Mike's on a Train

This one had a LOT of potential . . . and I shall not give up on it! But it's still a rough draft, and only a hint of what I wanted to do with it. Note my philosophical ramblings blended with a shameless Kenny Rogers reference.






The sun poured in from outside, and Michael was bathed in a harsh glow that jerked him awake. He pulled himself upright and stared out the boxcar window, his mind and eyes wandering over the scrolling landscape before him. The sun was lounging lazily in the sky, its rippling limbs stretching across the horizon. Mike squinted and looked away. He counted the cactuses that went by. The green blobs blended with the sand.
As Mike began to doze, a realization slowly surfaced in his mind: he had no idea where this train was going or why he was on it. He considered this calmly at first; then with concern. He checked his ticket. Then he realized he hadn’t bought one – he was holding a stick of gum. Spearmint gum. He sat down to gather his thoughts. He couldn’t be alone on the train, right? Right?
Mike tore open his cabin door and launched into the hall, barely evading a particularly nimble steward on his way toward the dining car. There he encountered a scene of relative tranquility; the other passengers were quietly sipping their tea and eating.
“Where is this train going?” Mike screamed. A few passengers looked at him, mostly startled by his volume, and resumed ignoring him. Mike coughed and adjusted his glasses. He decided it would be best to take a seat at one of the tables, but ignored his impulses to select an empty one. Mike sat at table three with an elegant couple, already well committed to their meal. This in no way impeded Mike’s attempts at conversation.
“My name is Mike. How are you?”
The gentleman was feeling a bit bloated, but was otherwise quite well, despite his obvious head injury. The lady was preoccupied with a sucking chest wound.
“Would you happen to know where this train is going? Or where it is?”
The gentleman did know. The train was bound for Sacramento, and it was currently in Nevada. The woman also knew. The train was bound for California, and was somewhere near Vegas. An argument erupted over who was correct, and the result was a fairly nasty breakup and Mike getting a phone number. Mike got up headed back towards his cabin, noticing on the way that it was snowing outside. He stood in front of the window and watched the snow. A sailor stood next to him.
“Hey. Do you know where this train is going?”
“Where indeed?”
The sailor pulled a gun from his jacket and shot himself. Mike stole his shoes. They fit rather well, and that comforted him.
“You seem rather lost,” a voice observed. Mike turned to find it was an observer voicing. It was a slight man with coke-bottle lenses.
“I am lost,” Mike confessed. “I don’t know where this train is going.”
“I designed this train. Do you like it?” Mike hadn’t thought about liking it. He supposed he did.
“I suppose I do. But where is it going?”
“I have no idea. I’m just enjoying the ride.”
Mike frowned.
“Well, where’s the conductor? You know, the engineer?”
“There is no engineer,” said the engineer. “This train is fully automated. I designed it myself.”
Mike sighed and sat down. Outside, the leaves were falling. Slowly at first, then all at once, blending into a smooth, papery flame. Mike watched, hypnotized, not noticing a sailor with a shoe on his head. He eventually got nauseous and passed out. When he came to, he was surrounded by luggage. In fact, he was reclining on a briefcase. The sound of clicking plastic called his attention to the old man in the corner, shuffling a deck of cards.
“You don’t look so good,” said the gambler. “It’s written all over your face.”
“I just want to know where this train is going! And why I’m on it! And how I can get off!”
The gambler considered him slowly.
“Maybe I can help you. Got any whisky?”
“No.”
The gambler frowned.
“Oh. Tough luck, then. Find your own ride.” And he tossed Mike a bicycle. It was the King of Hearts. The gambler was gone. Mike slipped the card into his pocket and strolled back into the hall. The walls hugged him tightly while the floor rolled beneath him. The air became heavy and thick. He ran for a window, the nearest being inside his shoebox of a room. Was it his luggage inside? He opened a case to see what he packed. All he found was a toothbrush.
Abandoning his quarters, Mike resolutely marched to the back of the train. The hallway seemed endless, each car connecting to another car, each car filled with random passengers that didn’t seem to fit. It felt like hours passed while Mike walked, but eventually he reached a door. He firmly gripped its handle and began to pull.
“Whoa!” cried a passenger. “Don’t go out there! That’s the end of the train!”
“Do it!” spewed a sailor.
Mike’s mind was already made up. He was going to get out of this train if he had to jump off. With a deep breath and a firm pull, Mike pulled open the door and walked outside.
The sun poured in from outside, and Michael was bathed in a harsh glow that jerked him awake. He pulled himself upright and looked out the cabin window, his mind and eyes wandering through the passing clouds. The ground below rolled by slowly, visible only through small patches in the smoky screen above it. Mike squinted to see the details below, searching the manmade blemishes for familiar shapes. Patches of color blended on a flat canvas. Mike yawned and called the stewardess for another drink. It was going to be a long flight.