After popping three aspirins in my mouth, I chew them slow and swig down the last of my whiskey. I toss the bottle out the door and it’s out of sight before it shatters on the rocks below. On the train it’s difficult to see what’s up close, but in the distance, where the world moves slower, it’s easier. Sunshine mirrors off the dew still on the leaves and grass and across the corn fields. A chill lingers in the morning air.
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On the tracks I can slip through town unnoticed. I used to walk the highways. Not the interstate, that will get you killed, but the state and county roads. The problem with that was that the cops were always hassling me. I could do without police involvement. They were all starched uniforms, goofy hats and the same old we-don’t-take-kindly-to-strangers-in-these-parts attitude. They’re even worse than the bulls. The cops will cuff you and rough you up and throw you in jail just for grins. On the rails, I’m a ghost. People are too busy rushing around in their cars with mini-windshield wipers on their headlights and DVD players in the backseat to notice me. All they care about is soccer practice and departmental meetings. No one ever looks at what’s going on just on the periphery.
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In and out and on the way. The only way to do it. I start to make my way back to the tracks, to catch out that northbound from the grain elevator. But that house. The perfect triangle shape. The balcony. It’s eerily similar. The green siding is darker than ours was. Sheila called it cypress or one of those made up color names that only chicks understand. I’d still be there, but it seems I’m not cut out to be a stepfather. I rub my scar. All at once my head throbs. I need another drink. I need to see the inside of this house. |
They have an office set up in the front side bedroom. A digital camera is in a zipper pouch on the shelves next to the computer desk. I take it out and flip it over until I find the little panel to access the memory card and pop it out. With the card in the pouch, and the camera in my backpack, I zip the case closed and put it back on the shelf. I slip around and sit at the desk in the high-back chair. I don't know what the deal is with this family but they sure as hell like plastering photos of themselves all over the place. Another portrait is framed and on the desk next to the monitor. Those girls are younger in this one. The baby is a new born. I open a few of the drawers, but don't see anything worth taking at first. Then underneath some papers is an Ipod. The battery is completely dead. I rub my thumb on the ring on the front and nothing happens. It's mine now.
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Glacial Pace Press stock photo
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I follow the rails the rest of the way to the grain elevator. The northbound isn’t here yet. In the bushes I hunker down out of sight and crack open a beer. I half wait for the bull, along with Roosterville’s finest, to come searching for me, and half try to get that image of the happy family out of my head.
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