Train Love John Smith was an average man. He had an average name, an average salary, an average life.

He wasnt one to spend money on luxuries; he lived in a respectable one-floor home in a small country village and didnt even own a car. He paid his taxes and obeyed the law; he worked five days a week from nine a.m. to six p.m. John had no hobbies. He owned no television; he didnt much like books; he didnt like to watch or play any sports. There was, however, one thing that John was particularly interested in: trains.

As a child, John had lived in San Joseph with his parents, Greg and Martha Smith. San Joseph was a large city situated on the eastern side of Joseph Bay, the main route for the large ships that carried materials to and from the many factories in the city. John and his parents had lived in a small, two-bedroom apartment in an old grey building overlooking the bay. The view from the small windows of the apartment would have been beautiful if it werent for the smoke stacks from the factories obscuring the water. John had been an average student at school; he had average grades and few friends. His parents were themselves quite average: his mother was a secretary at a travel agency and his father was a mediocre electrician by trade. Their apartment contained only the essentials needed to live in the city. Each room had a lumpy bed, a small dresser and a ceiling fan. The bathroom contained a small shower with a clich duck-pattern curtain, a stained, white sink beneath a square mirror, and a toilet. The living room was large enough to fit one three-person couch and a small TV set with crooked antennas. A small family portrait was nailed sturdily to the wall behind the couch, reminding the Smiths of what they

valued. Connected to the living room was a tiny kitchen with a table in the middle. The kitchen had a fridge and oven, a few drawers beneath a short countertop, and a sink. John had never really appreciated his childhood. Sure, he loved his parents, but he had always felt as though he had been cheated out of something better. All of the kids at school had luxuries that John had never owned but had always wanted. When he asked his mother to buy him a toy that one of the kids had shown him at school, she simply replied, Toys are items of immaterial wealth. They arent nearly as precious as the memories and dreams within your head. This was always the answer when John asked for toys. The only toy that John had owned as a child was a small plastic train that he had received as a gift from his uncle on his twelfth birthday. Perhaps it was that one toy that had begun Johns obsession with the world of trains. Or maybe it was the cargo trains that would pass by the apartment every night, traveling from the factories within the city to places all over the state. He would often stay up late to catch a glimpse of one of the trains as it rounded the corner outside the apartment window. He would imagine himself as the conductor in the locomotive, pulling on the wire that would release the horns deep sound as if it were a racehorse exploding out of the starting gate. It would be an uncontested warning to anyone foolish enough to be near the train tracks. Whatever the stimulus for Johns obsession had been, it had worked to develop a deep desire within John: he wanted to ride a train. Throughout the years, Johns desire to ride a train grew ever stronger. After John had graduated with a degree from an average college in the city and received an averagepaying job at a local newspaper company, he decided to finally fulfill his dream. After saying goodbye to his parents and the apartment that had been his childhood home, John

took everything he owned (which fit neatly into a suitcase) and moved to the small village of Braxton, situated in the countryside several miles from San Joseph. Braxtons distance from the city was ideal, as was the one feature of the village that influenced Johns decision to live there. On the western side of Braxton, just before the highway exit, was a train station.

The Brighton Express was a beautiful passenger train, complete with six large passenger cars and a majestic steam-powered locomotive. Its flexible schedule placed it at the Braxton train station around six-thirty every morning and ten-thirty every night, excluding weekends. As Johns method of transportation to and from work, he found himself at the station every morning with a cup of coffee and the morning paper, keenly awaiting the trains arrival. If John had lived in the city, he could have easily walked to work in the morning and then back to his home at night, yet he was quite content with his current situation. He didnt mind getting up early on week days in order to make it to the station, and he didnt mind getting home late at night upon his return to Braxton. As long as his trip to work and his return trip home were aboard the beautiful Brighton Express, John was happy to accept the inconvenient timeframes at which he found himself at the station. As was his routine, John would wait until the Brighton Express arrived and everyone at the station had boarded the train before he threw out his empty coffee cup and newspaper and then finally boarded the train himself. He never had to worry about finding a seat; although there were usually about forty people on each ride, nearly everyone was a regular and, as such, had their own designated seat. This is not to say that each seat had the

designees name on it; once someone sat in a seat three times, it was seen by everyone else that the seat belonged to that person. It was an unwritten, unbroken code upon the Brighton Express. As such, it was a great surprise to John when he entered the train one Monday to see a young woman sitting in his very own seat. John had not seen the woman get on the train in Braxton, nor had he seen her around town. Of this he was sure: the womans long brown hair which curled at the ends, just after the shoulders; her plump lips, red and shining with an expensive gloss; her trim dress which ended at her knees; all of these features would have stood out to John had he seen her before. He pondered asking the woman to move, to select a different seat to occupy, but he could not find the courage. The truth of the matter was that John, a man who had not loved anything in his life but trains, was in love with the woman who was sittingso beautifully, so elegantly- in his seat. Instead of approaching the woman, John found himself a seat several rows behind her and began to think of a way to somehow begin a conversation with her. Oh my, did it hurt? he would ask. Did what hurt? the woman would reply. When you fell from heaven, John would answer. The woman would give a mocking laugh and look the other way. Embarrassed with his horrible clich pickup line, John would return to his temporary seat and would have no chance of restoring his dignity. No, that would not work. He needed to think of something better than a horrible pickup line to woo this beautiful woman. After several minutes of deep thought, he had it. My seat, John would say. That is my seat.

Oh, Im sorry. I didnt know it was yours, the woman would say. The woman would then excuse herself and attempt to get up from the seat. In her quick withdrawal, the woman would stumble. As he would reach to stop her from falling, John would accidentally brush her- no. John felt himself flush; hed been alone for so long that he had forgotten the power of lust that associates itself with human emotion. He wouldnt let his own emotions get the better of him. One thing he liked about trains was that the complex machines did not have emotions, nor did they evoke the emotional arousal within him that was present when he looked at the woman. It was not fair, how different trains were from humans. Desperately, John wracked his brain for an alternative solution. Good morning, he would say, my name is John. Oh hello, the woman would reply, so is mine. What? That did not make sense. How could such a beautiful woman have a mans name- could she (or he) actually be a man? Moreover, how could such a beautiful woman actually be a man? It was crazy to think so; in fact, it was crazy to think he even had a chance to connect with this woman. She was so beautiful, so radiant, so human. A distant bell rung and John snapped back to the present. Looking out the window to his right, he could see that the train had stopped and the occupants were streaming out of the doors and into the city station, ready to begin their boring days. He looked up to his usual seat to see that the woman was gone; he had been so preoccupied with conjuring a plan to talk to her that he had not even gotten the chance to introduce himself. Now she was gone, absorbed into the city like a microscopic water droplet soaked into a large oak, and he would never see her again.

John stood from his seat and exited the train, stepping heavily onto the pavement of the city station. As he turned around to watch the Brighton Express accelerate down the tracks, he couldnt help but think, at least I saw one beautiful being leave. It was true: though John never saw the woman again, he continued to travel on the Brighton Express every weekday until the day he died. And although he never received the love of a beautiful woman, he was always near the thing he loved: trains.