~ Borderland ~

by

W. J. Calabrese

Something told me that if I fell asleep it could be dangerous.

But the relentless rhythm of the wheels, throbbing like a metallic heartbeat, was entirely too much for me. I gave up trying to make sense of the words that my weary eyes had been chasing across the surface of the newspaper for the past half-hour. I folded the paper and stuffed it into the crack between the seat and the rusty wall of the railroad car. It joined the candy wrappers and empty peanut bags that were already nested there. My shoulders slumped. I yawned. My head nodded, jerked, and nodded again.

I forced my eyes open. If I fell asleep now I might miss my station. No “might” about it--I would miss it. This should have been a strong and logical argument for wakefulness but, when pitted against the hypnotic throb of train wheels and the mental torpor produced by ten hours of watching computer lights blink, logic lacks potency.

I began to think, but in my semi-conscious state it was more like brooding. Where was my life heading, anyway? Data processing was my chosen profession but had I really chosen it, or let it choose me? When was the last time I had made anything that vaguely resembled a career choice? The sad fact was that I didn’t remember. Phil Sarone, boy failure--utterly rudderless at twenty-six.

I watched the conductor advance up the aisle of the almost empty car. He did not look at me or at the few other drowsy passengers the car held. He advanced on sailor's legs, as the car rocked beneath him on shock absorbers that had probably worn out a few months before the close of World War II. He was in downhill coast mode. All the tickets had been long ago collected and most of his passengers had already detrained. He glanced at his watch, no doubt anticipating the end of his tour. Not one of the usual conductors--probably working the milk run as a favor to the regular guy. Some favor! Welcome to the “Land of the Lost.”

There had once been a radio show with a title like that. My father told me about it when I was small enough to be impressed. A kid’s show. Something about the place where all the things that people lost went to wait to be found again. There were some kids who were always losing things and going there to find them. Somebody called Red Lantern (a fish, I think) guided the kids around down there. I wondered if lost ambitions went there, too, to the Land of the Lost. I decided that they must go some place. After all, there were so many of them.

What made me stick with the old four to midnight shift anyway, and the dead-end computer operator job that I didn't even care enough about to hate? What was the attraction--sitting in a broken-down chair in a deserted computer room while the rest of the world was out partying? Hanging tapes while the rest of the world was out hanging one on? Creeping home and falling into my bed just a few hours before the rest of the world was ready to climb out of theirs? Extreme bummer. But what was the alternative? Suits and ties? Looking busy all the time? Climbing the ladder? Playing the game? Yessir-- nosir--shine your shoes, sir?

I stared intently out the window, contemplating multiple mysteries and willing my eyes to stay open. No help out there. No answers and not much to see. Just the forsaken darkness of the morning's small hours in suburbia, pierced by the occasional streetlight, the odd illuminated parking lot, and the scattered window lights of lonely insomniacs. Lonely insomniacs. Well, at least I didn't usually have any trouble sleeping. One out of two ain't bad.

My eyes drooped, slowly closed, and then snapped open again as my head thumped against the cold, clammy glass of the train window. I had caught myself in the midst of a snort that was either the beginning or the end of a snore. I glared at the offending glass. It was the usual double thickness, and there were a few ounces of rusty water caught between the layers. As I watched, the water flowed and ebbed in tiny tides as the train ascended slight grades and then descended again. This tidal flow was enough to finish off what little remained of my wakefulness. Presently, I was completely and deeply asleep.

"Fairhaven."

The word brought me instantly awake. Fairhaven? That was three stations beyond mine!

I sprang up from my seat, and nearly collided with the conductor. He gave me a sharp look before brushing by me.

"Fairhaven," he called briskly. "Station stop is Fairhaven. Exit through the first three cars, please."

How come they never let you exit from the car you're in? I wondered about this for a nanosecond or so as I shuffled after the conductor, clutching at the backs of seats to keep my balance.

"I missed my stop!"

The conductor turned and regarded me with a put-upon expression. "Don't say? Which one?"

I told him.

The conductor sighed. He had probably not been on the job long enough to learn to suffer fools with equanimity. "Get off here, at Fairhaven. Go through the tunnel to the other platform. Be a local through at..." He consulted his schedule, "...3:27."

"That's over an hour from now!"

The conductor shrugged. The fact that I was an idiot was not his problem.

I staggered my way forward to the next car, thinking that it was unlikely now that I would get home to my bed before the sun rose. Moments later the train came to a shuddering stop and I stepped out onto a platform shiny from the light drizzle that was now falling, and as empty as the far side of the moon. I was the only passenger who had gotten off. If only I hadn’t fallen asleep!

With a muttered curse, I zipped my thin jacket up the rest of the way and set out in search of the tunnel that led to the other side of the tracks. Not only wouldn’t I get to bed before dawn, I probably would have the start of a nasty cold by the time I got there.

I had never gotten off at Fairhaven before, although I had ridden through a few times, so I took the wrong direction at first and had to backtrack to find the entrance to the tunnel. Rusty grillwork that looked a century old supported a dented metal canopy beneath which a set of worn concrete steps led down into semi-darkness. I stood at the top of the stairs, peering downward. A dank, thick smell rose to meet me like the midnight miasma from a tropical swamp. I hesitated. I didn't really want to go down there. There was no hurry, anyway, was there? After all, I had a whole hour to wait.

Get on with it, Phil! 

I started down the stairs. The sound of my footsteps echoed disturbingly, and the smell didn’t get any better.

I reached the bottom of the stairs and peered into the dim tunnel that now came into view. I could see a line of light bulbs, all of which were forty watts at best, set in widely spaced wire cages along the dripping ceiling of the tunnel. Several bulbs were broken, some were missing altogether, and the remainder flickered doubtfully, overmatched by the darkness.

There was a sizable puddle of water at the foot of the stairs. I didn’t even want to think about the nature of the lumpy objects that were floating around in it. I stepped carefully around the puddle and entered the tunnel. It was even darker inside than the view from the stairwell had suggested. The air was heavy with moisture. I went forward along the tunnel, stepping over small mounds of debris. There were things written on the walls, but it was too dark to read most of them. At one point, a crudely drawn face, like a painting in some prehistoric cave, watched me with hollow eyes. Further on, letters written in yellow-green fluorescent paint proclaimed: "Ahmed is cool." I couldn't help but wonder if Ahmed, or somebody equally as cool, was waiting at the other end of the tunnel to mug me.

As one whose way of life forces him to make his way home each night through unseen dangers, I had long ago trained myself not to think too much about what the next patch of shadows might contain. The sleazy neighborhoods that usually surrounded train stations didn't bother me much. I lived in such a neighborhood myself, and had to face its uncertainties every night. But this place made me nervous. It was dark, it smelled bad, and there was some indefinable thing that was very wrong with it. Was it the feeble lighting that made the tunnel look as though it got smaller as I went along? Was it the faint shimmering at the far edges of my vision? What in the world was causing that?

My sense of uneasiness steadily increased as I reached the other end of the tunnel and began to climb the stairs to the surface. These stairs were even more worn than the ones on the other end of the tunnel. A large crack ran from top to bottom, dividing the stairs into two uneven sets. Didn’t they do any maintenance around here?

When I emerged from the tunnel into the open air, I was in for another shock. A full moon hung like a pale face in the night sky.

Where had the rain gone?

It had been raining when I entered the tunnel. There was no mistake about that. I had a wet jacket to prove it. I touched the sleeve of the jacket. Sure enough.

It occurred to me that this was getting to be a very strange night.

It got stranger.