We had impossible dreams, and they all resided at the end of the tracks.
The train passed through our little Vermont hamlet once a day. It was a soulless demon on a path back and forth from hell. It plowed through cattle without stopping. There was even rumor it had sheared a pickup truck in half in Randolph, a few towns away. We didn’t mind its destruction. We thought it could take us out of obscurity.
We sat beside the track one day during our summer vacation after sixth grade. The air was heavy with humidity and we spent as much time wiping our brows as we did contemplating our existence.
“The tracks end at Area 51,” Reggie said. Maybe he’d watched one or two too many movies on alien invasion and government conspiracy.
Joey scoffed at the notion. “Don’t be crazy. There are no aliens. The train goes to Transylvania. The cars are loaded with victims for the vampires.” Joey made us watch the old horror flick double features every Sunday afternoon. He was the only one who liked them.
I mentioned my belief that it probably terminated in Boston to unload freight at the harbor. This elicited a roar of laughter. What foolishness to think in the mundane.
“It goes to a better place.” Ben spoke in a whisper, but his intensity silenced us all.
“What do you mean better?” Joey asked.
“Not here.” The answer was simple, yet held all the complexities faced by an unloved eleven-year-old.
Reggie works for the feds now. He’s an IRS agent. The only aliens he tracks down are Mexicans working under the table in Arizona.
Joey is a middle manager for a food distribution company in Montpelier. He doesn’t believe in vampires anymore. It’s hard to scare someone who already has his life sucked out of him by big business every day.
I run a warehouse in Boston. I watch the train come in and unload as I leave every night.
Reality is ugly. Ben may be the only one who found his trackside fantasy.
That summer, he up and left town, following the tracks. They found pieces of his body mixed in with the cow parts.