"Journey to Rugby"
By Michael Pelc
The train I'm on has become my cradle. Rocking me gently as it lumbers slowly eastward from the coast, its wheels play an endless clinkety-clinkety symphony on the xylophonic train tracks below. I have been drifting in and out of sleep for the better part of a day and a half now. Reality blurs into dreams and dreams become reality. I wish it would go on forever, but my wish is not granted. The train slows to a stop, coming to a halt in what seems to be the proverbial middle of nowhere. I look through the window and shiver at the sight of snow outside. It is only then that I notice her, and at first I am not sure if she is real or a leftover fragment of an unfinished dream because of the way her image, reflected in the window, is superimposed on the desolate landscape outside.
"Going far?" I hear her ask.
Wrapped in a buffalo skin robe, she sits across from me on the other side of the aisle. She is fashion model beautiful with a deep tan, high cheekbones and coal-black hair that falls easily to her waist. I wonder just when it was that I died and went to heaven, for women of her caliber generally do not lower themselves to speak to the likes of me, not even to ask the time of day.
"Chicago," I manage to say without stuttering, "and you?"
"Rugby," she says.
"Rugby? I don't think I've ever heard of that before."
"We're just about there," she says, looking out the window beyond me as though she is studying the scenery. I think the barren, snow-covered plains are no different than they were an hour ago. I can't imagine how anyone could possibly know where we are.
"Is that why we've stopped?" I ask.
"No, this train doesn't stop in Rugby today, though it should."
"Why's that?"
"For the experience of it. For the cosmic experience of standing at the geographic center of the continent: Rugby, North Dakota."
"You sound like you work for the chamber of commerce there," I joke.
"Is that where you're from?"
"Born, raised, and someday to die."
I am uncomfortable around women who speak so lightly of death, even if they are beautiful. I turn away and look out the window, but there is nothing to see. The snow is coming down heavier now, and the world outside the train is a blur of white. I can no longer tell where the ground stops and the sky begins. I assume this is why we have stopped, that the track ahead has become impassable.
"I am of the earth," she says, not reading my body language and continuing our conversation, "and I live there because doing so pleases my Spirit Guide."
"Really? That's very interesting. I've never met anyone with a spirit guide before. Is it anything like a GPS receiver?"
She doesn't react to my snide remark.
"We all have Spirit Guides," she says.
"Begging your pardon, but I don't think I do. Now I know I should have picked one up the last time they were on sale at Wal-Mart, but it plumb slipped my mind."
She reaches across the aisle and places her hand on my forearm. Her touch, like her voice, is gentle and soothing. "Why do you keep insulting me?" she asks.
"Look, I'm sorry. Really, I didn't mean anything personal by it. I guess I just don't believe in all that mumbo-jumbo, woo-woo kinda stuff, that's all."
"But you're here, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am. But that has nothing to do with a spirit guide. I'm here because I no longer want to be where I was before."
"I think you are of the wind," she says.
"You mean you think I'm full of hot air?"
"The wind is only the wind when it moves. When it can no longer move, it is no longer the wind, and then it dies. Would you like to hear more about it?"
"No, thank you. I don't want to hear about the wind dying."
"Are you afraid to talk about it? To talk about death? That's very natural, you know."
"What I am and what I am not afraid of has nothing to do with this."
"I still think we should talk about it ... while there is still time."
"What do you mean, 'while there is still time?' Are you trying to tell me I'm going to die soon?"
"I never said soon."
"Look," I say, filling her in on my recent life history, "I really haven't gotten much sleep for the past day and a half. I guess I'm just not one of those people who can sleep sitting up on a train that jostles me back-and-forth all the time."
"Is the lack of sleep a problem for you?"
"No, sleep is not a problem for me. You're a problem for me."
"You sound cranky, you know."
"I'm not cranky. It's just that, like I said, I haven't gotten much sleep lately. That, and it's cold in here."
"I hope you don't think we'll be able to talk about this after your dead. That won't be possible, you know."
"For your information, young lady, I don't think about what I'm gonna do after I'm dead because I don't think about dying."
"Everyone thinks about dying."
"Well, not me. I don't think about dying," I tell her.
The tone of my voice is harsh and unfriendly. I must be out of my mind to speak to such a beautiful woman in that way. I pull my collar up around my neck and try to change the topic.
"Have you noticed how cold it's gotten in here? Do you think maybe there's a window open somewhere or something?"
"You keep trying to change the subject," she says. I get the feeling she has read my mind.
"Yes, quite frankly. Yes, I am."
"It won't make any difference, you know."
I am cold, and I am tired. I do not wish to speak to this woman any more. I hunch up my shoulders and bring my arms in tightly against my chest to preserve the little warmth I have left within me.
"I think I'd like to try to get some sleep now," I tell her.
"Shall I take that to mean you do not wish to talk any more?"
"Yes, that's exactly what it means."
"Then why are we having this conversation?"
"Let me see if I can make this clear to you. 'We' are not having a conversation. When one person is trying to sleep and the other person is doing all the talking, that is not a conversation."
"Would you like to have a conversation?"
"No, I would like to sleep ... And get warm," I add, almost as an afterthought.
"That's a lot like death, you know."
"What is?"
"Sleep."
"Look, I just want to be left alone. To be warm and to be left alone. Okay?"
"You don't want to sleep any more? Is that because I told you it's like death?"
"No, I still want to go to sleep. Death has nothing to do with it. And, if you don't mind, I would like to be left alone."
"Do you want to die alone?"
"Yes - I mean no."
"Then can I watch you when you die?" she asks matter-of-factly.
"Good God, lady! Do you know how sick that sounds, watching someone die? Why on earth would you want to do something like that?"
"So you wouldn't be lonely."
"Well, thank you very much, but no thank you. Besides, dying alone is not the same thing as dying lonely."
"I only meant that ... "
"I don't care what you meant. You're simply going to have to get your jollies some other way, not by watching me die."
"I never thought it would be jolly, watching you die."
"And you're damn right about that, let me tell you. Damn right. When I go, I'm gonna be kicking and screaming right up to the last minute. There won't be anything pleasant about it."
"Ah, now we're getting somewhere."
"What do you mean?"
"That part about kicking and screaming. That's talking about your death, isn't it?"
"No, that's talking about life. About living. There's a difference between the two, a very basic difference. A little bit of breathing every now and then, a little eating, a little sleeping, some kicking, some screaming. That's not death. That's life."
"And death is ... " her voice trails off, holding on to the last
syllable, as if she is asking a fill-in-the-blank question.
"I don't know. Look, I'm feeling very tired. And I'm cold. Cold through and through. I don't know, maybe death is like that, like being so tired and so cold that you just don't want to go on any more."
"Do you think that when you're dead you'll be tired and cold?"
"Yes," I tell her.
At this point I'm willing to say anything as long as she leaves me alone.
"And lonely?"
"Yes, I suppose it would be lonely to be dead. Listen, can I ask a favor of you?"
"Of course."
"Can we talk about this tomorrow? I really need to go to sleep now."
"Because you're tired?"
"Yes."
"And cold?"
"Yes. Yes I am."
"And lonely?"
"No. No, I don't feel lonely. Not with you here."
"Then you may go to sleep now," she says and opens her buffalo skin
robe.
I accept her invitation and cross over to the other side of the aisle.
I lay my head against her chest as she wraps the robe around us. She begins singing a Lakota lullaby, and I am not cold any more. I let my eyes close slowly, taking pleasure in the sensation of her embrace and the beauty of the song.
"And tomorrow," I whisper to her, "we'll finish our little talk tomorrow, all right? Would that be all right? If we talk about my
death tomorrow?"
"Welcome home," I hear her say. "Welcome to Rugby."
|
