Decisions Already Decided

The flashing red lights signal the approaching train, a freight, but I already know that from the sounds, the whistle, the click-clack screech of steel rubbing together under the strain of the boxy monsters. It makes a different sound in each direction, the thinner of the two from the South, not because of elevation, as the ground is flat either way, but from the weight of the cars, now plodding toward the lading docks once manned by black-as-tar slaves, little changed, save the compensation.1

On the route back, the engines strut and swagger, free of their heavy cargo. A few quick breaths to fill hoppers with choking coal and trailers with the latest models, and then back where inertia propels them, damn anything try to stop them, South to the men who grudgingly relieve them of their load.2

Click-clack, click-clack.3

I anticipate each alliterative expression of the concave wheels, wrapped around the worn rails. Click-clack. Twenty-two so far, each freight car somewhat different from the next, but still, click-clack, click-clack. Eyes closed, I could say with certainty there were twenty-two as I wait in my Ford, its yellow faded headlights just feet from the lowered crossing bar. I feel the click, anticipate the clack, as the sound works and vibrates its way through the overpriced radials, around failing CV joints, encompassing the brake pedal, my foot, and then traveling the magnificence of the circulatory system to hammer against the inner ear. Clack!4

Experience tells me this will be a long one as train operators love length more than speed. It makes perfect sense to me, myself a professional liar who understands it's how much and not how soon. Sales is like that. Sell as much as you can and promise anything to them.5

‘CHEZ' adorns a freight car in light blue spray paint, a darker blue highlighting the outside of each letter to give it perspective. The rest of the ancient Southern Pacific boxcar is also elegantly awash in graffiti, most unintelligible, save to the gang members who piss on their territory whether mobile or stationary as if some salesman 1400 miles from the isolated freight yard would give a rat's ass who CHEZ was.6

Click-clack, click clack. A loose rail at the crossing lifts in salute to each passing freight car, now thirty-seven long. I expect it will stretch to 200 before it gives its blessing to the line of automobiles waiting patiently to escape to whatever is so important on the other side.7

More graffiti. To have that much time to include such intricate detail amazes me. A heart, ten feet high, created with the loving expression of a renaissance prodigy, all to profess the love of Maria and Chico, the second o invisible because of an open door on the car.8

I want to run alongside and fling threadbare luggage through the opening and sprint until my lungs beg to burst as I latch on in the last moment and pull myself to freedom.9

The slipstream of wind will blow my hair back as each mile to paradise brings new smells to my heaving lungs, the manure of the fields, city smoke, restaurant food and the fresh spray of salt off the sea, signaling arrival to my new home of hope.10

Click-clack, click clack, now seventy three cars slap me back, shake me by the shoulders, and parade the entourage of poltergeist and chains of the present that demand attention.11

She'll wonder of my delay but not enough for concern, just wonder. Perhaps she'll enjoy the extra time alone. I know I enjoy the pause, the brief respite from the concerns on the other side of the tracks.12

The train slowly accelerates as the long gone engines surely have straight rails and empty roads ahead to give momentum even to the lowly caboose still far from me.13

As each car passes, a small gap appears exposing briefly the other side with its impatient drivers rubbing foreheads and flicking spent Marlboros. An intersection only four cars out from the tracks on the opposite side, a tempting parallel highway that with enough fortitude I could race alongside the mighty diesels as they plowed the way clear to paradise.14

Turn left to same, or right to-to what? To a beginning, to days of leisure and solitude. Barefoot, or just sandals, away from the programmed, the inevitable, the constant, the obvious. Uncaring, to smell the sweet sweat of youth, the ponytail slapping my back as waves lapped at my-our feet. To sleep with the sunrise and wake with the dusk and not care as my skin turned leathery from the relentless sun.15

Turn left or right. Left to the sure, right to the unknown.16

I toggle the turn signal lever in anticipation as we are now at 132 and counting. Click-clack, click-clack. The clatter taunts me to decide before I'm ready. To choose my life's direction in seconds demands too much.17

I know my desire, to watch insects intimately, to see a fish fly meters in the air and free itself of parasites as it smashes back into the orange reflected bay. To live life in a haze, diluted by chemicals, liquid, et al. To be absolutely unsure, irresponsible-free.18

Click-clack, turn left. Click-clack, turn right.19

She'll be angry. She'll be very angry and even years later in reunion she won't want to hear my colorful stories and anecdotes of shirtless days, careless days, relaxed days that blended seamlessly into night.20

An impossible decision to be resolved soon, as the caboose sways in the evaporating mist, still only a dot on the horizon, but not far.21

To decide my life with the flick of a turn signal is a heavy load. I want the rails to split, the cars careen haphazardly in all directions, and watch helplessly as an unusually heavy chemical car busts loose of its rails, crushing my Ford around me so swiftly, I feel nothing but relief.22

Click-clack, click-clack. And then the sounds of automobile engines starting behind me. Adrenaline flows through the line of haggard drivers who have no decision to make other than ending their long wait for movement.23

Turn left or right? The choice is mine as the blue caboose races to keep up with its brothers on the trek toward the warmer rails of the south. But is there really a choice or has the decision been made? The caboose lifts its rear slightly, the last to clear the unmaintained rail, a parting goodbye to the stationary motorists.24

The gate lifts, I accelerate quickly to the intersection. Horns blast behind me as the traffic light pleads green with me to go, but I hesitate, look right-then left-then right, again.25

I pull down on the turn signal lever and ponder my regrets.