• 201



    “Next train departing from Grand Junction, CO,” reads the shiny departure board, “4:15, first stopping at Denver…”

    Already, the silver train has crept up with a tarnished sneer and you get a load of the price.

    “$30! I only have 29!”

    Before you ask someone for a spare buck, a black guy with a pinkish-red mustache and a side-ways frown signals you over. He looks at you for 2 ½ seconds while the frown forms a pike-like grin – he whispers so fast you almost miss it.

    “Right here is a ticket I’m scalping for a dollar under fixed-price.”

    Without warning, as if you’d lost contact with all of time, the train has begun to loosen itself on the track.

    “Hurry, hurry, the train’s a flurry,” he says to you before you hand him the odd number of bills and find yourself running after the train in slow-mo.You feel like you’re a contracting slot trigger and your neurons are the cascading pachinko balls as you grab onto the edge of the train which is running at a fairly high speed now. You hang on while forcing your eyes shut and humming Way Behind Me faster than normal as a point of comfort.


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