that are about six months old. She found them when she was cleaning her room.
They stop in Salt Lake City at two thirty seven to switch trains. She stopped at the airport there once when she was on her way to California to visit another girl, another lifetime ago. She swallows the lump in her throat and gets on the new train. Her MP3 player is dead and she doesn’t know what to write in her fourteen spiral notebooks. So she stares out the window and has conversations in her head.
They’ll arrive just after one in the morning, the driver says. She falls asleep within in an hour even though the sun is still shining and she never naps and she never sleeps in cars. She wakes up at thirteen minutes after midnight, sixty-two minutes past the wishing hour. She wishes anyway and pulls her cell phone out of her bag. She turns it over in her hands and rests her hand on the power button, but then puts it back in her bag. Not yet. Not when it’s so close.
She doesn’t need to be anchored when freedom is an arm’s length away.
It’s one fourteen and she’s standing in the train station. She has slightly more than half a paycheck’s worth of bills and change in her pocket. Her MP3 player is dead, she needs to wash her hair, and her cell phone is still in her bag. She has nowhere to go but back and she’s not going that way yet. So she walks.
She walks and walks and walks until she find a place to sit far away from anything remotely scary or from tall buildings that block the sky. She tilts her head up and stares at the moon. She smiles at it and she can swear it smiles back even if it doesn’t have lips.
“I’m looking for a ladder.” she whispers. “I promise.”
She sleeps.
It’s a week later and she has not quite one hundred dollars in her pocket. She’s wearing her jacket with the hood pulled up even if it’s too hot because her hair hasn’t been washed since she left Omaha. She’s scared and lonely and she doesn’t know what to do. She’s been sleeping in the grass and in a church pew that night it rained. Her cell phone is in her hand and she’s just about ready to turn it on.
Someone bumps into her and she looks up, meets his eyes. He apologizes immediately.
She smiles, tells him it’s okay. Her heart is in her throat.
“Well, let me buy you a drink at least.” he says.
“I’m looking for a ladder.” she blurts out before she can stop herself. She turns red.
But he laughs. “I think there’s a Home Depot down the street somewhere. But how about that drink?”
Of all the cafes in the city, of all the girls to bump into, of all the things to say, of all the people to meet, of all the combinations in a pair of dice, he threw hers.
She looks at the clock. It’s eleven thirteen, two minutes past the wishing hour. But she doesn’t wish anyway. Because there’s no reason anymore.
He comes back and sits down across from her, pushing a drink across the table. “You struck me as berry.” he says.
She smiles. “Yeah. Thanks. I’m Dru.”
He smiles back. “I’m Brendon. Nice to meet you, Dru.”
She walks down the stairs and thinks to herself how ironic it is that this is her first time in a bus station. Or maybe not ironic. She’s never understood irony. She buys a soda and a candy bar from a vending machine and then goes to get on the bus.
Denver, Colorado. She’s fairly certain she doesn’t know anyone in Colorado. Or, wait? Did her mother’s biological mother live there? Not that it mattered. She’d landed in Denver plenty of times for layovers between flights to California and Texas before though.
It’s seven thirty four in the morning when they leave Omaha. It’s five forty three when they arrive in Denver. There aren’t any overnight trains to anywhere she wants to be going so she just leaves and walks. She goes to McDonalds and gets a chicken McNugget kids’ meal. It comes with a miniature Barbie toy.
She walks back to the train station and waits on a bench. She falls asleep and gets woken up at four by someone taking out the trash. She goes to the bathroom, brushes her teeth, her hair, puts on deodorant, changes her clothes. She buys a six thirteen ticket from a man at the counter. She waits for the train and eats a box of Russell Stover’s chocolates in her bag that are about six months old. She found them when she was cleaning her room.
They stop in Salt Lake City at two thirty seven to switch trains. She stopped at the airport there once when she was on her way to California to visit another girl, another lifetime ago. She swallows the lump in her throat and gets on the new train. Her MP3 player is dead and she doesn’t know what to write in her fourteen spiral notebooks. So she stares out the window and has conversations in her head.
They’ll arrive just after one in the morning, the driver says. She falls asleep within in an hour even though the sun is still shining and she never naps and she never sleeps in cars. She wakes up at thirteen minutes after midnight, sixty-two minutes past the wishing hour. She wishes anyway and pulls her cell phone out of her bag. She turns it over in her hands and rests her hand on the power button, but then puts it back in her bag. Not yet. Not when it’s so close.
She doesn’t need to be anchored when freedom is an arm’s length away.
It’s one fourteen and she’s standing in the train station. She has slightly more than half a paycheck’s worth of bills and change in her pocket. Her MP3 player is dead, she needs to wash her hair, and her cell phone is still in her bag. She has nowhere to go but back and she’s not going that way yet. So she walks.
She walks and walks and walks until she find a place to sit far away from anything remotely scary or from tall buildings that block the sky. She tilts her head up and stares at the moon. She smiles at it and she can swear it smiles back even if it doesn’t have lips.
“I’m looking for a ladder.” she whispers. “I promise.”
She sleeps.
It’s a week later and she has not quite one hundred dollars in her pocket. She’s wearing her jacket with the hood pulled up even if it’s too hot because her hair hasn’t been washed since she left Omaha. She’s scared and lonely and she doesn’t know what to do. She’s been sleeping in the grass and in a church pew that night it rained. Her cell phone is in her hand and she’s just about ready to turn it on.
Someone bumps into her and she looks up, meets his eyes. He apologizes immediately.
She smiles, tells him it’s okay. Her heart is in her throat.
“Well, let me buy you a drink at least.” he says.
“I’m looking for a ladder.” she blurts out before she can stop herself. She turns red.
But he laughs. “I think there’s a Home Depot down the street somewhere. But how about that drink?”
Of all the cafes in the city, of all the girls to bump into, of all the things to say, of all the people to meet, of all the combinations in a pair of dice, he threw hers.
She looks at the clock. It’s eleven thirteen, two minutes past the wishing hour. But she doesn’t wish anyway. Because there’s no reason anymore.
He comes back and sits down across from her, pushing a drink across the table. “You struck me as berry.” he says.
She smiles. “Yeah. Thanks. I’m Dru.”
He smiles back. “I’m Brendon. Nice to meet you, Dru.”