Going On He took a deep breath as he prepared to board the train. The doors were open, but he was hesitant about stepping through them. He glanced down to the first car and saw that the conductor, leaning out the window, was getting annoyed, sick of waiting for him. “Doors closing” announced the metal box, as the conductor gave him furious stare. He took another breath and stepped on. This was the worst part of his day; well, the best and the worst. He loved riding the train; he just hated arriving at his destination. When he rode the train, time seemed to stretch on forever as he dreamed about the world that passed him by; an illusion that only fueled his hatred of reaching his destination. His destination represented the end of his daydreams, the end of his freedom. Nevertheless, he had to get to work and this was the most efficient way to do so, although, he felt he would definitely be taking a taxi home from work as a way of escaping this torture. Upon stepping into the car, the doors slammed shut behind him, as if it were the conductor’s way of telling him off for making him wait. He didn’t mind though, he just smiled and sat in a single seat off in the corner next to the window; he always had to be next to the window. As the train began to pull out of the station, he pulled out his i-pod and scrolled through his selection of music, stopping suddenly on a song; it was Going On, by Gnarls Barkley. As the music began to build into the opening verse, the train arrived at its next stop, and he took a break from his windowed-fantasies to look towards the door just in time to see them open, just in time to see her. She entered the train and sat down a few rows up and across the isle from him but he did not loose sight of her. She was beautiful. As he looked at her, his worries about work faded, his urge to return to his daydream was gone; he only saw her. Her golden brown hair flowed gently onto the left side of her face, only slightly shielding her from view, as if some vain attempt to hide her beauty. Her lips were full and a lovely shade of watermelon pink. She reached up with her left hand and calmly brushed the hair that had cascaded down her face behind her ears, and as she did that, she looked up, and her eyes met his. A slight smile formed on her face. Her smile filled him with a vast array of feelings, some of which he had never experienced before. He smiled back, more out of nerves than anything else. He became lost in her eyes and she in his. Truly, it was love at first sight. Quickly they became enamored with each other’s presence and soon after, they were married. After the initial excitement of being newlyweds, life soon settled down into normalcy again, with he returning to his job and she to hers; they both hated their jobs. Life continued in this way for a while. Soon, however, their hatred of their jobs and the deterioration of their dreams began to take a toll on their relationship. The eyes that once offered nothing but love now gave glances of despair. While their love never faded, their relationship began to grow sour with frustration. Not frustration with each other, but with the lives they were leading, with the repetitiveness of reliability, the monotony of mediocrity, the sameness of sanity. And so, one day, after so many days of being stuck in a rut, they sat down, across from each other, just as they had been that day on the train, looked into each other’s eyes, and knew that they needed to go. They sold off most of their belongings and gave away the rest, and with the money they managed to scrape together, they bought an old beat-up Delta. It was rusted and had heavy mileage, but was just what they needed. The day before they left, they each sat and had a nice conversation with their bosses regarding the voluntary termination of their employment. While the conversations themselves where different, they both skirted along the lines of “Go fuck yourself!” And after that had settled up with their bosses, they tore up the lease for their apartment and left it in a neat little pile outside of their landlords home, of course, the pile happened to be on fire at the time. They spent that night sleeping in their newly acquired Oldsmobile and the next morning they were off. They spent the first few days driving with no destination. When they were hungry, they would stop and eat. When they were tired, they would stop and sleep. Mostly though, they just drove. After a couple of weeks, they ran out of money. With $8.61 left, and only a quarter of a tank of gas, they stopped at a mom-and-pop diner adjacent to a small gas station. They went inside and ordered their meal, their proverbial “last meal”, if you will. When they finished their meal, they knew it was time to face that nagging feeling that they had both felt since they sat down. Sitting across the table from each other, they knew they had to decide what they would do now that they were broke. Would they continue on, or would they pack it up, head home, and hope their bosses would allow them to have their old jobs back? He reached across the table, took her hands in his, and gazed into her eyes. No words were necessary and a smile was all that was shared; they knew what they would do. They paid for their meal and used the remaining $2.12 towards gas and they made their way to a little town a couple of miles north of where they were. There they parked their car and began their search. They spent two days in that town, doing odd jobs and panhandling. At the end of the second day, they had managed to raise $61, and with that, they got in their car and left. And so they went from town to town, raising what little money they could, and living their lives as nomads. When they had enough money, they would stay at a cheap motel, other times, they would find more innovative ways to spend the night in a motel room. In fact, breaking into hotel rooms became a habit for them. Most of the times, the motels were largely vacant and so owners would often look the other way. This is the way they were to live out the rest of their days and they were happy; happy to be with each other, and happy to be free. One day, after months of a nomadic existence, they stopped at a little diner at the edge of a very small town. They had a nice little meal together and had no trouble paying the bill. As they sat, enjoying the relaxed feeling that comes from a full stomach, his eyes drifted out the window and noticed a man in an olive coat, with a bushy beard and bags under his eyes, making his way towards the diner. At that very same moment, her eyes drifted towards the manager’s office in the back of the diner, just to the left of the kitchen where she heard muffled screaming. Just then, the door to the office opened and out walked a heavy-set man wearing a short sleeve white shirt with a black tie, his eyes outlined by the thick black framing of his glasses; this was the manager. Following the manager out of his office was a man in an apron; this was the cook. “I don’t care if you have a family to feed, and I certainly don’t care if you got another job, if you can’t work tomorrow night, you’re FIRED! Simple as that” said the manager. The cook only stared at him; his jaw clenched tight, his brow raised in frustration, sweat dripping from his temple, the cook took off his apron, threw it at the manager, and simply walked away. As the cook made his way out of the diner, the man with the olive coat held the door open for him. The cook thanked the man with the olive coat and was on his way. The man in the olive coat stepped into the diner – he looked to be a man of at least forty odd years – and acknowledged the couple as they sat at their table with a slight nod. She smiled at the man in the olive coat, and he jokingly saluted the man in the olive coat with his index and middle fingers raised to his brow. The man in the olive coat smiled at them and then turned his attention to the manager. The manager, sensing what was sure to come, frowned in anticipation. “Please, sir, I’m homeless, could you help me out with some food … scraps, whatever, I haven’t had a bite to eat in two days. Please, sir” pleaded the homeless man in the olive coat as he looked up at the manager who seemed to tower over him. What followed was a display of power. With a sadistic smile and a crossing of the arms across his chest, the manager said, “Get the fuck out”, turned his back on the homeless man and walked away. The homeless man, sensing the disgust in the manager’s voice, hung his head as if admitting defeat. The couple, who had witnessed this, was deeply distraught. She looked worriedly into his eyes, and he returned the gaze. No words were exchanged, he simply got up and gave the homeless man a twenty-dollar bill, headed to the exit and held the door open as she walked out, and he followed. The homeless man, a bit shocked at what had happened, was not able to say “Thank you” to the couple until after they were gone, and then it seemed to be directed more at God than at them. Much to the indignation of the manager, the homeless man ate that day. After leaving the diner, the couple was still very distraught at what they had seen. He knew something had to be done, but wasn’t sure she would be on board with it. He had always counted on her support for anything he did, but now, with what he was thinking of doing, he wasn’t so sure she would go along with it. He parked the car in a rather empty parking lot, opened the door and got out, asking her to stay where she was. He opened the trunk and began rummaging through the little belongings they still had. He found an old cigar box; he didn’t smoke. He closed the trunk and got back in the driver’s seat, still holding the cigar box. He didn’t look at her, he was afraid to. Instead, he handed her the box. She took it nervously. She opened it. Her eyes widened at what she saw. In the box lay an old Single-Action-Army Revolver, the kind the gunslingers always had in the old western movies she remembered seeing as a kid. Her eyes still wide from the surprise of seeing the gun, she looked up to him. Only then, did he turn and finally meet her gaze. Her look was one of shock, his, one of fear, fear of what she would think of him. He cautiously took the gun from the box and cracked open the front-end, exposing the cylinder; it was empty. It was then that she understood what he intended to do, and only then did she grant him a smile and a nod of approval. He returned the smile, put the gun back in the box, and started the car. Five minutes later, they were back at the diner. He pulled into a parking spot, and put the car in park; he looked at her and was encouraged by her reassuring eyes. He took the empty gun from the box and tucked it behind his back and into his pants. He was visibly nervous; his hands trembled with fear, after all, he had never done something like this. As he was about to step back into the diner, he glanced back at the car where she awaited his return; she smiled that familiar smile that always seemed to make him feel at ease. He took a deep breath and entered the diner. He slowly made his way up to the counter. The manager, distracted by some kind of paper work, had not noticed his entry into the diner and so remained occupied on his trivial work. After reaching the counter, he noticed that the manager was still unaware of his presence. So he lifted his hand and gently pressed down on the counter-top bell that was used to alert the staff of a new customer. It was then that the manager looked up from his work and saw the man he had seen only a handful of minutes ago; a man who had paid for his meal; a paying customer, and therefore a welcome patron. The manager smiled and said, “What can I do for you?” His only response to this was a smile. The manager, a bit put-off by the strangeness of the encounter, let out a nervous chuckle. The manager’s chuckle and smile quickly subsided, however, when he pulled out the gun that had been hidden behind his back, and pointed it at the manager’s face. He pressed the end of the barrel, that cold steel, right between the manager’s eyes, right where the two halves of his glasses merged into one. He smiled; the manager did not. Two minutes later, with a plastic bag and the gun in hand, he left the diner. He got in the car, turned to her, and handed her the bag. She looked at him, then at the bag, then back at him, and smiled. He was no longer looking at her – he didn’t have to look at her to know what her reaction would be - but instead at the road as they made their way to the next town. At the next town, they did something similar, and again at the next. Soon, they began to hold-up and rob pimps, brothels, drug dealers, anyone they felt could stand to loose a few bucks as well as have their egos brought down a couple of notches. This would be the new way they were to make their living. At one fateful town, in the south-west of Texas, about 20 miles from the border, they decided to “borrow” some money from a local drug dealer. The drug dealer was supposed to have a small operation, and so they thought it would be a relatively safe bet for a quick buck and a lesson taught. He parked the car in the driveway of the drug dealer’s house and tucked the gun behind his back, just as he had done so many times before. This time, though, she also got out of the car and walked alongside him. He didn’t like that; he didn’t think he would be able to think clearly with her beside him. Nevertheless, they made their way to the back door and knocked. A tall, well-built, bald man answered the door and looked the couple up and down without saying a word. Then, after a moment of thought, he opened up the door and gestured for them to come in. He led them down a hallway and to the right, where they came to another door. The tall man opened the door and motioned for them to go down the stairs. She went first and he followed, attempting to keep her a safe distance from the tall man. The bottom of the steps led into a well-lit area, adorned with lots of furniture, and a very big television set. They were both rather impressed by the lavishness of the drug dealer’s place of business. The drug dealer himself was seated in a dark corner, almost isolated from the luxuriousness of the rest of the room. The drug dealer asked them to sit. They sat. Feeling that the moment was right, he stood and approached the drug dealer; the drug dealer also rose from his chair only to be met with the barrel of a gun. The tall man, who had not left the room, began to approach him as he held the gun to the drug dealer’s head. The drug dealer did not shake once, not even a slight shiver as if from a sudden breeze. He became nervous. Never before had his targets not cower at the sight of his gun, and yet here was a man who was unfazed. The drug dealer let out a smile, one that he did not reciprocate, as the tall man bashed the back of the man’s head and knocked him out cold. When he came to, his arms where tied behind his back and he was knelt before a table. On that table, she lay facedown, with a gag in her mouth, and her feet dangling over the edge. He looked around and saw that the drug dealer was leaning casually on the wall to his left and the tall man was off in the distance behind her. He knew what was going to happen next; death was not at the top of the list for them, humiliation was first. The tall man began to approach her, but she could do nothing but tilt her head and watch as her impending violation approached; her eyes filled with horror. He thrashed violently to loosen himself from the ropes that bound his wrist; he fought with every ounce of blood in his body, but the tall man continued his patient approach towards her. He rose to his feet, immediately feeling the after-effects of being hit in the head, and stumbling a bit. The drug dealer assured him he would not get free and that he may as well enjoy the show. He momentarily turned his head away from her and away from the tall man, and focused on the drug dealer. His eyes filled with anger. He walked towards him; the tall man looked up at the drug dealer who motioned to him to continue as planned, the tall man obliged. As he approached the drug dealer, the drug dealer pulled out a .22 caliber pistol and pointed it leisurely at him. He continued fueled by the rage coursing through his veins. For all the rage and anger that had built up in him, he still was unable to break the ropes around his wrists; he stopped short of the drug dealer who continued to point the pistol at him, mocking his failed attempt. He looked over at her – the tall man had once again begun to approach her – and she looked at him. A look of despair entered his eyes; he was lost. His eyes began to water as he sensed what was to come next; she was moments away from unimaginable pain. Her eyes, while filled with suffering, found his. In her eyes, he saw the one thing that inspired the surge of strength needed to break his restraints; he saw the love that she had offered him since the moment they met. He snapped the ropes and lunged at the drug dealer. A shot was fired and a struggle ensued. The tall man, having not quite made it to the table on which the girl lay, chose to abandon his approach towards her and instead rush to the aid of the drug dealer. By the time the tall man was within striking distance, he stopped dead in his tracks. There he stood, towering above the drug dealer, with the pistol held firmly in his grip. He looked down and saw the pleading eyes of the drug dealer. He looked up and saw the shocked eyes of the tall man, and with his jaw clenched tight, adrenaline and love and rage still flowing in his blood, he emptied six shots into the drug dealer. He then turned, and aimed the gun at the tall man’s face, who’s eyes now conveyed the pleads for mercy the drug dealer had only moments ago expressed. He lowered the gun only slightly and let out two more blasts, obliterating the tall man’s right kneecap. The tall man dropped to the floor and screamed in agony. He stopped screaming, however, when he realized that the man had now knelt in front of him, and had the gun pointed to his face. Again, the tall man said nothing, yet his eyes begged for mercy. He aimed the gun towards the left wall and emptied what was left of the clip. He then took the barrel, still smoking from the several rounds it had just fired, and placed it against the tall man’s eye. The tall man let out shrieks of far greater intensity than those cause by the pain of his knee. And with that, he got up, walked over to her, released her and together they headed up the stairs. He dropped the gun on the way. Once they were both in the car, he in the passenger’s seat and she behind the wheel, they took off south, towards the border. About five miles down the road, he looked at her, and saw she was crying, but these were different tears than before, these were tears of sorrow. And that’s when he looked down and saw his clothes drenched in blood. His head fell back in the seat and he clutched his abdomen, his wound, with his right hand; his other hand searched for hers. She slammed on the brakes, stopped the car, took his hand in hers, and cradled his head in her arms. He was now in a position to look out into the stars but chose instead to look into her eyes. Her eyes were now hidden behind a flood of tears, but he could see through the tears and into her soul. The tears that poured from her eyes flowed gently down her cheeks, outlining the beauty of her face. The moonlight reflected off of her tears, creating a sort of glow. Her tears fell from her cheeks and landed onto his bloodstained shirt. Their eyes were locked together in an infinite gaze. His heart began to beat slower and slower still. The blood began to slow in his veins, yet his eyes remained locked on hers. As his heart pumped for the last time, his vision blurred, and suddenly, he was gone. At that instant, he was pulled back to reality by the sound of the mechanical doors of the train jerking open. He looked up just in time to see her stand and head towards the doors, hesitating only for a second to turn and smile in his direction. And then, she stepped off the train and was gone forever. He felt a stabbing pain in his chest as the dramatic ending of Going On serenaded his heartbreak. At the next stop, he got off the train, and went to work. After work, he decided against taking a cab home, opting instead to take the train.
Copyright © 2008 Hector Vaca |