Stories Index

Travel

Gothenburg, Sweden
Fall 1998

Wendy’s voice mail message leaves little to the imagination and nothing to interpretation. Amazed by her subtlety, I replay it a few times, counting the number of sentences (four), words (thirty-nine) and finally syllables (I loose count after thirty).  I’m amazed by the amount of information conveyed in so short a message, as if every word had an undercover twin.
            Of course it helps if you omit the pronouns: “Don’t know how to say this nicely, so here goes…”
            Christ, not even a “Hi Don!”
            “You and me getting back together—big mistake, too much baggage. Can’t do this anymore with you on the road all the time. Anyway, seeing someone else now so please don’t bother calling.”
            So that’s it, not even a goddamn goodbye. What a stupid way to end a relationship—in half-duplex by telephone. Even now, standing there in a puddle of my own insides which have somehow emptied out onto the clean, Nordic carpet, I can’t resist calling her anyway. She doesn’t answer (one of those times I really hate caller-id) so I leave an insanely low-key message.
            “Hi Wendy. Got your message. A little unexpected, but no problem.” It’s a  lie. Of course it’s a fucking problem. “I love you, and good luck with your new…” I just can’t say the word; she can fill in the blank herself.  “Talk to you when I get back.”
            Not very likely, I think as I stare out the window of my hotel room onto the plaza of Gothenburg Central Terminal. A month here and the signs make no more sense than the first day I arrived, and now they all mock me in unison as if to say, you don’t understand this, you don’t understand jack. And they’re right.
            Still, no reason to brood. I still have Karen. I decide to take the weekend off, travel a bit, and forget the whole thing. Like a monk sitting in meditation, I’ll simply let the thoughts of Wendy slip by like so many leaves scattered by a sudden breeze. I hastily pack a backpack and walk across the plaza to the Central Station to buy a round trip ticket to Kiruna, Sweden’s northern-most city, some one hundred miles above the Arctic circle, and nearly seven hundred miles from Gothenburg. It’s late November, at the edge of winter and I hope it is very, very cold there.
            The terminal is seething with weekend commuters, and in the fashion of all commuters everywhere they go about their business staring straight ahead, ready to walk through you as if you were a phantom. I take my number for the ticket queue and wait patiently. I don’t wait long, but in that short space the station quietly empties. Soon I’m alone in this cavernous terminal except for one other customer, an older man dressed in a dark pin-stripe suit wearing a straw hat, carrying a duck under one arm and holding a cane on the other. He also has taken his number and waits, patting the duck on the head and whispering to it as if it were a small child; the thing quacks affectionately and I imagine that they are secretly talking about me in some weird Swedish duck language.
            The ticket windows are all closed and dark but one where a large man in a tight blue uniform and mirrored sunglasses works feverishly stamping forms of some kind, paying no attention to me sitting there, waiting for number 1106 to be called. A damp wind sweeps through the building leaving a trail of leaves and ticket stubs behind; somewhere I hear a scratched recording of a miscellaneous European drinking song. Finally, the  ticket salesman starts calling numbers beginning at  1101, and soon he calls my number.
            I reach the window and greet him with “Hey,” a stupid thing to do because that means “hello” in Swedish, which implies I’m Swedish, and so quite naturally he begins talking in Swedish. I have to stop him in mid-syllable and tell him I don’t understand a word. Fortunately, most Swedes speak excellent English and are happy to do so. The ticket salesman meets half of those criteria.
            “What do you want, ” he asks impatiently. I tell him I need a round trip ticket to Kiruna on the X-2000, the speed train and he immediately howls with laughter. He hands me my tickets, charges the fare to my credit card, says “Spår 11,” and calls the next number. The old man with the duck gives me a friendly nod as he passes.
            In contrast to the empty terminal, platform eleven is busy with anxious travelers. A comely stewardesses greet me and leads me to a seat in first class close to the door leading to the dining car. I make myself comfortable and pull out a book. The Duck Man takes a seat directly across the aisle from me. A tall athletic woman about my age passes down the aisle and asks if the seat across and facing me is taken. I tell her it isn’t; she smiles, removes her fur coat to reveal a stunning and tight fitting green velvet dress. Her face is hidden in waves of piercing red hair. As she settles into her seat, I notice the long strands of pearls that sweep around her neck and settle comfortably between her small, firm breasts. Moments later announcements in Swedish and English foreshadows our departure.

Conductor

            The train silently glides through the twilight into the evening. Watching out my window, I see the Swedish countryside disappear under a protective blanket of darkness. Northern Lights dance in the sky like some distant fire.
            The other passengers have quickly adopted their travel rituals: both man and duck across the aisle nap and snore contentedly. The woman across from me is intently reading a worn novel. I watch her eyes dance across the page, the occasional smile from some moving passage and wonder what she is reading. Peering over the top of my own P. D. James mystery I see an unfamiliar Swedish title, but a familiar author, D.W. Maguire. I ponder the meaning just long enough for my glance to turn into a stare. She must sense my curiosity and setting aside her book, says, “A good read. Strange perhaps, but perfect for a long journey. How far are you traveling?”
            “All the way to Kiruna.”
“Yah? Me too,” she says cheerfully. “I have family there. They complain continually of the cold. But still they stay.”
            The voice. The face. It all comes back to me, but that was years ago. If I’m wrong, I’ll only embarrass myself and this remarkably attractive Swedish lady.
            “The weather here reminds me of back home,” I say. Not my best line, not my worst.
            “And where is home?”
            “A small town in Upstate New York…”
            “Yes of course,” she interrupts excitedly. “I lived there while attending the University of Rochester…” She pronounces each word crisply, with a tantalizing Nordic accent. “…In  the town of Henrietta I believe. Odd name don’t you think? I heard that it was named after the mistress of a colonial settler. Or was it his mother? And there was another place. American Indian I think. Iron something…” she thinks for a moment then blurts out, “Irondequoit. That’s it. Have you ever heard of it?”
            “I’m from Webster. Right next door.”
            “Oh of course, Webster,” she says pursing her lips. “I worked there nights when I was in college.” She volunteers no additional information, yet somehow I have no doubt that this is the same Lynette I saw ages ago at the Naughty Pussycat strip club.
­            We ride in silence each of us lost in our own novels. The train tips and sways to compensate for the lack of banked tracks on curves and the effect leaves me slightly nauseous. There is another announcement in Swedish, with no follow-up in English, as the conductor enters through the forward door.
            “Biljett tack,” he says to the first passenger.
            The passenger hesitates giving the conductor his ticket. And even from my position at the opposite end of the car I can sense foreboding in the passenger’s eyes. The conductor repeats his demand, louder in a sadistic growl, and the passenger reluctantly hands him his ticket. He snatches it out of the terrified man’s hand, punches it with some sort of hand punch, and the passenger’s face instantly blanks out. I jump forward in my seat which arouses the attention of Lynette and wakens the duck-man. Yet it’s true, the man’s face has simply vanished leaving in its place featureless skin. The conductor hands the man back his ticket which he takes and places in his vest pocket before returning to reading his paper, although how he accomplishes this marvelous feat without eyes is a mystery. The scene repeats itself for every passenger, and soon the first ten rows are filled with faceless people either oblivious or indifferent to their bizarre condition. As he is now but five rows ahead of mine, I turn to the Duck Man for advice.
            “Did you see what that guy is doing? ” I ask him, hoping his English is adequate.
            He pats his duck affectionately, “Right, ” he says in a steep British accent. “That chap makes a bloody nuisance of himself every trip. It’s time to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all.”
            Lynette turns to me and asks what the problem is. I explain the situation and she turns around to see the faceless persons behind her. Judging from her reaction, I suspect that she did not believe me at first, but is now shockingly convinced.
            “You must do something quick,” she pleads. The conductor is now only two rows away.
            “Right,” says the Duck Man. “Now you two just watch me, follow my lead, and get ready to run.”
            “Biljett tack,” he says to Lynette.
            She looks first to the Duck Man, then to me for help. I watch her hand the conductor her ticket in the twisted reflection of his sunglasses. As he centers his punch over the ticket, the Duck Man vaults out of his seat and in a single smooth motion telescopes the duck’s neck like a piece of stiff taffy. The body jerks pitifully under his arm, the neck and head writhe like a serpent which he tames by pulling it taut until it stiffens. It lengthens in his hand forming a spear with the duck’s beak as the point.
            “Use it. Quickly,” he urges tossing it over and pulling Lynette behind me.
            I take the weapon and plunge it into the conductors neck where it passes through cleanly, coming out the other side, impaling him against the cabin. His glasses fall off and explode into a myriad fragments that spreads red and blue smoke throughout the car. He has no eyes, only a membrane of skin.
“Jesus Christ, what’s with this guy,” I say backing away, both terrified and amused .
            The Duck Man says something to Lynette and she yells to me, “The spear. Remove the spear.”
            I pull out the spear and the conductor’s body instantly falls into a heap at my feet. Within seconds the other passengers, their faces suddenly restored, pounce on the corpse and rip it apart, finding only feathers and paper in his shell of a body. Lynette grabs me, and together the three of us throw ourselves onto the rear door and fall into the next car.

Cowboy Heaven

            I lay exhausted and anxious for some time, and when I finally feel strong enough to stand up, I’m alone at the entrance of a Western saloon. My trousers, chaps and shirt are all covered in dust. I brush myself off, but before I can finish preening, a great slap on the back hurls me inside against the bar. A big, friendly guy with a drooping mustache big enough to hide his mouth and chin immediately slaps down a whopping big beer in front of me.
            A loud, friendly voice shouts, “Where the hell’v you been?”
            The beer is an oasis of refreshment. “Well, up until a few minutes ago, I was on a train in Sweden, heading towards the Arctic circle.” This comment is greeted by howls of laughter from the group of cowboys surrounding me, my friends apparently. I look at the faces in the group and sure enough, I know every one.
            “Sweden!” says the cowboy. “Damn, you sure are one funny son of a bitch, you know that. Where in Satan’s underwear do you come up with this stuff. Sweden? Whatta you think of that, boys.” The boys laugh their collective prairie asses off. The cowboy, who’s name is Max, reminds me of my childhood friend of the same name. I risk asking him about growing up in Batavia on the off chance it’s him. He swats me on the back again, nearly knocking me over the bar and screams with laughter. “You get funnier every day. You know that? Batavia… Where in the blue balls of a dead horse is Batavia? Somewhere’s in Utah?” The boys all laugh again. I do too. I guess it is pretty funny.
            We buy and drink more beer than I’ve ever had in one sitting in my life. It seems I’m the leader of an itinerant band of outlaws in this small town in the Texas panhandle. A calendar behind the bar gives the year as 1841. In keeping with the Old West cliché, there is a badly out of tune piano, a pool table, and an older man in a red striped shirt, who I recognize as the Duck Man, busy banging out drinking songs to the bawdy laughter of saloon girls and cowboys. Leaning against the piano is a long, ornate walking stick, the handle of which is carved into the shape of a ducks head. Shots and beer are everywhere and every five minutes or so, someone sails a bottle or a cue ball across the room where it knocks out some unfortunate cowboy until someone splashes beer on his face to revive him.
            The party goes on for hours, days maybe as all sense of time are lost to the bottomless mug of beer and shots of whiskey. Although there are countless fights, no one ever gets injured and even the occasional duel has no casualties. And every Western movie I’ve ever seen has a tough guy sheriff, but no sheriff ever appears. This must be cowboy heaven. I turn to say this to Max, when I feel a delicate gloved hand stroke my cheek.
            “Hey Donnie,” a soft, sexy voice whispers in my ear. “Where have you been for so long?  Is that any way to treat your sweetheart?” The voice sounds familiar, but from another place and time.
            It’s Lynette from the Gothenburg train, dressed in a tight-fitting saloon dress in black and red lace. The neckline plunges low between her breasts and she is wearing a choker of black pearls.
            I try to explain, “It’s like I told Max here, I was on a train in Sweden when I changed cars, and here I am.”
            She tilts her head and laughs, a long sensuous laugh revealing her long neck. She puts both arms around my neck, “You always were one with the jokes,” she says. “I can make you forget all about Sweden.”
            Her face is inches from mine; I feel her hot, sweet breath against my face. She pushes her hips into mine, stepping between my legs, and with one quick thrust grabs my complete attention. Her dark green eyes look deep inside me and in an instant the music stops, the saloon is quiet, dark and empty. She flicks her tongue, lightly licking my cheek and the tip of my nose, then again against my lips. I respond and lick her lips, tracing a line down her neck between her breasts, and back again. Her mouth opens in hungry response as she searches for and locks tight against mine, her tongue darting and exploring at will. Without realizing what’s happening we claw at each other’s clothes, removing what we can, moving out of the way what we can’t, and stretch out onto a nearby pool table. With her anxious body lying before me, I am consumed with only satisfying her, each caress, each thrust, gentle at first then gradually more forceful, directed at bringing her to climax. My mind switches off, turning inward to a darker self that senses without thought. I don’t feel her nails as they dig deep into my back, or the blood trickling down, yet I am one with her as she arches her back high, pressing me away and drawing inside her at the same time in waves of pleasure as I explode deep into her.
            We lie there still tightly coupled, our hands lightly caressing each other as our minds wander in and out of each other’s thoughts.
            “I love you Donnie,” she says with a quiet conviction that nearly moves me to tears.
            I know what to say, but before I can rough hands grab my shoulder and pulls me off the pool table and throws me onto the floor. I struggle to get up, but fists of steel crash upon my head sending me to the floor again in a pool of blood. I can hear manic cursing in Swedish as I stagger to my elbows and lift my head up to face my attacker. Through the blood I see the train conductor, dressed in black and wearing a black hat. He stands over me screaming insanely, yet somehow I struggle to my feet. Lynette grabs a bottle and attempts to hit the him, but he’s too fast He grabs her arm, forcing her to drop the bottle and with a quick, cruel backhand knocks, her out cold. She collapses at my feet, breathing heavily and moaning in pain. The conductor beats his chest with his fists, proclaiming a sick victory.
            His maniacal gloating gives me enough time to get dressed and pull her clear. I grab the same bottle she had dropped and face the conductor, ready for a fight I’m likely to loose. He turns toward me, produces a short bullwhip and with one clean, invisible flash, breaks the bottle in my hand into showers of glass. My hand is cut and bleeding; there is no feeling in my fingers and it feels like my hand is broken. The conductor lashes out again, the whip slices into my shirt and cuts a deep gash into my right arm. Instinctively I cover the wound with my other hand and fall helpless against the bar. I see only his cruel face as he stretches out his whip and presses it against my neck, choking the life slowly from me. I hear Lynette’s agonizing moans and stare into the two blank spots on the conductor’s face where eyes should be. He curses in an evil hiss in a breath that smells of dead insects; the sounds and lights all mingle in a swirling web of psychosis draining my energy and pulling me closer to death. A loud, clear voice says “Duck!”, and with my last shred of strength I manage to duck my head under a flash of steel that cleaves the head off the conductor, sending it sailing gracefully through the air, doing several somersaults before landing upside down on the bar.
            The conductor’s body goes instantly limp, but instead of the expected shower of blood a flood of gas pours out of the exposed neck, sending the body racing randomly around the room like a large balloon that was blown up then let go. It bounces chaotically then lands on the floor in front of the Duck Man. He picks up the flaccid body with his sword, tossing it casually aside.
            “Close one that time,” he says cheerfully. “I don’t think he’ll be back, but you never know with that chap.”
            The conductor’s head meanwhile is steadily cursing and rocking itself, apparently trying to get away. I stare at it in amusement as the Duck Man dresses the wound on my arm caused by the bullwhip. Together we tend to Lynette’s injuries. Fortunately she is not seriously hurt, but her nose looks broken. The Duck Man pulls the ornately carved figure off his walking stick and unscrews the carved figure, handing the flask to Lynette. She takes a small drink then hands it to me. I sip the golden liquid sending a wave of heat through my entire body.
            “That should take the edge off,” he says.
            Meanwhile, the screaming head has worked itself up into a frenzy and as we three watch in astonishment, it sprouts large, black wings from its ears. The face morphs into a mottled green and yellow horror. The gaping maw sprouts long fangs which it uses to pull itself toward the edge of the bar where it begins flapping and slowly, but steadily it gains altitude.
            “I think it’s time to go,” the Duck Man says. He leads us into a back room of the bar with the flying head close behind.
            The room leads to a long corridor. We follow this until we reach another door. Lynette gives the doorknob a hopeful twist.
            “It’s locked,” she says. The head is still fifty feet away but looks extremely pissed off and is gaining speed.
            “All together now,” suggests the Duck Man. “On three, push! One. Two. Three.”
            Together we push our combined weight into the door. It gives way and I fall into a suffocating darkness that smells of stale room deodorant.

High Tea

            I fumble around and find myself in a pitch-black room about four feet square. Fumbling over the walls, I locate what feels to be a light switch. I press it and become enveloped by a flood of light. When my eyes finally adjust, I find myself alone, apparently back on the train, or some train, and in a small lavatory. I take the opportunity to use the facilities and check the wound on my arm. It feels better, but a nasty scab still remains; it hurts to make a fist with my left hand. I step out of the lavatory, into a most unusual dining car.
            A smiling hostess is there to greet me.
            “Tea sir?” she asks in a bouncy British accent.
            I look around me, not quite sure how to respond, so rather than seem a tourist I tell her yes.
            “Choose a station then. Two quid please.”
            I search my pocket and produce two one-pound coins which I hand to the hostess. She directs me to one of the many feeding stations that hang limply from the ceiling of the car. It is shaped like an elongated utter, smooth, hairless and presumably sanitary. The length is apparently adjustable as a woman and her small son are feeding nearby both with considerable comfort and ease, the appendage hanging at about chin level in both cases. Mine seems a bit high, so I give it a tentative tug to lower it. It protests some, dribbling a thin stream of brown liquid. A man standing next to me, an ordinary looking gent in a business suite is slurping loudly, all the while moaning in a most embarrassing fashion, as are all the patrons of the dining car, but still managing to concentrate on his copy of The Daily Telegraph. I turn away and face my own feed pipe. It rises above my head, widening at the top where it attaches to the ceiling like a large hair follicle. The surface of the ceiling is a ribbed structure, and following one of the beams from the ceiling to the wall I see  it curves gracefully around with the other beams so as to form a sort of tunnel. The beams are a dull red color, and what seemed at first to be electrical wires, are massive arteries pulsating with blue-black blood. In an instant I realize that the dining car is formed from the insides of some hideous creature, the feeding apparatus some foreign organ. Hiding my panic, I glance out the window to find the sunny English countryside rolling by as I would expect. The hostess senses my chagrin and assumes I need assistance.
            “Would you like some milk with your tea sir?”
            “I think I’ll pass, thank you.” I make my way through the throng of preoccupied customers to the far door and cross into the adjoining car.
            As I leave, the hostess says, “Thank you sir. Dinner is at eight.”

Friends

            I cross into the adjoining car and find myself back on the train to Kiruna. My book is still on the seat; outside it is night and peering into the darkness I see it snowing lightly, and the ground is covered in a silent cover of snow. Most of the other passengers are asleep, but my companion sitting across from me, a Rubenesque woman with auburn hair, seems awake, her face hidden behind a Swedish newspaper. I reach into my travel sack, extract my lexicon and find the Swedish phrase for “How far to the next stop?” She doesn’t answer, so I repeat myself slower, thinking that I must have mispronounced something. In a flash she drops her paper and sitting there two feet away is Wendy.
            “The least you can do is speak English you son of a bitch,” she says venomously.
            I don’t want to risk waking the other passengers, so I whisper hoarsely, “What are you doing here. You broke up with me. Remember?”
            “I broke up with you? Bull-shit. First you fuck that little tramp at the bed and breakfast on our vacation, then you screw that Swedish stripper, and on a freakin’ pool table for Christ sake.”
            I can’t imagine how she knows about Lynette, but it seems immaterial. I figure that all women must know when their lovers are cheating. I hear a door open and look up to see the Duck Man leaving the lavatory. He tips his hat as he walks by and takes a seat next to Lynette one row back and on the opposite side of the car.
            “Look,” I say trying to keep the commotion at a minimum, “As far as I knew it was over between us. So whatever else happened, happened. I don’t see why we still can’t be friends.” I know this is a mistake as soon as I say it.
            “Friends, I’ll give you friends you bastard. How dare you suggest we be friends after all this.” She waves her arms frantically to suggest “this.” Her tirade disturbs everyone else in the car who observe pensively as if watching a soap opera. “You can keep your stinking pearls too,” she screams, yanking the pearl necklace that I gave her from around her neck and throwing it at my head. I duck and they sail into the next row where the Duck Man deftly snatches them from the air and hands them to Lynette. Quite suddenly and from out of nowhere Wendy flashes a large hand gun and waves it menacingly. I pray for help, thinking the Duck Man will come to my rescue once again, but no, he watches at a distance holding Lynette’s hand, evidently unsure of what to do.
            “I’m going to kill you right in your goddamn, cheating seat,” she says taking dead aim and pulling the trigger. I hear an explosion and wonder how long it will take to die.

Kiruna

            I open my eyes thinking I must be dead, but find instead Wendy sitting across from me screaming in laughter. The gun fired a blank apparently; a flag sticks out of the barrel exclaiming BANG! I don’t find the joke particularly funny, but before I can say anything, she starts cursing in Swedish, reaches around, and pulls a rubber mask off. It’s the Conductor, his missing eyes again shielded by black sunglasses.
            The Duck Man grabs his cane. “I knew he’d be back,”  He says, but before he can react, the Conductor presses a small switch overhead separating the railway car down the center leaving a gap of several feet between the two racing halves. In that space I can see track ties flash by in a blur. The passengers scream in panic, pressing themselves against the sides of the car to avoid falling onto the track.
            The Conductor speaks to me in English. “You won’t get away this time, and that one there,” pointing to the Duck Man, “can’t help you.” He grabs my lapels, intent on throwing me into the space between the cars onto the track.
            Lynette shouts out, “The glasses, get the glasses.”
            Fortunately, four years of High School wrestling with the likes of  “Turk” Tricarico taught me ways to deal with a lapel hold and in a mindless panic I try them all: slap the ears, knee to the groin, strike to the Adam’s apple, shin to the groin, and one final hammer fist to the nose that sends his glasses flying off his head and into the black nether world between the speeding cars. Those blank membranes stare at me in fear and loathing for just an instant before he loses balance and topples into the space between the cars onto the track. We hear his screams fade into the distance.