r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal
spring 2009 shorts on substances
the 9:05 out of detroit
by timothy a. boling
spring 2009 shorts on substances
the 9:05 out of detroit
by timothy a. boling
It's 9 P.M.now and the light makes its first appearance on the
distant horizon. I breathe a sign of relief and take a pull from the
Jim Beam, feeling it burn its way to my stomach.
This had always been my happy place. This railroad bridge
spanning across the Rouge River on the edge of Detroit seemed to
be the only place I could go to pretend all was well with my life. The
scaffolding of steel girders painted light blue that stretch out over
and beside me is my sanctuary from all that hates me in this world.
Most nights I would sit on the rocks next to the tracks under the
train bridge, leaning against a support beam. I would listen to the
trash barges as they passed beneath me, monitoring their way
toward the Detroit River, and wait for the water to lap the bank in
their wake. I would idly sip my Jim Beam and breathe in the
intoxicating smells of diesel fumes, sewer water and dead fish,
common to the industrial shorelines. I would close my eyes and
wait for the 9:05 out of Detroit.
I would always hear it first. The faint, lonely moaning of the
train whistle was barely audible over the waves beneath me. I
would open my eyes to find the spectre of a distant light hovering
above the gleaming steel rails about four miles away. Sometimes I
would lean over and put my ear to the tracks to listen for its
approach, but I never heard anything.
I would watch in anticipation as the light materialized into the
vague shape of a massive Dash-9 freight engine climbing its way
down the city. Its single headlight would glow to blinding
proportions as it reached the other end of the bridge. I would take
two pulls from the whiskey bottle, then a third as the 9:05 out of
Detroit rocketed past me at sixty miles an hour only two feet from
where I sat. For several minutes I would hear nothing but the wind
rushing past my ears and the squeaks and clicks of the train
wheels. I would hear nothing but the wind rushing past my ears
and the squeaks and clicks of the train wheels. I would see only
the distant city lights blinking between the box cars and flashing
across the support beams.
And just as quickly, it would be gone. Left behind in its wake
would be an eerie, lifeless silence. That exhilarating head rush
would fade, and one at a time the sounds of the industrial inevitably
return and the melancholy shadow that follows me through life
would come back in full force. I would stand from my perch, launch
the empty whiskey bottle into the river and leave my happy place,
knowing I would be back tomorrow.
But not night. No, tonight will be special. Tonight, when the
9:05 out of Detroit passes through, there will be no coming down
from the cloud; no sadness and disappointment in its wake.
Tonight, when it passes through, I'm going with it.
I look down at the rails on either side of my feet as I walk
toward the growing light. I know there will be no time for pain and
fear; regret or sadness -- only a slight bump into peaceful serenity.
The horn erupts, much louder now and I look up. The 9:05 out
of Detroit is going slower the usual, but I don't worry about that. I
stop, lean my head back and close my eyes. I spread my arms
wide as if to greet the raging locomotive with open arms. Only
seconds left now.
I hear the bridge supports creak in protest of the Dash-9's
weight and I feel the ground vibrate beneath me. The bright light
pierces through my eyelids and I know it's too late now for second
thoughts.
I didn't feel the crushing impact that shattered every bone in
the lower half of my body like glass; nor do I remember the great
force that pulled me under the train. I feel only the endless
tumbling end over end between the tracks and what feels like water
lightly splashing my face.
I could see light flashing past mt eyes; the city lights flickering
past the train wheels. For one brief second I see the stump where
my left hand used to be; the spongy tissue white and pale, the
blood having not had time to begin pouring.
The full weight of reality hits me in the same moment. I'm dying.
This time it's not just in my mind, dreams and fantasies. This time
it's real, and it's nothing like I used to imagine it. I imagined peace
and serenity, not seeing my own severed appendages. This is cold
and clinical; uncaring and destructive.
Then an image enters my mind. It's mt funeral. The casket is
closed. Mom stands there, running a hand across the waxed
surface of the coffin. And I hear her thoughts: 'If only I could see
my baby one last time. '
The tumbling continues after the last box car passes. The
ground and sky blend as one in my new sickly spinning world. I
finally come to rest with my head propped up on the track, my left
ear pressed against the cold steel. I have a nice view of the gore
strewn down the tracks that used to be a part of me. An arm rolls
to a stop a few yards away. My lower torso lay further down the
tracks, legs missing from the knee down and intestines trailing off
into the distance. The light blue train bridge is almost five hundred
feet away now.
I try to move, but I can;t. I can;t because there's nothing left of
me. I can't, because I've reached the end. It's over. This is where I
will die. Now I ask myself, 'Was it all worth it? Was my life really so
bad that this was my only way out? '
Darkness begins to creep in around the edges of my eyes. I
feel cold. Very cold. I try to draw my last breath, but my lungs don't
work. In my last seconds I think of Mom, my closed casket, my
so-called problems and all the mistakes I've ever made. But none
will ever compare to this one, because the worst mistakes we make
in life are ones we can never change.
distant horizon. I breathe a sign of relief and take a pull from the
Jim Beam, feeling it burn its way to my stomach.
This had always been my happy place. This railroad bridge
spanning across the Rouge River on the edge of Detroit seemed to
be the only place I could go to pretend all was well with my life. The
scaffolding of steel girders painted light blue that stretch out over
and beside me is my sanctuary from all that hates me in this world.
Most nights I would sit on the rocks next to the tracks under the
train bridge, leaning against a support beam. I would listen to the
trash barges as they passed beneath me, monitoring their way
toward the Detroit River, and wait for the water to lap the bank in
their wake. I would idly sip my Jim Beam and breathe in the
intoxicating smells of diesel fumes, sewer water and dead fish,
common to the industrial shorelines. I would close my eyes and
wait for the 9:05 out of Detroit.
I would always hear it first. The faint, lonely moaning of the
train whistle was barely audible over the waves beneath me. I
would open my eyes to find the spectre of a distant light hovering
above the gleaming steel rails about four miles away. Sometimes I
would lean over and put my ear to the tracks to listen for its
approach, but I never heard anything.
I would watch in anticipation as the light materialized into the
vague shape of a massive Dash-9 freight engine climbing its way
down the city. Its single headlight would glow to blinding
proportions as it reached the other end of the bridge. I would take
two pulls from the whiskey bottle, then a third as the 9:05 out of
Detroit rocketed past me at sixty miles an hour only two feet from
where I sat. For several minutes I would hear nothing but the wind
rushing past my ears and the squeaks and clicks of the train
wheels. I would hear nothing but the wind rushing past my ears
and the squeaks and clicks of the train wheels. I would see only
the distant city lights blinking between the box cars and flashing
across the support beams.
And just as quickly, it would be gone. Left behind in its wake
would be an eerie, lifeless silence. That exhilarating head rush
would fade, and one at a time the sounds of the industrial inevitably
return and the melancholy shadow that follows me through life
would come back in full force. I would stand from my perch, launch
the empty whiskey bottle into the river and leave my happy place,
knowing I would be back tomorrow.
But not night. No, tonight will be special. Tonight, when the
9:05 out of Detroit passes through, there will be no coming down
from the cloud; no sadness and disappointment in its wake.
Tonight, when it passes through, I'm going with it.
I look down at the rails on either side of my feet as I walk
toward the growing light. I know there will be no time for pain and
fear; regret or sadness -- only a slight bump into peaceful serenity.
The horn erupts, much louder now and I look up. The 9:05 out
of Detroit is going slower the usual, but I don't worry about that. I
stop, lean my head back and close my eyes. I spread my arms
wide as if to greet the raging locomotive with open arms. Only
seconds left now.
I hear the bridge supports creak in protest of the Dash-9's
weight and I feel the ground vibrate beneath me. The bright light
pierces through my eyelids and I know it's too late now for second
thoughts.
I didn't feel the crushing impact that shattered every bone in
the lower half of my body like glass; nor do I remember the great
force that pulled me under the train. I feel only the endless
tumbling end over end between the tracks and what feels like water
lightly splashing my face.
I could see light flashing past mt eyes; the city lights flickering
past the train wheels. For one brief second I see the stump where
my left hand used to be; the spongy tissue white and pale, the
blood having not had time to begin pouring.
The full weight of reality hits me in the same moment. I'm dying.
This time it's not just in my mind, dreams and fantasies. This time
it's real, and it's nothing like I used to imagine it. I imagined peace
and serenity, not seeing my own severed appendages. This is cold
and clinical; uncaring and destructive.
Then an image enters my mind. It's mt funeral. The casket is
closed. Mom stands there, running a hand across the waxed
surface of the coffin. And I hear her thoughts: 'If only I could see
my baby one last time. '
The tumbling continues after the last box car passes. The
ground and sky blend as one in my new sickly spinning world. I
finally come to rest with my head propped up on the track, my left
ear pressed against the cold steel. I have a nice view of the gore
strewn down the tracks that used to be a part of me. An arm rolls
to a stop a few yards away. My lower torso lay further down the
tracks, legs missing from the knee down and intestines trailing off
into the distance. The light blue train bridge is almost five hundred
feet away now.
I try to move, but I can;t. I can;t because there's nothing left of
me. I can't, because I've reached the end. It's over. This is where I
will die. Now I ask myself, 'Was it all worth it? Was my life really so
bad that this was my only way out? '
Darkness begins to creep in around the edges of my eyes. I
feel cold. Very cold. I try to draw my last breath, but my lungs don't
work. In my last seconds I think of Mom, my closed casket, my
so-called problems and all the mistakes I've ever made. But none
will ever compare to this one, because the worst mistakes we make
in life are ones we can never change.
