TL;DR: Austin James and I are performing hand-to-hand artisanal combat in the form of a pen-pal project, where we give each other prompts on a variety of different subjects and deliver posts (like this one) on a bi-weekly basis. If you like what you read, or think it’s so bad you simply can’t get enough, consider subscribing.
Hello, Austin. I am once again writing to you from under my rock. My white noise machine is tuned to the thunderstorm setting and is a cozy companion to the pleasant hum of my three-speed fan. Together, they are a sonic bulwark against the atomic alarms and tasteless pop music my downstairs neighbor plagues me with at odd, awful hours. He has the self-awareness of a door jam and I often fantasize about his demise which, because he's a commuter, often manifests as fiery car crashes into incredibly spiky lane dividers, where a thumb drive is inevitably discovered on his desiccated corpse, containing a phat terabyte of child pornography, so that he will forever be remembered as not just obnoxious but also a pedophile.
You can understand why I'm so excited for the snow storm later this week.
Sorry. I'm being nasty.
I don't want to come across as mean or negative; in fact, I want to make a conscious effort to be more positive. I recently read that writing what you're grateful for helps put your mind in a better frame of reference. Why don't I try that? Here goes. I am grateful for the success of our Substack and all the money we make. With some of my money, I bought a skylight. Initially, I was excited for the view it would provide of the stars at night. However, I soon discovered that it was impossible to see the stars from my skylight because of the light pollution in my area. Instead of galaxies, I see a sickly reddish hue that hangs over my rock like the residue of a chemical explosion. It reminds me that the planet is dying and society is preposterously fragile, so, on some level, that's kind of nice. It's like the sad beauty of a van Gogh without the outrageous price tag. But I digress...
By this point, you may be wondering why I'm writing like this. Well, I've made the executive decision to be more conversational. If this is supposed to be a pen-pal project, shouldn't we be talking to each other? Shouldn't there be some type of exchange? Because right now it doesn't feel that way, right now it feels like there's a barrier between us, like we write our prompts in isolation rather than as a form of conversation. Are we having a dialogue or masturbating in porta potties? Hopefully, this can be a call to arms, the start of a shift in tone where we aren't just communing with our readers but also with each other. Or perhaps you have another take entirely. I look forward to hearing it.
That being said, I do have a job to do. This week you gave me the following prompt.
There’s a memory I have in my head that isn’t a memory of mine, but more like the memory of a dream. In it, there’s a man riding a train. He’s been on the train for a long time, and he knows he should be getting off but instead keeps riding. He’s been riding for so long that he doesn’t really even know where he planned to get off originally, but he knows that stop has long gone. As he continues to ride, people get on the train only to immediately get off. Eventually the train is traveling through a massive crowd of people, sadly watching it go by, until the man is the only one left on board, staring out at everyone staring in.
Imagine you are that man. Why haven’t you gotten off? Where did you plan on stopping when you first got on, and why didn’t you when the time came?
I am imagining I'm that man. That man's name is Otto von Doodlebug and he prefers his story to be told in third person. He's lost and lonely. He lives in eastern Europe, in the country where vampires and werewolves thrive. Also, he has a nasty hemorrhoid and difficulty getting hard, but then again who doesn't? His story starts the night before the train ride, when he receives a telephone call in the middle of the night.
“Yello?”
“Yello. My apologies for calling so late, but the matter is urgent. May I speak to Otto von Doodlebug?”
“Speaking.”
“Yello, Otto. It's Felix, your brother.”
“Yello, Felix.”
“I know it's been a while. I wish we were speaking on better terms. But there's been a development... Father has passed away.”
“Passed away?”
“He's dead, Otto.”
“Oh. I see. That's, uh, too bad.”
“Normally I wouldn't have called, but Mother wishes for you to attend the funeral.”
“Mother?”
“Yes.”
“What about you, are you okay with me attending?”
“I just wish to appease Mother through this difficult time.”
“Alright, Felix. Sure. I'll be there.”
“I appreciate your cooperation.”
“Yep.”
“I'll send you details in a follow-up message.”
“Sounds good.”
Click.
The next morning Otto wakes up to the familiar smell of smoldering buildings. He scratches his balls and is reminded of his father, of the fact that he is the progeny of a man who is no longer exists on the planet. The thought is a strange one. The one that follows is even stranger: where has his father gone? Heaven? Hell? Otto doesn't believe in God, but he isn't an atheist either. He hopes wherever his father is now is quiet and peaceful, or at least that's what he knows he's supposed to hope. In reality, he isn't quite sure what he feels, if he feels anything at all.
Instead of calling out of work, he decides to continue the day as if nothing happened, as if the entire phone call had been part of a sick dream. He sips coffee and makes breakfast, enjoying the view of the broken cityscape from his nook before it's time to go.
He hops on his bike and heads to work with the other spandex-laden commuters. During the ride, it occurs to Otto that he failed to ask his brother exactly how his father died. Though after a few blocks, it seems an inconsequential consideration. Dead is dead.
The office, which Otto hates, teems with fake smiles and dusty cunts. He swipes his identification badge and gains entry, taking the glass stairs up to the third floor. On his ascent, he is reminded of how spectacularly ugly and soulless the modern building is. Somehow, he's reminded of his father, who neither cared nor ever commented about architecture. When he reaches the landing, he takes the long hallway all the way down. He enters a glass room where his teammates are convened, just in time for their morning meeting.
“Zeena, do you want to start us off,” says Ron, the infuriatingly calm and measured engineering manager, before steeping his incredibly stinky tea.
“Okay. Yesterday, I had a dentist appointment and wrote some tests. Today, I plan to finish writing tests and meet with the platform team about supporting emojis in text fields.... That's it for me.”
“Don't forget to popcorn someone,” says Ron, taking an infuriatingly careful sip of his tea.
“Oh, uh, Tad.”
“Hey. So I started looking into that bug ticket, but got pulled into an emergency yesterday afternoon. Apparently, a certificate expired. Anyway, that ate up a good chunk of my day. This morning I dug into the bug more. No ideas yet, but will keep looking. Popcorn Otto.”
“Good morning, everyone. Yesterday I worked on updating the new API documentation, which is coming along nicely. Late last night I got news that my father died. Today I'm gonna knock out the rest of the v2 end points and hopefully get started on the v3 ones. Popcorn Scooter.”
“Pardon my interruption,” says Ron, in his infuriatingly concerned candor. “Did I hear you correctly?”
“Which part?”
“Your father passed away last night?”
Otto looks around the room, registering for the first time how horrified his coworkers are looking a him, as if he's just announced contracting a highly contagious, flesh-eating disease.
“Uh, yes. That's right.”
“Otto, uh, can we talk outside for a minute?”
“Sure,” he says, following Ron out of the room, the rest of his teammates actively avoiding his eyes.
“What's up?”
“Otto, I'm so sorry for your loss. I can't imagine what you're going through.”
Otto shrugs.
“I think it would be in the team's best interest if you took the next few days off.”
“It's not a big deal. I mean, I'm fine. Really.”
“Otto, I insist. Your mental health is very important. We all need time to grieve, especially after something as traumatic as the death of a parent.”
“Honestly, I'd rather work.”
“Otto, please. Take some time for yourself.”
“I really don't think that's necessary.”
“A week.”
“We have a deadline.”
“A week.”
“Ron, seriously?”
“A week, Otto. I'm not budging on this. Otherwise HR will have my ass.”
“Okay. Fine.”
“Thank you. You're a real team player,” putting his arm around Otto. “I know it's a tough time for you and your family. I'm sure you want to be with them.”
Otto nods awkwardly, unconvincingly.
“If you need anything, you know we're always here for you. You can count on us.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” knowing this is what he's supposed to say. “Your'e the best.”
On Otto's bike ride from work, with nothing better to do for the week, he decides to attend his father's funeral. The follow-up message from Felix unsurprisingly includes the address of their childhood home. No matter where or how his father died, there is only one place he would ever be buried, and that's under the von Doodlebug willow tree, along with Otto's childhood dog and Felix's two pet hamsters.
Arriving home at his apartment, the first thing he does is masturbate. It clears his mind. Promptly afterward, he purchases a train ticket and his plans are made official. He will be returning to his hometown, to attend his father's funeral and avoid his estranged family, if he can help it. The train leaves tonight and arrives early tomorrow morning. Otto spends the rest of the afternoon packing, then showers and changes into a dark suit before ordering a car.
“Where to?”
“Train station.”
“Big travel plans,” says the driver, pulling out.
“The village of Vinovka,” says Otto.
The driver whistles.
“That's a long way out.”
“It's where I grew up.”
“Beautiful land. Harsh but beautiful.”
“Yes. It's a special place.”
“What occasions your homecoming?”
“My father. He died. I found out last night.”
“My condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“Were you close?”
“Not really. In fact, he was kind of a bastard. In a weird way, I'm almost relieved.”
The driver didn't like his response. The remainder of the drive goes in silence, while Otto wears the nearly imperceptible twinge of a smile, a smile that's fueled by the satisfaction of saying what he feels rather than what he knows he ought to say.
At the station, Otto finds a bar. He has some drinks and rides a nice buzz before ordering food. While he eats, he watches a football game on one of the numerous televisions. He doesn't care much about the score, but gets a kick out of imagining what would happen if the stadium suddenly began to collapse and how the chaos would unfold. He doesn't derive any sadistic pleasure from the thoughts, only that they are more entertaining than watching a ball being kicked back and forth.
From the bar, he hears the train whistle. It signifies the ten minute warning. This is his cue. After paying, he swings his backpack over his shoulder and secures his luggage before marching down the concord. He has made this trek a number of times since moving to the city. He's familiar with the train and all its stops. Casually, he hands his ticket to the conductor and climbs aboard.
The train is sparsely filled, since it's the last train of the night and hardly anyone leaves the city for the country at such an hour. Otto finds a spot near an old woman and her one-eyed dog that growls when he says yello. He secures his luggage in the overhead compartment, then produces headphones from his backpack. Getting comfortable against the window, he queues up a podcast about missing people who are never found. A few more riders shuffle into the car. The train emits another loud toot. The conductor's voice comes over the loudspeaker. Doors are closing, departure is imminent. Soon the mechanical beast lurches to life and landscape passes by the window.
At first, the scenery is the dark gray of the crumbling city, but soon the exposed wires and cracked concrete are in the rearview, giving way to the terracotta suburbs, which are bland and sleepy. The train makes its first of what Otto knows will be numerous stops. A few more people shuffle in, a few shuffle out. Somewhere behind, he hears the repetitive sound of the conductor scanning tickets. Like so many things in this part of the country, the sound is sad and familiar. Otto tries ignoring it. He adjusts his positions and refocuses his attention out the window, on his podcast before the train jerks forward and is moving once again.
Outside, civilization grows scant. The sidewalks end and streetlights gradually give way to imperial darkness, until the only form of electric light comes from the train itself, as it rattles onward, full speed into the country, where farms dot the landscape and the roads turn to dirt. The transition relieves Otto the way it always does. There is a certain levity he feels that's directly proportionate to how far from society he finds himself. The farther the better, and yet he lives in the city. He smiles to himself, at the absurdity of it all. More relaxed, he feels sleep coming over him. The alcohol and food, combined with the podcast, the series of facts that lead nowhere, the eternal rush toward the dark landscape render his eyelids heavy, his limbs inert. He feels much more tired than he initially realized. Soon he's sleeping soundly. The one-eyed dog watching with envy from the old woman's lap.
He wakes with a horrible crick in his neck. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he registers the absence of the woman and her dog, as well as the slivered moon which has been replaced by an orange sun. Perhaps it's due to the daylight, but the train car looks different, older and more distinct somehow, as if he had fallen asleep on one train and woken up on another. Otto removes his headphones, which are no longer emitting sound, and stretches. His attention turns toward the window, at the majestic mountains slowly passing by. It's the forlorn landscape of his youth, the harsh but beautiful sprawl the taxi driver had been referring to. He watches intently, as if studying a poem whose meaning eludes him.
His concentration is interrupted by the voice of the conductor, who comes over the loudspeaker to announce that the next stop will be the village of Vinovka. Otto is surprised. He is expecting Thelmed or Elk Forest, but not Vinovka, at least not for a few more hours. Perplexed and wanting to tie his intuition to a measurement, he goes to check the time on his device but is dismayed to find it dead which makes him think of his father. He suddenly bursts into a fit of frenzied laughter that gradually devolves into salty tears and uncontrollable hysterics. It gets to the point where he starts to feel people watching him, that he's causing a scene.
He eventually manages to stifle the eruption just as the train pulls into the station. Otto, who is looking back out the window, recognizes the chipping-paint of the ticket counter and rusting tin roof. The station looks the same as ever, a timeless artifact in the memory of his mind. Around him, people are gathering their things, but Otto doesn't move. His eyes are glued to the familiar scene. Overhead, he notes the fading sign that reads “Vinovka” in a font that doesn't at all match the village's vibe or aesthetic. He's filled not with nostalgia but with an intense sense of recognition, for nostalgia is much sweeter.
As the train comes to a complete stop, people get up from their seats and gather around the exit doors. Otto's eyes linger a moment longer, scanning the faces that compose the busy station, before joining the others. The line to the door is much longer than Otto had expected. It gives him the opportunity to study the people around him. They have hard and determined faces, weathered in ways that are not common in the city. Wardrobe-wise, they dress uniformly, in a style that appears completely outdated and anachronistic, and not even in a fashionably ironic way. Plus, there is not a single device being brandished. Instead, people hold newspapers and paperbacks. The ubiquity forces Otto to reflect on his own clothes, which leaves him feeling like an outcast among his fellow citizens, wondering whether he's missed the latest trend or has just been away from his hometown for longer than he initially thought.
The doors finally open and the line begins to move. There are people waiting outside, staring expectantly at each person who exists the train. Some look worried, others relieved. Though there was once a time when Otto would have recognized most people in the village, that time is long gone. They are all strangers now.
As Otto continues down the aisle, a pit begins forming in the very center of his stomach. The pit is hard and expands the closer he gets to the door. It starts to feel like he shouldn't have come, like he made a mistake, and that Vinovka is the last place he should be right now. He becomes so convinced of this fact that it becomes his central driving factor, so that when he finally gets to the door of the train he's unable to cross the threshold and enter the light, as if some powerful magnetic force is keeping him from disembarking the train and entering his hometown where his father will be laid to rest.
For a moment, he's stuck in an in-between state, where nothing happens while everything happens. His mind moves fast, while the world gets slow. Otto feels increasingly powerless and agency deficient, as if taking another step would create a reality in which he could not possibly exist. In his mind, there is no rational explanation for his paralysis, no logical reason why he shouldn't step off the train like everyone else and yet still his body lingers, hovering at the precipice but unable to take the leap.
“What's the hold up?”
“Never seen stairs before?”
“We can't wait around all day,” says a refrigerator of a man before marching through Otto, pushing him out of the way and into a nearby seat.
Like a rag doll, Otto lands with a thud, sinking into the cushions. Still unable to move, he watches with detachment as the rest of the line gets off the train. When the final person leaves, the conductor gets back on the speaker, which rains down on the remaining travelers like the voice of God. It's final call, but Otto can't summon the strength to move. Instead, he sits motionless, pinned to the seat, as the doors finally close.
With immense relief, Otto watches as the village of Vinovka disappears into the distance. The farther he gets the more control he regains of his faculties. Soon he's able to move again. He shifts in his seat and relieves himself of his bags. Missing his stop puts Otto in uncharted space, somewhere he never intended to be but now finds himself
Checking with the conductor, he learns the next stop won't be for another hour. His plan is to get off there, or perhaps at the stop after that, and take the first train back to Vinovka. In the mean time, however, he makes himself comfortable. With his device battery still dead, his only form of entertainment is looking out the window. As the mountains continue passing, his mind wanders. Soon memories of his father unfurl like an endless spool of cellophane. Some are sweet, others bitter. Each coupled with the reminder that it's too late to start again, that the time has come and gone. But where has it gone to?
Indifferent to the answer, the train rattles on.
-ZG
On the next episode:
> By this point, you may be wondering why I'm writing like this. Well, I've made the executive decision to be more conversational. If this is supposed to be a pen-pal project, shouldn't we be talking to each other?
I agree, I've foregone conviviality for the sake of clarity of concept for our readers, but I think they would enjoy a more conversational approach, and it fits the theme better. I'll adjust accordingly for your next prompt.