The Last Train to Clarksville

The Last Train to Clarksville

by Onu Oremun

Really round-a-bout reality.

“Bonjour Monsieur comment ça va?”

“Bon matin, une lettre pour toi.”

“Oui, merci,” (I begin to open the letter. The mailman waits.) “ Le temps est brouillard avec le froid.”

“Oui. ” (It appears, I’ve won a trip.)

“Mais, tu es ici, c’est bon pour moi.”

“Bonne journée. ”

“Bonne journée. ” Je ferme la porte.

I read aloud the bold print: You’ve just won The Ultimate Escape! (This is exactly what I have been waiting for – a real place to escape to!) I continue reading: Leaving tomorrow. Just take the last train to Clarksville. Be there by four thirty. Your reservation has been made.

Okay! I felt like a kid at Christmas.

I pack my bags. I’m leaving in the morning. And I don’t know if I’m ever coming home.

BAAAA BAAAA!

The alarm clock wakes my every nerve like a bolt of electricity. And I must go!

I arrive at the Railroad station all alone. The noisy whistle of a train cuts the silence like a knife. I look at my watch. Four thirty. Right on time. It screeches to a stop. I get on board and look at my ticket:

Car A, Compartment No. 4

It’s right in front of me.  I cautiously open the sliding door.  My compartment is empty save for a young red-headed kid in the corner. He looks about 14 – gangly, pimply. There are earphones in his ears and he’s staring intently at the ground, whipping his head to the music. Good, he won’t want to talk, I think as I place my bags in the luggage racks above. I take a seat and stare at the world as it whizzes by. The stream of colour brings me into a trance. The Ultimate Escape. And I don’t know if I’m ever coming home.

“So you’ve decided this is it.”

“Huh?”  The kid’s words startle me and I leave my stupor.

“So you’ve decided this is the end of the road,” He points to my bags, “Me too.”

I shrug and look out the window again. What’s a kid doing alone on this train anyways?

“You’re probably wondering why I’m on this train, aren’t you?”

I don’t answer. But the kid pulls up his shirt. The words “I hate society” have formed a crooked scab on his stomach. I wince. He lowers his shirt and smiles. I can tell he likes my reaction. I watch him turn up the volume on his disc-man until the music is so loud I can hear it. Scars of teenage angst mark X’s all over his arms. He begins to head bang again. I continue to look out the window as if I don’t care. But I can’t hear my thoughts in this noisy compartment. His heavy metal music really starts to irritate me.

I leave and turnabout the corridor for a bit – thinking, breathing. Maybe there’s room in another compartment. So I open another sliding door, but it’s my compartment. Oops. The kid doesn’t notice, so I quickly shut the door. I move to the next door only to find the kid again. Whoops. Come on pay attention! I think to myself. This time I cross the corridor and open a compartment. Kid again. A chill tingles up and down my body. My eyes begin to water. Every compartment I open, the kid is there banging his head to his music. Something tells me I ain’t coming home. Oh, no, no, no! Oh, no, no, no!