Sunset

            by Lucas Buckman

 

My heart beat in rhythm with the chugging train as it rumbled and snaked through the London countryside. In the seats across from me sat a man and a woman, presumably married, sound asleep. The man was snoring and his snores sounded, felt, and oozed French. The train was mostly empty, occupied only by the dormant couple and an old man near the head of the train who was wearing a white bib.  The man at the front fell spellbound for a long while, attempting to peel an orange. The other cars on the train were relatively full of destination-seeking people.

I had chosen this car for its ideal vacancy and felt satisfied with my decision. Once I settled in, I pulled out my Jackie Treehorn mystery novel. As I began investigating the case of the lovely four, the door at the end of the car opened with ease and in walked a conductor, the conductor. He couldn’t have been more than four feet tall but was topped off in fiery red hair, contained by a blue cap, which made him look like a faux airline pilot rather then just a man in charge of checking tickets. I watched as he swaggered slowly down the aisle. He stopped briefly by the man in the bib, and in the highest, thickest cockney accent I’d ever heard in my life, he said, “Stubs Please!”

I watched patiently as the old man fumbled his half-peeled orange in one hand while trying to find his ticket with the other. Suddenly, I began to sweat. I had not bought a ticket. I wasn’t paying for this ride. I started imagining what a setback it would be to get thrown off of the train before arriving in Brighton. As the Little Red Conductor began to grow impatient with the bib-man’s lethargy, I began to quietly pack my things in preparation for sneaking away before the conductor got to me. Getting up from my seat, I noticed that my left shoe was untied. I went down to tie it quickly, and stood back up to the face of the Little Red Conductor. He stared directly at me.

“Stubs please!”

“Uh-uh-of course,” I stammered.

As I stood there helplessly before, or rather above, the small man, I prepared myself for defeat. All at once, before I could break the silence with my sorry excuse, the train’s body jolted viciously, sending the little man down the aisle a few rows and me falling to my seat. The jolt abruptly woke the couple sitting across from me.

“Morning,” I said in a whisper.

As the conductor picked up the stubs that had fallen to the floor during the jerk, I grabbed my things and snuck down the stairs to the lower section of the train. The lower level harbored a mediocre restaurant. The place was empty. I ran to the bathroom at the end of the car, bounded in, and locked it shut. I felt safe in the bathroom even though it was small. I threw my bag on the closed toilet and put my hands around the sink, staring at my eyes, nose, mouth and upper body in the mirror.

“Twelve hours…twelve more fucking hours on this train!” I mumbled to myself.

I began to shake uncontrollably. I felt a sudden urge, rather need, to take my pills. I unzipped my bag and pulled out a small silver case with a whale sticker on its back. I snapped it open and let my fingers sift through the assortment of green, blue and red pills. I grabbed a red one. Green for dry heaving, blue for dizziness. I popped the pill into my mouth and put my face under the faucet to wash it down my throat. Almost immediately, my shaking subsided. I stared deeply into my face, my bushy, black beard demanding my focus. I kept staring into the mirror until the face looking back at me became almost foreign. This made me dizzy so I popped a blue one.

As my dizziness mellowed, I decided that the only way I could stay on this train would be to shave my beard. I hadn’t shaved it since Sandy had died, eleven years prior. I realized that the conductor would be looking for a tall, lanky African man in a grey suit with a wild beard. I figured that shaving the beard would help detach me from the man I was seen as earlier.

I reached into my bag to retrieve my pocketknife. Once the knife was in my grasp, I held a chunk of my beard together in a clump with my left hand, closed my eyes, and lopped the clump off swiftly with my right hand. I continued to whittle down my beard until my face was bare. I stared into the mirror and ran my hands over my clean face. I missed the beard. While looking into the mirror I realized that my plan of deception was flawed. I was the only black man on the train. I swept up the remains of my beard into a Ziploc bag, stuffed the Ziploc in my pocket, washed my face, and opened the door. I stepped out slowly into the restaurant, noticing that the dining car was still empty, except for a waitress reading in one of the booths. I approached her slowly, trying to see what she was reading.

“Bugger off,” she said coldly without looking up.

“I’m sorry, I’m just curious – what are you reading?” I asked, noting that her eyes were the same color as Sandy’s. Purple.

“Tales of Power,” she replied. I hadn’t heard of it. 

“Who’s it by?” I asked.

            “This guy Carlos Castaneda,” she said timidly.

            I stood awkwardly in the aisle way.

“Is it go-”

“Look, is there something in particular that you want?” she interrupted. “I’m not sure but I don’t think you’re even allowed to be in here.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t like long rides, especially not when I’m alone. I miss talking to people.”

“If your trying to pick me up, you should know that it’s not happening, and it’s not because you’re black. I just don’t trust people who sneak up on me in trains.”

“Oh, no, you don’t understand. I’m not interested in women,” I said.

“Oh, please. You’re just like all men. I know you’re not interested in us, women. All you’re interested in is sex, our bums, and tits and such,” she said in an accusatory tone.

“No, you really misunderstood me. I’m gay. I’m interested in men. I’m not interested in your butt.”

“Oh,” she chuckled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just frustrating. Men are always trying to shag me on this train. Sit down. Want a cup of tea?”

Relieved by the sudden change in the woman’s tone, I said, “Yes, please.” I watched her in admiration as she got up from her seat to go to the small, public kitchen to prepare tea for me. She stumbled around as the train jolted and bumped. I couldn’t stop thinking about her eyes.

“Do you have a boyfriend then?” she said, putting the kettle on the stove.

“Just once,” I said.

“What happened?” she asked with concern.

“He was a photographer. He specialized in sunsets. I called him the sunset hunter,” I said, smiling at the memory. “He was on a trek up Mt. Gundu, which is the largest mountain in all of Africa. Terrible dry spells and jagged uneven rocky cliffs made it one of the most dangerous mountains. Anyway, his Sherpa got separated from him, and a week later, I got a phone call.”

She looked at me with a pity I didn’t resent. “I’m so sorry, what was his name?” she asked.

“Sandy,” I said, letting a tear shoot down my shaven face.

“And what’s your name?”

Suddenly, I realized that I hadn’t even begun to ask this woman anything about her life, not even her name.

Just as I began open my mouth I looked over her shoulder and saw little feet marching down the stairs. I quickly glanced back at the woman, smiled, and took off down the aisle into the next car without completing my name.

“Hey, where are you going?” she yelled after me.

As I left the stranger, feelings of guilt came over me. I looked at my watch to find that it was three o’clock in the morning. Mostly all the cars were dark, and you could hear a melody of snoozing, coughing, sneezing, whispering, and muffled laughter, all with the constant undertone of the train rumbling in the background.

I walked down the aisle of a fairly crowded car until I got to a pair of empty seats. I sat down and quickly peered up and down the aisle to make sure the little man wasn’t after me. I propped my head against the window and stared into the constantly changing art of the world that only a train holds. I was so tired even in all this beauty. I began dozing off when a heavyset man in his forties plunked his weight down onto the seat next to me. Startled by the man’s arrival, I jerked, thinking it was my short antagonist.

“Whoa there sonny! Didn’t mean to startle ya. The names Brent, Brent Baumgarten. I’m the number one pornography producer in all of Brighton,” he said, handing over a sleazy, gold business card.

I took his card without saying a word. I just sat there staring at this semi-flashy looking man who was red in the face, wearing a sweaty tank top, yellow leather jacket, unusually orange pants, crocodile shoes, and big framed silver sunglasses despite the fact that it was three in the morning and the sun was nowhere to be seen.

“Why are you wearing sunglasses at this hour?” I asked, hoping to end his awkward gaze at me.

“Their prescription. Ain’t that great? I never have to take ’em off,” Brent said with a large smile, failing to impress me.

The man smelled sweaty. I figured he must have been late and had to run to catch the train. He wasn’t overweight, just large enough to spill into my seat.

“So, what business does an African have in the country?” the greasy man said snidely.

“I’m going to Blackstone Hill to spread my lovers ashes,” I replied. By the look on the man’s face, my reply seemed difficult for him to understand.

“Well, uh, that’s something isn’t it?” he said, unsure of what exactly to say.

“Yes it is,” I snapped.

“Hey, did you see my shoes?” he asked. I rolled my eyes and looked out the window, returning to the position I was in before I was disturbed. I gazed outside as the train passed a field of cows. They all looked crowded and uncomfortable to me, and I felt all too similar.

After about ten minutes of peaceful silence, Brent fell into a loud sleep. His snoring was as irritating as his talking. After a few minutes of tolerating the man’s snores, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore so I quietly slipped out from the seat and away from Brent, the British porn king of Bristol. I was glad to be free even though there wasn’t much room to explore on this train. Each car was just like the next. I began to walk through the cars, feeling a bit creepy watching everyone as they slept.

Eventually, I entered into a car I had not yet experienced. The car was labeled the “Observation Room.” Unlike any other car, it was enclosed by a dome of glass so that passengers could see everything outside. I was surprised to find such a beautiful car empty. I sat down in one of the seats and observed the darkness of the London countryside as it flashed by me. I checked my watch and realized that there were still ten hours left until the train would arrive in Blackstone.

All of a sudden, I felt an empty discomfort in my stomach. The pain continued slowly up my throat until it was choking me. I began to dry heave, clutching my stomach, when out of nowhere two old arms reached around my stomach and attempted to give me the Heimlich maneuver. I pulled the arms off of me and turned to the elderly man behind me, gesturing to my bag. He quickly got it and brought it to me. I emptied the contents of my bag on the floor and pointed to my silver pill case with the whale sticker. The man picked it up and opened it kindly. I grabbed a green pill and popped it into my mouth. Almost instantly, the dry heaving stopped. The man didn’t say a word during this entire encounter, and I liked that.

“Thank you, Sir,” I said, breathing heavily.

He nodded. I started to put everything from the floor back into my bag and motioned for the old man to sit with me. He sat down and put his hands to his side and stared at the box that had come out of my bag. The box was made of a beautiful oak and had a gold engraving of the name “Sandy” on the side.

“They’re ashes,” I said to him, staring at the box, the man did not reply. He didn’t need to. I felt comfortable just talking.

“They’re my lovers ashes actually,” I corrected myself.

After a long pause the old man broke the silence.

“Why do you carry them around with you?” he said in a delicate voice.

“It’s a long story,” I replied.

“Son, if trains weren’t invented for long stories then I don’t know what they were invented for.”

I wanted to tell him that they were invented to transport primarily coal and iron in the 1850’s, but instead I went on to tell him the story of how I met Sandy in Africa on one of his projects and how impressed I was by this American who only traveled to capture the beautiful sunsets of the world. I told the old man about how Sandy helped translate the book I was writing into English. The book was about sunsets. I told the man everything, how Sandy and I started to travel the world together taking in all the sunsets, and I finally told him about the last time we were together. I was surprised the man wasn’t turned away once he recognized my sexual orientation.

“…It was eleven years ago, and we were on Blackstone Hill in Cardiff, sitting on a blanket, drinking wine, and he was telling me a story from his childhood, about growing up in California when, all of a sudden, massive beams of red and gold and even the loveliest hint of purple shot across the sky. As the sun said goodnight to this part of the earth, the view was spectacular. In all of my life, I had never seen something so beautiful. And that’s when Sandy leaned over and kissed me. He told me that if he was to ever die, that he wanted me to come back to this place, at the same time, and spread his ashes over Blackstone Hill as the sun set. I promised him I would.”

The man seemed to enjoy hearing me speak. He seemed lonely. We drifted into conversations about various things involving Sandy.

“Are you married?” I asked him attempting to shift the conversation topic.

He sat there staring at the box for a moment and then said slowly,  “June 5th, 1984...eleven years ago.” He took a breath and then continued. “I was in Cardiff that night, it was the same night one of my oxen passed, I remember holding it as it died, then looking up at the most magnificent sunset that I had ever seen.”

I sat there stunned as this man recalled the sunset I was remembered.

“How did you remember that?” I asked, taken aback.

He began to stand up, but before he left he looked at me and said, “Memory… is the connection of life. If you cannot utilize it, then you are caught living in the present. It was good talking to you, son. Good luck with the ashes.” I watched him as he walked away.

It was getting lighter outside. I had lost track of how long I’d been talking to the old man. It must have been a couple of hours. I looked at my watch to discover that two and a half hours had passed since my dry heaving incident. I calculated that I had seven more hours to endure on this train. I was surprised that the small conductor hadn’t pursued me more aggressively for I expected to have to evade him at every turn.

As morning showed its faced, the Observation Room began filling up. I had passed out in my chair shortly after the old man had left me, and was awoken an hour later by the stampede of people crowding around looking out the window viewing public art along the isolated track. The main art piece was an anti-war statement. There were miles of sticks in the ground along the track and every stick had a name written on it and a shirt next to it. After every ten sticks there was a sign that read, “By the time you reach this sign, 100 soldiers will have died at war.” The signs seemed to never end; they went on for more then forty-five minutes until we got to an area where a rail crew was demolishing the art, stick by stick.

“Bloody fucking Communists,” muttered an older man with a wool suit, cane, and mustache. “They assume we give two fucks of a shit about their stupid boggish little prank,” he continued slowly, growing more upset.

I shot him a dirty look, and was surprised to see I hadn’t burnt a hole straight through his forehead.

“I bet you’re with all this bloody Commie shit. You look like you would be. And by the way, what is a bloody African doing going to in the country?”

I had always been pacifist by nature but I could have killed this man, not for what he said specifically, but for his overall cynicism and outlook on the world, on people. I started to think of this man’s childhood. I thought about how his dog probably bit him, causing him to grow a detest for living things that did not look like him.

“What in bloody hell are you staring at?” he spat.

I had just realized that I had just been staring at this man for about thirty seconds without saying anything so I said, “Are you for war?”

“Terrible question. What is war?”

He was right I thought. I can’t be so vague.

As I began to change my question, I spotted the little firecracker of a conductor wrestling his way through the Observation Car so I quickly slid under my chair.

The grumpy man leaned under my seat and said, “The fuck you think your doing? This better not be some liberal-Commie-fag statement you’re trying to make about how the government keeps us hiding under our chairs.”

It wasn’t funny, it offended me in multiple ways, and I’m not sure if he knew that I was gay, but the way he said it made me laugh.

“The fuck are you laughing at?”

I could see the conductors little feet walk past me, then stop. His feet turned towards the old man I was talking to.

“I’m looking for an African,” the little conductor said.

I’m Kenyan, I thought. I’m from Nairobi. I wanted to walk around the train asking people if they had seen a European.

“An African huh?” said the angry old man. One of his eyes glared down at me folded under the seat.

“I haven’t seen a bloody Wog in Cardiff my whole fucking life. What makes you think there’s one on this train?”  he scowled.

I was confused. This old foulmouthed racist was actually lying for me. Even though he called me a Wog, a derogatory term I hadn’t heard in more than fifteen years.

“Sorry to bother you, sir” said the little conductor.

I watched as the little feet scampered away down the aisle and into the next car. I got out from under the chair, but the man didn’t look at me as I re-emerged.

“Why did you do that?” I asked, puzzled at this man’s motives.

“Don’t think for one bloody second that I was trying to help you because I wasn’t. The little bugger looked like a Scot, and there’s nothing I hate more than a Scot with authority,” he said. I didn’t believe him.

I now understood him. I could read this man as clear as a billboard.

“If he kicked me off you would have no one to vent all your frustrations to,” I told him with confidence.

His face bones tensed up. The hue of his cheeks turned crimson. He looked as though he was going to pop. He looked at me like I was a chair he had just stubbed his toe on.

“Don’t you ever! Ever! Oh… You’re right.” he said. His bones relaxed, the crimson of his cheeks faded, and he gave off the appearance of a balloon deflating.

I was so confused; I had prepared myself for an earful of bigotry and detest, but no, he sighed and stared at the floor. He looked more sad than anything else.

“Is everything okay?” I asked as sincerely as I could.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,” he said quietly without looking up.

“You’re the first person to talk to me since Lynn passed,” he continued.

            “Your wife?” I asked.

“Yes, have you ever been married?” he asked, finally looking up, now noticing that he had been tearing up.

“Almost,” I answered, while reaching into my bag and pulling out a napkin.

“What happened then?” he asked curiously while taking the napkin from me to dry his eyes.

“Well, we saw a lot of sunsets. I guess we just didn’t have time to see the sun set,” I answered.

    “CARDIFF STATION IN FOUR MINUTES!” the little conductor man announced over the sound system.

The man next to me responded to the announcement promptly, standing up, putting on his hat, picking up his cane and suitcase, and beginning to leave. Suddenly, he stopped and turned around to stare me straight in the eyes.

“What is your name, son?” he asked, almost as if he had been crafting the question his whole life and just waited until now to ask it.

I looked at him, stared back into his ice blue eyes and his old weather-beaten face and said, “The first African in Cardiff.”

His face accepted my answer. He chuckled as he clicked away with his cane.

    I looked at my watch to see that only three more hours remained until we were to arrive at Blackstone Hill. It was early and I hadn’t eaten since I had been on the train due to the fact that my appetite had been decreased by my constant medications. I decided to go back to the dining car to eat and try to find Purple Eyes.

I left the observation room and headed through a series of three coach cars. There were far more children then I had expected. The aisle had become a jungle gym, and I struggled to get through without stepping on any young ones. I finally managed to get through to the dining car, which to my disappointment was largely crowded. As I began to observe the mob waiting to be served I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Smoke?” Purple Eyes asked.

“I didn’t know there was a smoking car,” I replied.

“There isn’t,” she said, grabbing my hand and leading me away from the hungry mob. Mobs made me dizzy. I popped a blue one. She took me all the way to the back of the train and opened up a door at the end of the very last car. Just as she opened it there was a swoosh of noise and wind like a tornado.

“Come on,” she said, motioning to the area outside the train.

I cautiously stepped where she directed me, and she slammed the door shut behind us. There were two flimsy plastic chairs already set up. The noise seemed to subside once the door closed, leaving only a light breeze. Purple Eyes sat down and motioned for me to follow, and I watched as she reached into her bag and pulled out a wooden case, similar in size to the box that held Sandy’s ashes. She opened the case and pulled out a bag of ganja and rolling papers. I hadn’t pegged her as a smoker, but thought of her more as a drinker.

“You do smoke pot, don’t you?” she said nervously. I didn’t.

“Of course,” I said. “Who doesn’t?”

She laughed in agreement and began rolling a joint. I was easily impressed. She turned a plant and a piece of paper into a beautiful art project.

“Tell me about Sandy,” she said without looking up from her craft.

    “Sandy was Sandy. He loved hiking and adventures, hated politics and politicians, wasn’t ever interested in money. I could go on, but none of that does justice to what Sandy was really about.”

“And what’s that?” she asked, licking the finished product.

“Most people enjoy money, or power, or sex, or TV, or whatever, but for Sandy, there was absolutely nothing in the world he loved more than a beautiful sunset.”

She stopped to watch me as I talked.  

“He would say, ‘A sunset is the purest thing in the world.’”

She looked at me firmly and then said, “He was so bloody right. I mean, the media has completely destroyed the values that people hold, and I’m not talking about false values that some white evangelical is orating to the masses – I’m talking about the practical values humans were born with, the kind of values that walked the Bering Strait, the kind of values that strips people of all the fake bullshit their covered in and gets down to who you are. Why are we here?” she said, lighting the joint.

“You know? I think I love you,” I told her as we both began to laugh.

“Here,” she said as she passed me the joint.

I took it from her, stared at it for about a second, then put it in my mouth and took a hit. It tasted horrible. I began to cough uncontrollably, which led to dry heaving. I took a green one and passed the joint back to her.

“What are those for?” she asked, pointing to my colorful array of pharmaceuticals.

“I don’t know how it started but I have three major setbacks in my life, the first is my uncontrollable shaking, and for that I take a red one…the second-”

She stopped me and said, “Wait what? What the hell is a red one?”

“I don’t really know, the doctor prescribed them to me. They’re called something like Estiflorityuflor.”

“Do they actually help?” she asked, taking a puff.

“Surprisingly they do,” I said, feeling relaxation run through my body.

“I would never put a pill in me. Weed is the only medicine for me,” she said proudly.

I started to feel happy, which was a new feeling for me, and I only now realized that I was actually on the back of a moving train. I hadn’t fully experienced it yet, but it was gorgeous.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

She deserved to know. Even though I’d only known this woman for a couple hours, she was the closest thing I had to a friend since Sandy.

“If I told you my name, then you would forever define this experience and this interaction between me and you by some name given to me by wealthy orphan parents rather then defining this event for what it is.”

“And what is it?” she asked, curiously.

“Another segment in the everlasting train ride of life,” I said.

She seemed to like what I was saying. We spent the rest of the train ride sitting and talking. I looked at my watch and realized that we were going to be arriving at Blackstone shortly. We went back into the train. It was nowhere near as pleasurable as outside.

“BLACKSTONE THREE MINUTES!”

I turned to Purple Eyes. We embraced a hug. And I began to walk away.

“Sunset!” she called to me.

I turned to look back at her.

“That’s what I’m going to remember your name as,” she said.

I raised my hand and smiled. She smiled back. I walked down to the lower car where people were getting ready to get off. I stood by the door as the train slowly pulled into an old but beautiful train station. The train stopped, the doors opened, and I stepped out onto the grass. There was no pavement, no advertisements, nothing. Nothing but a large boulder that sat by the tracks. Beautiful.

I walked a mile to the downtown of Blackstone, which consisted of a bookstore, a bakery, and a small shack with a sign that read, “WE FIX YOUNG BIRDS! CHEAP!” I went inside to investigate the small shop. It intrigued me. I entered only to find the building empty, except for a small pink bike with training wheels lying by the wall. An elderly lady appeared in the doorway.

“Oh my goodness! An African!” she said happily as her portly body trotted over to me.

“I’m Kenyan,” I said to her, but she ignored this detail.

“Are most of you this tall?” she asked.

I was done speaking with this woman and I could see the sun going down, so I said, “I need to get to Blackstone Hill before the sun sets,” I told her anxiously.

“Well that’s easy. Just head north for about two miles, then take the thorn bush path for about five minutes and there you are. Blackstone Hill.”

I shot out of the shack like a cannon.

“You won’t make it by sundown,” she yelled.

“Love is all you need,” I yelled back.

I aimed north and started sprinting. I remembered that it is a widely held belief in the world that all Kenyans are Olympic caliber runners, but unfortunately I was not one of them. My breathing became more and more ragged as I ran, and by the time I reached thorn bush path I was fully panting. The old woman hadn’t mentioned how steep it was. I painfully dragged myself up the path, and in the distance I could see the hill. It all came rushing back to me. I had been there eleven years before, and nothing had changed since. I finally reached the base of the hill. I walked to the ridge of the hill before the drop off and sat in the same spot Sandy and I had sat at.

I took out his ashes from my pack. Just as I was doing so, the sun began to set. It was beautiful like nothing I’d ever seen before. Just as it had been eleven years ago, when Sandy showed me what it was to care about the world, to appreciate it. I could see many colors in the sunset, but the purple stole the show; its glistening beauty made me cry, but I did not wash my tears away. I closed my eyes and could see the angry old man in the Observation Room, the little red conductor, the old wise man who saved my life, Purple Eyes, and Sandy. All of us were looking at the same sunset now. Sandy’s ashes danced and blew down the hill heading for the sun as it disappeared.

All you need is love.