Fragments part 1

First, a short word of explanation: Years ago, I used to do a lot of what you might call "creative writing." I really loved having the opportunity to come up with characters and dialog, and place those characters in situations. I even had a few "stock characters" in my imagination who featured again and again in the stories I made up.

Most of those stories were not written down. Most of them were solely to entertain me - to keep me from wanting to kill someone as the line at the post office moved s-l-o-w-l-y to the front and I found that I was behind some guy running a used-book business with 85 different-sized packages to mail out, a woman who wants to buy a very precise configuration of stamps, and a single mom trying to wrangle five children plus her packages and paperwork. Or they were to try and lull myself to sleep at night. Or they were to pass the time on long trips.

I kind of put story-writing on the back burner when I became "an adult" (meaning, I got a grown-up job with real responsibility). Recently, I've returned to stories and am surprised at the solace and pleasure they still bring. But this time, I think I'm going to write at least some of them down, and I think I'm going to share a few of them here. Posts will stories will generally have "fragments" somewhere in the title, because most of my stories ARE fragments, they are part of something that could be larger if I knew where to go with what I had set up.

I am not a professional writer. Please understand that. Please be respectful - if you think my stories suck, please don't be quite so bald about it. If you want to criticize, please try to make it constructive.

Also understand that these are quickly dashed-off things, for the most part. I don't spend a lot of time polishing and rewriting like I would if I were submitting things to a magazine or journal for publication. This is partly for my own fun - and partly, if the stories are any good, for the fun and enjoyment of my readers.

So that's enough introduction. Here's the first fragment:


Outside the train station, freezing drizzle was falling. The station attendant had announced that the train was seriously delayed; a freight had derailed farther west on the line and the passenger train would not be able to move until the derailment was cleared and the tracks were checked.

A number of people in the station snorted with derision – how would they ever get a crew out, let alone a sober crew, on New Year’s Eve. Those people who had places to go – back home, back to relative’s houses – gradually trickled out, leaving the few longer-distance travelers who had little recourse. One woman said she thought there was a hotel another twenty miles down the road, and she set out for it, but Will did not care for the thought of risking his neck to go in search of a hotel that might or might not exist, and that might or might not have room.

Will sat on the old wood bench. It seemed constructed either for a person with a very different physique from what modern folk had, or else it had been designed to prevent lingerers – transients – from sleeping in the station. It made Will’s old football injury, forgotten these twenty years, resurface and remind him of days gone by.

When he could stand it no longer, he stood up. The station was mostly dark, a few dim “retro” lamps high up on the vaulted ceiling providing weak illumination on the stranded travelers. Besides Will, there was an ancient couple leaning against each other for support, a despondent-looking middle-aged woman trying to read a mystery novel, and a young family. The family consisted of a father with a crew cut – Will marveled that anyone under 60 still wore those – a young mother feeding a bottle to the baby, and a little boy and girl, both sacked out on a blanket the mother had spread on the floor. Everyone was silent.

It got later. The station attendant, behind the thick glass partition, dozed. His phone, which might have signaled salvation in the form of the passenger train getting through, never rang. Will mused on the irony of this year’s holidays: Thanksgiving spent helping his now ex-girlfriend dish up turkey loaf and gluey pre-made stuffing to unappreciative bums at the Salvation Army. Christmas, spent alone, thanks to the blow-up he had had with his siblings over their grandmother’s estate. And now, New Year’s Eve – spent alone, again, and in a strange uncomfortable place with no chance of getting to Chicago in time for any kind of celebration.

It was after eleven. On the East Coast, the ball would have already dropped. People would have had their New Year’s kiss, their toast, and many would now be toddling home to sleep off another night’s jubilance and to gather their strength for the coming year. Will thought of all the years – all the long gone New Year’s eves, the ones spent with his family as a child, where he and his brother and sisters were allowed to stay up to midnight and drink ginger ale out of champagne flutes. The crazy drunken college-aged New Year’s, where hangovers lasted for days thanks to some kind of hideous concoction that his roommate – a med student – dreamed up for the punch. Adult New Year’s, more sedate but still joyful, spent in the company of one or more of his siblings, or, more recently, with Jolene. And now, this year…the worst one yet, Will thought bitterly. Everyone hates me. Jolene, who wouldn’t even talk to me on the phone when I tried to reconcile. She’s probably dating someone new now. Matt, who had told him that he was “still too angry to talk” back in August. Anita and her husband. Faye – normally the level-headed one of the family – who had burst into tears and said, “I can’t believe you did that with Grandma’s house!” before hanging up the phone the last time he had called her. And all of his friends – well, they probably didn’t hate him, but Will didn’t like to burden them with his family troubles. And besides, they all had parties or family events or First Night celebrations to go to. Heck – David was a cabbie, he’d be hauling drunks home all night. Probably cleaning puke out of his car tomorrow. Will made a mental note to call David midday tomorrow to commiserate, if he could get to a phone.

But now – now Will was lonely. He wanted to talk to someone. What he wanted was his family. He thought of his brother, of the lopsided grin and the crazy conspiracy theories Matt made up to make them all laugh. And Anita – the beauty of the family with her two perfect children and her Bollywood-movie-star-looking husband. The golden couple. The ones who made good. And Faye – the baby who grew up faster than the rest of them, with her calm gray eyes and her motherly manner. How Faye managed to keep them all going after their parents died suddenly. How they had all had The Pact – as Matt referred to it, and as it would always be known – The Pact which said they would pick a holiday, one each year, and choose to be together for it, no matter what it took.

Well, Will had screwed up The Pact. Maybe it would never work again. Maybe things would never be the same again. Or maybe Matt, Anita, and Faye were honoring The Pact by themselves, cutting Will out for what he had done, pretending he was dead. Could they do that? Would they do that?

In a dark corner of the far side of the station, there was an old pay phone. Will looked around – the old couple was asleep, leaning against each other. The mystery-reading woman, her coat fluffed around her like the feathers of a brooding hen, had finally gotten engaged in her book and stopped sighing melodramatically and looking at her watch every five minutes. The young wife had fallen asleep and her husband had wrapped an arm around her to support and comfort her, and he had taken the baby into his own arms as his two older children dreamed on the blanket at his feet.

Will walked slowly over to the phone. He touched it gingerly, nervously. He picked it up – there was a dial tone, it seemed to be working. He pulled out his phone card; he could never remember all those numbers in order. First, he dialed Anita’s number, apprehensive, trying to think of what to say. He got the babysitter. Anita and her husband were out at a party, did he want them to call back? No, Will said, just say I called. I’ll try again later when I know better where I am.

Next, he tried calling Faye. He let her phone ring fifteen times; Faye had never believed in answering machines or voicemail. Obviously she was out.

For a moment, Will was gripped with horror – they were honoring The Pact without him! They had decided to get together and had cut him totally out. He would be a total orphan, then – no parents, no grandparents, not even a crummy brother or sister.

There was still Matt though. If Matt were home, that would mean that The Pact had not been reconfigured without Will. That would mean he still had a chance to make things right.

Will stood for a moment before the phone, gathering his strength. This was like calling the doctor for test results, he thought. Bad news and your life is changed forever. Good news and you wonder what you were ever so worried about. Will took a breath, said a short prayer (his first in years), and dialed the phone.

It rang four times. Then, it picked up, and Matt answered.

“Hello?”
“Hey….bro…,” Will said falteringly,
“Hey! Will….how are you, man?”
Will had to pause for a moment. Matt didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound sad. He didn’t sound drunk, either, so Will figured he still had a shot.
“Not so good. I’m stuck…there was this freight derailment. It’ll probably be at least Tuesday night before I’m in Chicago.”
”That sucks…where are you?”
“Hell if I know…some transfer station in Iowa or some damn place. There’s like no one here, it’s sleeting, the station feels like a morgue, no one’s telling us anything.” Will was talking too fast and too much but he wanted his brother to hear him, to know where he was. To know he was alive and that he wanted to talk.
“Aw, man. Ya get dinner?”
“No, just some crap out of a vending machine. Cheese crackers and Skittles that were from, like, the Renaissance, they were so hard.”
Matt laughed. It was a welcome sound.
“Look, man…” Will swallowed hard and once again began speaking too fast. “Look, I just wanted to call you and Faye and Anita and tell you guys – I’m really sorry. I behaved like an idiot, and I am especially sorry about all that junk I said. If I could take it all back – not just what I said but the stuff I did about Grandma’s house – I’d do it in a minute. I totally would.”
There was a moment of silence. Will’s heart sank. He had screwed it up again; it was still too early to try to ask for forgiveness.
Then Matt said: “Will, bro? It’s 2007 here. You’re forgiven; what happened was the past. Water under the bridge. We were all messed up at that time. I’ll work on Anita and Faye later today. Then you can call them later this week. But hey, man…how ‘bout we do St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago this year? You know, The Pact? This guy I work with says he knows a great Irish-style pub, and it’s kinda out of the way, so the usual St. Patrick’s Day idiots usually don’t find it…and it has good food, and there’s usually a band. We could totally do it – it would be great. The whole Clan Donahue together again!”
“Well, Clans Donohue and Patel. Don’t forget ‘Dr. Luke.’ I bet Anita’d never forgive us if we didn’t invite him.”
Matt put on his ridiculous fake-Irish brogue “Sure and we’ll be invitin’ the foine Dr. Luke Patel! He can administer the antidote, don’t ya know, if one of us drinks a wee bit too much stout!”
It was Will’s turn to laugh. Suddenly, the PA crackled to life- the sepulchral station attendant announced, “Amtrak is providing through-vans to Moline, Rock Island, Chicago, and points south. They arrive in five minutes. Gather up your luggage and have your tickets ready please.”
“Sounds like you better go…sounds like you’re actually gettin’ out of there,” Matt remarked.
“Yeah, bro’ and it only took from one year to the next. Hey, man, I’ll try to get out to Michigan City to see you when I get in town.”
“Sounds good, man. Travel safe.”