Work Text:
THE GREAT TRAIN ESCAPE
I do not even think I was writing words anymore for when I dragged my eyes back up to the stark white pages of my little grey journal, all I could see were the strangest markings like the ancient Egyptians had briefly whisked away the book and replaced the once clear words with hieroglyphs. I cannot remember exactly what I had seen, just the heavy black curtain that had steadily come to fall before my eyes.
The next time I woke, I swear to you, dear reader, and to any deity that may exist that I heard the most prominent honk of a horn. But no, not just any horn you see. It was a rather melodious horn, a three-noted horn to be exact, that had beckoned me from my sleep.
But that could not be right, I thought. Why surely I am dreaming.
And so as the tempo of my heart slowed and steadily returned to its more regular pattern I squinted at the blinding light that had so suddenly poured from my right window and I wiped a trembling hand across a, what I expected to be, tired face.
What I did not expect to see was a yellow Rolls Royce tearing after my cart! There was absolutely no mistaking that nickel coated, labyrinthic, rich and creamy monstrous beast. Its black tires kicked up a parade of brown and an onslaught of salt and peppered pebbles. It kept perfect pace with the train like a speeding bullet propelling through the air. And every now and then it would zip forward past my window and past my sight, before zipping back and by now I had shoved my head out the square opening like a dog on a breezy drive down the road. And I stared at that contraption with its swelling parts and glistening exterior with surprise, disbelief, the closest thing to passion.
Had I suddenly gone insane?
I could not fathom any of it. There had to be an explanation. There just had to be.
With more trust this time, I thrust my head further out the window, whipping it suddenly to my left just as the car had moved forward again. And as the procession of dark clouds and confetti rocks began to die down I could make out a body clothed in what seemed to be a caramel suit and from that body jutted out two arms and from which branched out two hands that rested gently on the steering wheel. My breath seemed to catch in my throat in the utmost anticipation as the car began to fall back to the window. Now was the moment of truth.
A head. A head I could make out then, sitting atop that masked body and between the wind blowing by, the looming dust cloud, and the pitch sunglasses that this mystery driver’s eyes, it seemed that I would never discover the identity of this man. And what did it matter? I thought. Had the events of the past few months finally driven me to—madness? I did not know this man. He was clearly just a traveler that had gotten lost. He had been parted from the road and now he has found himself stuck on the one less travelled. And when one gets lost what better way to get unlost than to be found? And he found a train. There was nothing the matter with that. There was nothing the matter that he just so happened to get lost at this particular hour, and follow this train and cart, in that particular car, a yellow Rolls Royce. No. There was nothing the matter with that…
But then, why was I so captivated by it. Why could I feel my hands trembling every time it fell back and aligned so perfectly with my window? And why could I sense my very soul crying out in agony and utter lonesomeness every time it drove further away from me?
Tearing my eyes from the window, a gruff sign fell past my lips as I, almost regrettably, reached up with heavy hands to pull the window shut once more. But as I did so a familiar voice seemed to dance along the wind before dying on my ears and I could have sworn I caught the words,
“Down here, old sport.”
No.
Yes. Maybe?
Impossible!
How?
I don’t know, but God how I’ve got to know!
My hands practically slap away the window panels and I nearly leap out of the window when my eyes catch the familiar and heartwarming smile of a man, quite possibly the most genuine I have known yet.
Gatsby.
Gatsby. James Gatz was grinning up at me, his hand whipping through the air with a wave as if to say “Hello” as he spoke above the bellowing winds.
“Why you’re a sight for sore eyes!” I can only imagine the look on my face as my jaw snapped closed before opening again like a gasping fish. And he laughed. He laughed. And it was perhaps, the sweetest sound in the world. But that did not ward off the words that had slipped so suddenly from my mouth.
“Y-Y-You son of a bitch!” Not at all like my character as I look back upon that day, but what else could I have possibly said? How would you feel if you were beside yourself in grief for a time that stretched on for eternity and then one fine day you found yourself staring into the smiling face of that pain? If one of your loved ones had suddenly came back to life after you were so sure that he was gone forever, and there was no possible chance of him ever coming back? I was hurt, excited, beyond confused, and aggravated all at the same time. The man across me had been accused of murder in one moment and disappeared; to God know where, in the next. I wanted to interview the man and slap him all at once. But being on a train and all I guess I could only settle for a question, the single question that had been burning in the back of my mind since before the car, before my departure, before this entire mess.
“Where-”, I huffed out, “Where have you been?” I must admit that it sounded strange to my own ears, but I honestly wanted to know. After all I had been through, I think I, at least, deserved that much, some answers. And for a moment he took off his shades and glanced at me real hard like he was thinking about something real deep. It was that same look he had whenever he stared at the green light, at Daisy. A look of both spirit of opportunity, hope, and desire, but something was holding him back. He looked down the road in a pensive kind of way before his head snapped back in my direction and he smirked, looking at me in a whole new light.
“Look here, old sport, I know that you are not too keen on mysteries and you don’t right understand why I won’t just come out frankly. It’s a little complicated you see.” Complicated? Oh sure. Why that was precisely what I wanted to hear. Now I cannot fully explain why, maybe it was a really hot day, maybe I was just caught up in emotion, but when he said that it made me real upset. Surely hearing excuse after excuse, lie after lie would make any fellow upset. And that was what I told him in a harsh and reprimanding whisper, like a teacher scolding a school boy.
“Mr. Gatsby if you will not be frank then I will be. I have had just about enough of this! Just what is so difficult, so grueling about honesty anyway? Being frank, and not lying.” I went on and I meant each and every word I said that day. Complicated? Honesty? Everybody seemed to be neglecting it lately. Maybe I hated what he said that day because it reminded me too much of them and I never wanted to see him turn into that. And so I went on and on some more and he, being the gentlemen that he was, listened to my ramblings, although if he were but a few meters closer and he had the gall, I think he would have boxed my ears then. There was a moment in that moment where he held up a hand, with a wild look in his eyes, hollered at me in a whisper to—
“Hush now! I’ll explain everything later.
And with a quick brake Mr. Gatsby and his yellow monster went zipping past my window and out of my sight. And all I could do was shut my mouth mid-sentence. The man was a genie, apparating in and out of my life just when I didn’t need him. And I did not need him for I could certainly go off on my own with no trouble at all. So with a quick puff of air and the tipping of my straw boat, I tugged on the glass panel and shut the door on Mr. Gatsby and all of my troubles. I know I can remember falling back and sinking into the red velveteen seating of the cart, before lolling my head left and capturing the pointed glare of a frail old thing with wiry locks. She took me back to my own childhood and for a moment I thought she were about to snap a measuring stick across my hand. I had looked back into piercing grey eyes before averting my own to the wooden double doors to my front.
Oh, my. I had forgotten I was not alone. And curious gazes I had drawn to myself from left to right: from businessmen who hadn’t the time or patience to deal with the likes of me to the mothers who were trying so hard to tame their own rambunctious children. From the conductor donning the blue uniform squinting his eyes ever so suspicious like at me to the old woman to my left who could not keep her mumblings to herself. “Crazy that one is. Talking to the window.” If my face had not reddened yet, it did then. And all I could do was huddle down in the soft seating and await the train’s arrival to town. This was proving to be a long ride. Perhaps if I shut my eyes…
And a heavy black curtain closed on my eyes once more.
When the train had finally come to its first stop it was about noon I should imagine. The sun was high and the smell of hot coffee was lingering throughout the cart. I cracked my back and rose a little to get a glimpse of who was rushing on and off the contraption and each and every time disappointment seemed to consume me.
Nothing but lies and deceit. Wasn’t anybody genuine anymore?
A loud humming whistle could be heard overhead and passengers began to return to either stand by the windows or reclaim their seats. I did neither and decided that I needed some fresh air and quiet and what better place to go than the balcony. I walked over to the wooden doorway and grasped the brass door with heavy fingers before it opening it. And upon entrance to this outside world, I found myself bombarded with a cool breeze and a pair of mahogany benches. I practically collapsed into the seat, not in exhaustion you see, just in… what was it? Sickness? Weariness? I don’t know what it was and I suppose I did not particularly care, I could only stare as my straw boat flew down the iron railway that seemed to stretch on for miles and graze the horizon.
I wonder—
“Nice to see you again.” And I leapt up from the seat. And there he was again, true to his word. Gatsby sat calmly in his Rolls Royce grinning up at me like a madman and I grinned back as I stood staring over the guard rail. My God.
“Carrying on our conversation from earlier, I know things might seem a little strange right now and you have got a lot of questions, but I can promise you that I’ll explain everything. I will give you the God honest truth.” Truth?
“Do you trust me, old sport?” NO.
“I—yes.” You’re making a mistake; a voice seemed to sing-song in my head. And perhaps it was right.
“Then jump.” He says with the straightest face imaginable. Yes. Most definitely right. My mind must have been screaming that day. I did not have much time, with the train starting to pick up speed and he expected me to jump from it. And trust him. After he had just disappeared without a phone call, a letter, any kind of explanation. Because that made complete and utter sense. I should have told him no. I should have told him to go away and to just leave me alone, but that would completely change the story wouldn’t it.
No. You see later on in my life I learned a real important lesson in life, it is almost a golden rule if you will. Expect the unexpected. Maybe that was why Daisy had upped and ran away with Tom. Maybe that was why I was on this train then and why Gatsby had so suddenly appeared. None of us had heeded the rule. That was a small step to sorting out this great mess. But it didn’t explain why I suddenly found myself sitting in the dirt in front of a towering yellow best as I watched the train leave me alone as it stormed down the railway and stretched on before becoming a gray blur in the distance. A weight seemed to rest on my shoulders before settling atop my head and as I raised an eyebrow I could not help but smile at the shade and the shadow that had fallen over my head.
“I do believe you’ve dropped this, old sport.”