Why did I think coming back to the US was a good idea?
The stupid ticket machine is card only—just like everything else in this God-forsaken country.
Not that I care. I just don’t have access to a debit or credit card and I hate having to socially engineer my way home.
“It’s better if you don’t use digital forms of payment right now. Please just trust us on this, Jenny.” Okay, Mom.
“You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.” Sure, Dad. Whatever you say.
Why do I even need to “figure it out?” I’m not running from anything.
Am I?
Joke’s on them, I guess. They don’t seem to realize how desperate I am to get away from them.
“I just don’t get why you’re not happy.” Yeah, Mom. I’m sure you’d be happy to still be living at home at my age with no real say in your own life choices. Real happy.
I don’t get what there is not to get. Nobody likes feeling like a pair of shoes that can be taken out of the closet whenever and worn to wherever for whatever reason.
I’m a person, not a cool gadget.
Yeah, I’m pretty desperate. And the desperate have no bottom line.
I’m going to get this ticket.
I cringe as the loudspeaker blares directly overhead. The train is twelve minutes out.
I’m finally going to see the infamous last commuter train of the work week. From what I’ve heard, it’s not the train of choice.
It’s been a long week. I’m so tired. Tired of smiling and pretending I know what the heck I’m doing. Tired of ignoring the people shadowing me. So, so very tired. Great, now my throat is starting to hurt.
Huh. No one is shadowing me right now. Not that I can tell anyway. Is it because they assumed I took my usual train? Or is someone here watching me?
It’s a different crowd, for sure.
These commuters are younger. More ruthless in the wrong ways.
They all look like petty, mid-level bureaucrats to me. Most of them probably have mortgages they can’t afford, and relationships built on hope and a desire to be loved—despite being awful people themselves.
I rub my arm, scowling at the blond guy in his thirties now joking with his coworkers. Why on earth had he punched me when I asked for his help?
It wasn’t very nice of him.
If we’d been alone, he would have missed, and possibly taken a nasty fall onto the tracks. As it was, I just had to grin and bear it.
Further down the platform, the dark-haired foreigner meets my puzzled gaze.
I probably shouldn’t have asked him for help. There’s something off about him, but I can’t put my finger on it. He isn’t law enforcement, and he doesn’t seem like organized crime.
Maybe he’s something I haven’t encountered before. The image of a hand-held bug detector comes to mind every time I look at him, which is weird, because he’s human. And, as far as I know, I’ve never actually seen a bug detector. Yet, somehow, I know there are several variants thereof.
Huh.
Whatever. Needs must.
He nods and looks away. He seems nice enough. I think he would have helped, but he’d run out of money on his prepaid credit card after purchasing his own ticket.
I think I’ll call him George. He looks like a George. Maybe he’s from Georgia. As in the country.
Or not.
No one else has approached the ticket machine yet. They must all have pre-purchased passes.
I need one of those.
Ugh! Seven minutes. I’ll keep trying.
Surely someone will still need a ticket.
Finally!
She looks hassled.
The young woman hurries across the platform towards me. She digs through her purse—and loses her grip on one of the handles. The contents spill onto the platform.
What a bunch of losers. No one even moves to help her.
I scoop up her fallen pens, notepad, tampons, and government-issued lanyard, then help her back to her feet and hand them to her.
She snatches the lanyard from my hand and shoves it roughly into her bag.
“You’re not supposed to touch that!” She snaps.
“You’re welcome.” I hand her the remaining items and summon the remnants of my determination. “Could you help me buy a ticket, please? I have cash, but no debit or credit card to use on these machines. I’ll pay you double the cost of the ticket for your trouble.”
I hold out the last of my hard-earned money. My very last twenty-dollar bill, willing my hand not to tremble. I don’t know where I’ll get more.
What if I don’t get paid this weekend for the embroidery I spent hours working on? Or worse, what if I do get paid, but don’t get to keep the money?
Ugh! Stop thinking! That’s tomorrow’s problem.
Three minutes before the train arrives.
The woman scoffs. “I knew it. No one does anything out of the kindness of their heart in D.C. There’s always an angle.”
“Please,” I beg. “I wouldn’t ask if I had a choice.”
“What kind of scam is this?” She sneers. “Everybody has a debit or credit card. What are you, on the run or something?”
“No. Well, not really. It’s complicated?”
“Forget it.” She pushes me away.
“You don’t have to be so mean about it!” I back away. “It’s not like I’m asking you to pay for me. I have money. I just don’t have a way to use it!”
I wipe furiously at the tears that have started to fall, and pull my coat tighter against the evening chill.
It looks like I might end up spending the weekend on the streets after all. Not that I couldn’t, but it would prove them right, wouldn’t it? That I can’t operate within the normal bounds of society.
I scrub the tears away with my sleeve.
No. I’m not giving up. No one is coming to save me. I have to save myself.
And one of these days, I’ll have my own card to buy tickets.
The train rumbles down the track. Maybe the conductor will help me.
Suddenly, a ticket waves in front of my face.
“I’m not a terrible person, okay?” the young woman snaps at me. “Now give me the twenty.”
“Th-thank you.” I stumble over the words.
“Yeah, whatever.” She snatches the money from my hand and hurries to the far end of the platform as the train slows to a stop.
Oh, the relief!
My knees threaten to buckle. I brace myself against the stationhouse wall, clutching the ticket to my chest.
Thank God!
Shoot! There are only a few people still boarding.
I’d better hurry.
Why is the first step so high off the platform?
Well, I’m the idiot who didn’t get the memo to move down to the far end like everyone else did. Of course there’s no handy step stool being set out here. Why would there be?
I grab the handrail and swing myself up. But I underestimate my level of exhaustion and the effects of the punch to my arm earlier. My hand slips and I almost fall, bruising my shin in the process.
I pull myself upright. Just keep going. The remaining three steps are easy.
The inner door frame provides needed support as I limp into the car. Outside, a whistle blows, and the train starts moving. It’s a struggle to push the door shut.
I’m fine. I made it.
I just need a minute.
Can I go cry in the bathroom now?
Oh, that’s right. There aren’t any.
Time to face hordes.
I wrestle the door open to the inner car.
Sheesh, this train’s packed! I push my way through the first car, then the next, and the next. A final look into the fourth car reveals that the entire train is standing room only.
Well, almost.
Behind me, there is a man, sitting alone near the door.
An elderly gentleman. Long coat. Felt hat. A well-worn, old-fashioned briefcase resting on his lap as he dozes.
Except he isn’t dozing. Exactly how I know that, I’m not sure. I just know.
The same way I know when someone is a killer. Or hurt. Or about to hurt me.
It doesn’t make any sense. There has to be an origin point for knowing things like that, right? But there doesn’t seem to be any.
That pounding in my temples is back again. I rub my forehead and make a beeline for the empty seat.
“May I join you?” I ask.
He raises his head, his eyes keen and searching. His expression is almost amused when I sit without waiting for a response.
“Tired?” he asks as I slide into the seat beside him.
“Something like that.” I loop my arms through my backpack straps and hug it to my chest. It’s a good enough pillow.
Turning my face towards the elderly gentleman and the window, I rest my head and close my eyes.
The pounding headache eases.
This is nice. Just two commuters snoozing side by side. An old, tired bureaucrat, and a young, overworked college student.
“Hey, guys,” one of the men in the group to my right whispers loudly. “Check out the professor. He actually let someone take the seat next to him.”
“Maybe he’s losing his touch,” another chuckles.
“Either that or he likes them young,” another guy snickers, and I recognize his voice. It’s the blond guy who punched me. “I can’t believe he still swears by firsthand encounters. Does he even know that we have gadgets to do that kind of stuff now?”
“Shhh, what if he hears you?”
“Relax. Look at him. He’s sound asleep. Probably having a wet dream about that sweet young thing beside him.”
“Oh my God, Jeffrey! Shut up!”
“Yeah, what is it with you, man? Jesus!”
The group returns to discussing an upcoming assignment—with one of them going undercover overseas for three years, posing as an early retiree.
I inwardly roll my eyes. If this is a sample of America’s finest, we’re all doomed.
“You’re not supposed to talk about stuff like that outside the office,” a woman behind me says.
Huh, it’s her. The one who bought the ticket.
“Oh, come on, Allie. It’s not like we’re talking specifics.”
“Whatever. It’s your neck on the line, not mine.”
So her name is Allie. She’s probably freaking out that I saw the credentials on her lanyard.
She has a point though. These guys are idiots. They may not have said where, when, or who, but they don’t need to. Anybody with half a brain can guess what hasn’t been said.
Not to mention that I now know where they all work, considering that they must all be coworkers. It’s a frightfully small world.
Do they really not notice “George”, the foreign guy three seats behind me?
Do they really believe that their boss is just a tired old fool?
I snicker silently into my sleeve.
People have a certain look about them when they’ve killed, and I’d bet my last dollar this “Professor” is lethal.
We finally reach the end of the line and the train empties. Soon, it’s just the “Professor”, me, and “George” left in the car.
“Well! That was a good nap.” The “Professor” opens his eyes and smiles as he adjusts his briefcase.
Why the weird angle? Nobody holds a briefcase like that.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a small, round hole in the side of his briefcase. It’s pointing directly at me.
Strange.
“It always takes me a minute to get my bearings,” he continues as “George” walks past. George is holding his phone casually, ear buds plugged in, pretending to listen to music. But the camera lens is pointed towards us and the little red button glows near the top. He nods at me in passing, and I return the greeting as I wrangle with the straps of my backpack. Through the window, I see him on the platform, apparently making a call.
“Friend of yours?” the Professor asks, the kindness in his voice no longer reaching his eyes.
“No.” I fidget uncomfortably. “I just asked him to help me buy a ticket earlier.”
“Did he?”
“No, his prepaid card ran out of money.”
“Did he give you anything?”
“No.”
“But you’re hoping he leaves before you.”
“Yes.”
“You saw something.”
I squirm under his scrutiny. No wonder he’s nicknamed the Professor. I feel like I’m about to be sent to the principal’s office. He isn’t going to let it go.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I’m just trying to get home.”
“How about the truth?”
“Truth and I have a complicated relationship.” I grimace. What if the whole point is to confirm that I’m a loose end? What if he’s working with George? What if he’s a double agent?
Wait, where did that come from? Is he an agent?
My pulse spikes suddenly as a memory surfaces. An old, retired KGB agent drunkenly asking if I’ve heard of a man called The Professor. “A damned average man in a felt hat and long coat with a briefcase from hell,” he had slurred as he ripped open his shirt and showed me a scar across his abdomen, where a bullet had entered his side and exited through the front.
Gnarly stuff.
Except that I have no memory of this man with a scar on his abdomen. How can it be a memory if it never happened?
Maybe I just have an overactive imagination. That might explain it.
He does that throat-clearing thing my parents do when they want to express disapproval, and need me to pay attention. “Keep talking.”
“Oh. Uh, why can’t you just ask your blond guy, Jeffrey? He’s the one who talked to him. All I did was ask for help.”
“Jeffrey talked to him?” He’s frowning now. “When?”
“At the station. Well, technically it was in the blind spot under the big station sign right outside the platform near the bushes.”
“You’re sure it was Jeffrey?”
“Well, I am sure it was the blond guy that they called Jeffrey who was riding the train with us and talking about wet dreams. What kind of a dream is that, anyway?”
“An inappropriate one. Now, focus. Could you hear what was said?”
“Not with certainty. But I did see your blond guy hand George a brown envelope.”
“George?”
“Well, I don’t know if that’s his name. He just looks like a George to me, so I call him that.”
“I see. The envelope. Was it big or small?”
“Uh, in-between? But based on how George folded it, it didn’t seem to have much in it.”
“So, something small. Like a thumbdrive, perhaps?”
“I don’t know what that word is, but I guess it was about the size of a thumb.” I look at my thumb, then gag, and shake my hands out to get rid of the phantom pain.
“Do you think he still has it on him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm.” He considers my choice of words. “Most people would jump to the conclusion that he likely still does. Why haven’t you?”
“Do I really have to keep talking?”
“It would be best.”
“Look, don’t get mad at me, okay? I don’t have anything to do with it, but there’s these things called dead drops around the station. The junkies say never to touch them unless you want something bad to happen to you—like that guy who was in the paper last week. George was standing near one, so I don’t know. He may have stashed it like he did once a few weeks ago.”
“Where exactly was he standing?”
“Between the double doors of the station house and the big trash can. There are two drops there. One under the can for flat envelopes and one in the wall for small items, behind a loose brick.”
“Stand up. Slowly.” A little click comes from his briefcase.
I stand slowly, careful to keep my hands where he can see them. My backpack might block a small bullet to the gut.
The problem is that the hole in his briefcase is pointed at my head.
“We have a problem,” he says. “You know too much.”
“It’s not like I go around telling everybody.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them and I cringe. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to mouth off. It’s just, well…you asked.”
“I did, didn’t I?” He adjusts the briefcase slightly. “Anything else you’d like to say?”
I stare at the round black hole staring back at me. I always figured I’d die young, but this is pathetic—just like my sad, half-lived life. Should I feel scared right now?
“Got a smoke?”
“Do you smoke?” Now he’s curious.
“No. I just read a lot of Louis L’Amour books as a kid. Kind of fits the moment.”
“Oh? What kind of moment do you think this is?”
“Whatever it is, can we just get it over with? Please?”
“She says please.” He snorts. The smile finally reaches his eyes. “Humor me. What do you think might happen next?”
“Well, if you were Russian, I’d be saying my final prayer. But you’re American, so I’m really not sure.”
“Good answer.” He stands and lowers the briefcase. “Looks like I won’t be arresting you. I’m glad you shared with me, but I’d advise you not to repeat any of the things you just told me.”
“Right.” I shuffle closer to the door. “Sooo, same time next week then?”
He coughs back a laugh. “Deal. See you next week, but the earlier train.”
He gestures for me to get off the train first. I do as I’m told. The lot is eerily empty after the sudden swarm of homeward-bound commuters.
“What are you waiting for?” He sounds annoyed now. He’s watching George, who is watching us from halfway across the lot.
George looks a little lost. Does he not know where he parked?
“I need to use the phone,” I reply, pointing at the payphone in the small covered waiting booth behind him.
“Has that always been here?” the Professor asks, inspecting it with no small amount of surprise.
“As far as I know.” I rub the side of my neck. “You wouldn’t have any spare change handy, would you? I’m kind of in a jam.”
“I think so.” He digs around in his pockets and hands me some change. “Is that enough?”
“Thank you! You have no idea how much I appreciate it.” I hate how relieved I am. I shouldn’t even have to be in this predicament in the first place.
“Oh, I might.” He looks around and frowns. “It’s getting dark, young lady. Any idea how long you’ll be waiting for a ride?”
“Hopefully not too long,” I say.
“Tell you what,” he says. “I have some business to take care of, but then I’ll hang around in my car until your ride gets here. Don’t leave this spot. That’s an order. After all, I’d hate for something to happen to my new travel companion. I’m rather looking forward to scandalizing my subordinates again.”
“Yes, sir!” My giggle is a little too hysterical as he walks away. I rush to place a call.
The first call goes through, but that friend doesn’t have time. The next person isn’t home. I only have coins for one more call.
“Brenda? Hi, it’s—”
“Hey! I’m close by.” My friend says abruptly. “Be there in ten.”
The call disconnects and I blink at the receiver. That’s weird.
Then again, all my “approved” acquaintances are weird.
Whatever.
A ride’s a ride.
One of these days I’ll have my own car.
I notice the conductor finish closing up the train and head my way.
Is it awkward for me to just stand here?
I glance at the bench. Maybe I should sit and wait.
Woah!
There’s a commotion in the lot. Two police cars block a white car from the front as it pulls out onto the road. Two more block it in from behind.
Where had they been hiding?
I duck behind the phone booth and watch from the relative safety of the glass and metal structure as police pour out of their cruisers, guns trained on the white car’s doors, demanding that the driver exit the vehicle.
The train conductor runs to join me on the otherwise exposed platform. He’s a young man—not the older one that I know.
“What we got goin’ on there?” he asks, his eyes wide.
“I don’t know.” I pull him down beside me and scoot over to make room. “Keep your head lower, just in case of gunfire.”
“Aww, shit! I don’t need this in my life right now!”
“Quiet!” I hiss.
The door of the white car opens, and a man steps out slowly.
It’s George.
He raises his hands and turns to face his car.
A police officer shoves him down onto the hood and cuffs him. My new friend, “the Professor”, steps out from behind a police cruiser and pats the man down, retrieving what looks like a crumpled brown envelope.
He opens it, glances in my direction, then tucks it into his briefcase.
Next, he searches the car.
“Who da hell is that old guy?” The young man beside me mutters.
I find it oddly endearing.
Oh, look! The party’s getting bigger.
Three black, unmarked SUVs arrive and men in black suits and sunglasses get out, flashing their badges.
“Shit! Them’s the Feds?” The conductor stares in terrified fascination at the newcomers.
They join the Professor in searching the man’s vehicle, pulling out several items and loading them into the closest SUV. Then they put a dark bag over the detained man’s head, shove him into the back of the middle vehicle, get in themselves, and drive away.
“Holy shit!”
I’m not sure why he keeps swearing. It’s just an arrest. Aren’t Americans used to guns and violence? Nobody even got shot, so what’s the big deal?
Maybe he’s new. He’ll get used to it. Weird stuff happens all the time around here.
The Professor shakes hands with the police officers and shuffles to his car. He glances my way again, and makes a gesture that I take to mean: Why are you still squatting there?
I stand up and wave.
He nods and climbs into the driver’s seat.
The conductor, now also standing, looks from me to him and back again. He holds his trembling hands up and away from his body.
“Aw, shit, man! I saw you get off together, but I didn’t know you’re them people! Look, I didn’t see nothin’ and I don’t know nothin’, aight?”
I look at him, puzzled.
“I don’t understand.”
“We good?” He backs away slowly. “I don’t want no trouble, okay? I can’t do that to my mama. She raised me right.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, bewildered. “Is something wrong? I don’t understand. Is it an American thing?”
He stops and squints at me.
“Where you from, then?”
“Europe, I guess?” I suddenly feel confused. “But I am American, just…just not…from here?”
He gives me a strange look and walks away muttering. “It’s okay. We good. Yeah, we all good.”
I scratch my head and watch him hurry to his car. He opens the door, then shuts it and runs to the curb, leans over, and throws up in the tall grass.
Once finished emptying his stomach, he climbs into his vehicle and drives around the far end of the lot to the exit.
Was it really that scary?
Eh, maybe he’s just coming down with the flu.
I don’t do well with excitement when I’m tired.
I sink onto the bench just as a police cruiser pulls up along the curb. The cop nods at me, puts the car in park, and sits back. I guess he’s also here to keep an eye on me.
Will I ever get used to being an American again?
It isn’t anything like I remember.
Tears threaten to break through the inner dam that I’m barely holding together with the emotional equivalent of scotch tape.
Just breathe. Just breathe.
Back straight, shoulders square, feet apart, hands on knees. I run through the mental checklist and count slowly to one hundred. Brenda finally pulls up to the curb.
“What’s with all the cops?” she asks as I open the passenger door.
“They just arrested someone.”
“What? Girl, you need to be careful!”
Oh, sure. Like I have any control over that.
I refrain from voicing my thoughts as I climb in. The heat envelops me and it’s warm and comforting. My adrenaline crashes, and I start trembling.
“Geez, look at you shivering!” She throws a blanket at me. “You need to wear a warmer coat and take the earlier train next time. It’s getting colder.”
“You’re right,” I agree. I wave to the Professor, who waves back before pulling onto the road behind us.
“You know him?” Brenda asks.
“I’ve seen him around. He promised to wait until you came, just in case.”
“That was really nice of him.”
If you say so, I think grimly. Ten to one, he has someone tracking our plates and running backgrounds as we speak.
Oh well. I’d like to believe that my life can’t be any more messed up than it already is.
The need for sleep overwhelms me. I close my eyes and fall into oblivion.
