Old Timey Train Town Tour

“And this completes our behind-the-scenes tour of Old Timey Train Town. It’s been a real experience to show you through our little slice of heaven. And speaking of slices, why not stop by the Dining Car Café for an authentic railway pizza? Then check out the gift shop. You’ll find conductor caps, pennies flattened on real train rails, and best of all, train whistles. They’re a treat for kids of all ages.”

The motley group I’d spent the past hour with plods through the sawdust toward our profit centers. I let the smile fall from my face and rub the crick in my neck. My palm comes away slick with late summer sweat. The map may show Old Timey Train Town in Wisconsin, but based on today’s temperature, I’d say we’re really closer to hell. I wish we could uncork some cooler weather. Forty-five degrees sounds heavenly on a record heat kind of day.

Since my shift is over, I decide to head to the saloon. I take off my conductor cap and belly up to the bar.  I could go for a nice, cold mug of beer, but unfortunately the strongest beverage we stock is sarsaparilla. Once again, my life stinks. If only I could hop a train the way my great granddad did, and find my fortune in a new place.

In walks my manager with an obvious stick up his butt.

“Grab your hat. Pat called in sick. You know what this means…”

Yeah. My life sucks.

when

flat minds find feeble ways to

figure the world

bland and boring

sightless and reconstituted ideas

dribble out of their mealy mouths

lightening never strikes             heat never spikes

and intellect never hikes              there is no

key to the future just a keyhole to the past

the simple act of thinking leaves some blinking

dazed and dull as march mud or

maybe broadcast sunday golf

the world turns but the future is spurned

in favor of the way it’s always been

tomorrow is shut down and put away

bubble-wrapped and packed in climate controlled forgetfulness

till some unknown frees it from its strictures and

releases it         scarred and weak

into the wild to procreate and generate a

lineage of new ideas

the question becomes

when

Predators

The weather vane lists above the barn as Trevor enters the chicken coop. The hens barely notice him as he plucks the eggs, one at a time, from their nests. Little do they know that Deanna down at Ding’s Diner will serve their unhatched progeny to truckers fresh off the Interstate.  They also have no clue, he is sure, that they themselves are eventually destined for the Diner’s Sunday Chicken Special. They probably think they’ll just go on eating and crapping and laying eggs for all eternity. Hell, he used to think he’d have his cushy corporate job for his entire career, but these are the hopes of fools, and chickens.

Trevor takes his half full basket of eggs and backs out of the chicken house, squinting in the sudden sunlight, preoccupied with the life he led prior to his exit from the lending industry. 

He testified against the bank executives about the predatory home loans and the shady deals going on at the top, but he still couldn’t save himself or the others in his department. The whole place went down like a lightening-struck cow, and he had to trade in his Audi for a tractor. Now he tries to scratch a living from his parents’ farm, if that is even possible.

A rustle next to the barn draws his attention. The weeds settle back from the mild disturbance and a set of amber eyes look out at him. It’s a fox, a mere whelp, yet still his foe.