Railway Lane

Flash Fiction | "A hungry ghost, a holiday, and ice cream"

It was one of those downhill trolleys, a boxcar colored in rust traveling on rails which brightly reflected the summer sunshine. The car had stopped to pick up new passengers, and the last to climb on board was an old man in an old brown jacket. With a shudder the car started down the hill and a cool breeze wicked the sweat off many foreheads. The old man leaned out the window and watched the houses as they passed, melting like the drippings of an ice cream cone.

Before the war there hadn't been any boxcars in the city. Then technology exploded. It had been a hot, dreamy day like today when he'd bought his first television set. He hiked it all the way home, four miles, uphill both ways, just like when his parents carried water from the well. His wife had loved that TV set; it was the first color set to ever hit the shelves. That had been, what, forty years? Fifty years ago?

The cart leveled out as they passed through the arts district. Ah, now there were some memories. Dancing in the streets to the salsa bounce of a back alley jazz band, her skirt twirling in the breeze, sweat soaking through his shirt. There was the little store where he'd bought his first real pair of dress shoes--brown leather sole, black leather on the upper. His wife loved the way they shined after a healthy polish. "You look like a manager," she said.

The boxcar stopped in midtown. A gaggle of young men shoved off into the city with loud, racous laughter. He'd been a young man too, hadn't he? Cavorting about in the bars with his friends, stumbling into the street with their ties loose around their necks, busted knuckles and bloody noses and not a care in the universe. Some days, they'd dance until the morning came and wake up with not a memory in their heads. Those were the days he slept until noon and had breakfast for dinner. The old man smiled; his wrinkles felt like they were fading at the very thought.

He was a younger man now, fresh and in his prime, and as the boxcar went around the bend, the gleam of the bay caught in his eyes. More memories trickled in. He'd seen a woman he loved on a yacht he could never afford. She was holding a glass of champagne in her hand. A pearl bracelet glimmered around her narrow wrist. A few years later he'd fall in love with another woman at the same bay. She pulled a fish from the sea with a yank of her rod, the amber sunlight glancing off the whitecaps like tiny ice crystals. He laughed, thinking about how he'd thrown up as she gutted the fish while he was trying to ask her on a date.

The bay vanished behind the swarm of the projects. The boxcar slowed to a stop and more people got off and the riff-raff piled on. He watched them pass by without a glance in his direction. He held his nose high as if he'd never been a teenager out looking for trouble. Those days felt like an eternity ago—ducking out of his bedroom window by moonlight, prowling the streets with his Steppenwolf thoughts, climbing over fences he shouldn't touch and stretching out on rooftops he shouldn't reach just to get a better look at the lonely moon. He'd had a girl then who loved to sit with him and talk deep into the night. It didn't matter that it was a school night. It only mattered that they were together.

The boxcar left downtown and fell through a lush arbor that filtered the sunlight down in verdant shades. He felt his excitement grow; the area out the window looked familiar. There was the bent tree from when he'd wrecked his dad's car at 14. There was the small clearing where you could see the bay open up for miles in every direction and watch the steamer ships pull into the harbor with their massive cargos. All seemed to fade away as the trees suddenly grew thicker before opening up into a little brick town with a railway stop which was hardly more than a slab of concrete and a thin metal bar.

The young boy stepped off the boxcar and it shuddered down the tracks, out of town, and out of sight. Despite all his years the town had hardly noticed his absence. The shops, the town hall, even the library—everything was in its place. There was even the ancient restaurant, a family tradition since he could remember, and a town staple with a wood placard so old the founding year had been weathered away. His sister and two brothers always begged for dessert after dinner, and there was no better place for dessert than the soda shop right next door.

He strode proudly into that bright store with a dime burning a hole in his hot little hand. An old, wizened man with tufts of white hair coming off his ears stood behind the counter in a white and red striped shirt and apron. He smiled, recognizing the boy who was on his way to the counter. In his hand the old man had a tall ice cream cone—chocolate dipped strawberry, double scoop—and he leaned over the counter to make the trade for the dime.

The boy took the ice cream outside and sat on the stoop to watch the boxcars trundle past. Piece by piece the ice cream disappeared, and once the last bite was gone, the young boy went with it, as did the teenager, the young man, the old man, and all those precious memories of his long and lovely life.