Lad Lattice

 

#12 - Lost and Found

The evening descended upon Hovicure, the last stop in the state. The iron wheels sang out as they halted in the only man-carved tunnel on the route, a location I would never forget even after years of imagined retirement. Dark hats tipped and warm hands pressed firmly against mine with gratitude. The station began to clear. This had become a good day, I suppose, recounting every smile I’ve nurtured from those who entered her old cars with taut skin. I wonder if I’ll ever set my feet in one of these cities for longer than an evening. My, all the personable chaps I have yet to dine with. All the many bakeries only reached by an hour’s journey away from her railbeds… non-winding and so parallel with the horizon. 

“One day,” I say. But I say that every day.

I stepped inside the train once again, looking out once more for anyone left. There was only one.

“What are you doing alone?” I had asked this child who stood just below my chest when he walked through the door. “Do you have a supervisor? Or a parent?”

He only looked up at me, tilting his hat up. “Is it so bad that I’m alone?”

“It’s more of a safety precaution, my lad. You children are light and easy to pick up. You better be careful.”

I let him in. The door closed, and the vessel zipped past the dark chambers and under the night sky.

Worried about my position, I continued to assert my professionalism. “As the vehicle attendant, I’m inclined to inquire about general surveillance of all passengers.” Cowardly, I know. I knew that he knew too with the way he looked up at me with a perceptive composure absent in most young folk. And… similarly in those who are older, I think, looking back. The boy nodded his head, giving me the relief he knew I wanted. 

“I’m returning to my hometown.” In fact he was, and he relayed the measures he went to ensure that he’d do so. 

“That is good,” I had said, turning the lights down to a low glow. 

As the weight of the train alleviated throughout the evening, I observed who was onboard. Soldiers regally stepped off in uniform, the final hours pulling their eyelids down. Their steps were heavy as they made their way to the front, leaving nothing behind but a deep indent in their seat where countless individuals like them were arrested by needed slumber. The elderly sat at the front, boring over the papers they picked up at the station. Youthful faces bounced off, spiked by patterns in the sky and misinterpreted silhouettes in the window. From everywhere they harvested bottomless entertainment. Their heads tilted at flickered lights when the train’s smooth ride was interrupted. Why do we mature into corpses? There’s something I’m not doing. There’s something I’m missing, I think, opening the door for each person.

My eyes fall back onto the boy. “Young man, are you in school?”

He nodded at the sound of my voice and turned to me from his gaze outside. “Everyone is, sir. And if they’re not, they’re still out there learning.” 

I take out my pocket watch, swinging it around between my rough fingers. “It’s not that simple ‘if they’re not.’ We’re nowhere near where we used to be, once we step off the spring board. Remember your roots; know where you’re from and take advantage of it. Seriously, where are your parents?”

“At home, sir.”

“We lose freedom the older we get, you see,” I said. I held the bar above his seat. “Our identity, that which defines itself, costs us adaptability that was so easy in childhood. Unbiddenly, as we age, we become addicted to singular things that both soil and replenish ourselves. It’s funny,” I looked on with acceptance, “It’s what we prefer.” 

“You mean to say adults like living miserably?”

I chuckled, gripping the bar as the train moved. “More like… once we commit to a life, there are miseries we must face that we once thought were so removable. So finite and dismissible. They are not. Our best choices can be a burden just as much as a dream…” 

There was a sound of paper that surprised me. The boy took a wrapped square out of his bag and held it in front of me. It was a scone. “Sir, I think you ought to go out more.” 

I laughed, taking it and thanking him warmly. “I’m out every day. You see where I work?”

“No, I mean you should get out of where you work more.”

That was months ago, now, that conversation. I still work here, helping unload baggage and waving to unique and delightful ones as they walk away from the station, clinging to their partners, bowing my head to those who can’t take words in their anger—also clinging to their partners. Some are just passing by in the country with all the time in the world but with no place to go.

The train blows a piercing whistle. I quickly exit the station washroom, grinning to myself as I brush crumbs from the corner of my mouth and step up into my post on the train car. I run my fingers over the wrapping paper of the scone bakery, hidden under my lapel. This had become a good day, I suppose, recounting every minute I had spent in Hovicure’s local bakery, even though there had not been enough to remember. 

“One day,” I say. “One day, I'll be out longer.”