Train

Everybody here knows the tracks that separate the Marigny from the Bywater. Cars race the slow moving trains down Press Street to cross these tracks for home. I have seen riders from up north jump down from the cars and tumble onto the railroad rocks, scraping their knees and palms, like we used to do when we were kids.

One said to me: "Give me some money so I can get f*cked up." I don't know who these people think they are. Like we have everything down here. Like we are a first world city. For most of us, it's like Africa, man. Check your American Dream at the door.

But, this...this is a dream about trains:

Today, I stand still just three blocks from the tracks...breathing in the smell of a train coming. Down Dauphine, I can see that willowy woman dressed in black. The whistle blows, and we both jerk forward...toward the tracks. A suicide pact?

I run hard and fast. Like when we were kids. And, as I pass the two old warehouses, I have a clear view of the train baring down, the woman in black gone...disappeared. No way I'm gonna make it. Screeching breaks, a loud whistle, and I see the engineer's face.

He waves me on. And, as I cross over the tracks, my heart is pounding, and I am waving wildly at him, and he is blowing the whistle.

It was just like when we were kids.