A look. Take a glance. See the man that in a moment will not see you. A circus show that later the passengers would return to their families and form tales around. “I knew there was something fishy about that one,” said the old man, close enough to death himself that he was happy when he outlasted a boy. “I saw the gun before he took it out,” spoke the prospective police officer, glum that his current training had not yet become practical. “I figured what he was going to do, and tried to stop him, but it was too late,” preached the dropout, relinquishing a bit of his parent’s money as well as a narrative in an attempt to get laid at the bar. To Greg’s chagrin, few care before something happens, and those that do should mind their own business. That was how he, and most likely the rest of the union’s younger generation were brought up. That wouldn’t cut it, however. Not today. Today they must see. Touching his left jacket pocket, Greg felt the comforting solidity of the pistol trigger that might just end his life. I don’t think I can do it. No one is watching yet. For this piddling reason, it was likely that sometime the train would come to a stop, drop his intact brains and his gun off, and continue on.

He had chosen his place to be both undisturbed by the shuffling and muttering of the other passengers, but also to be easily visible. After noticing his finger clinging to the trigger, Greg frowned, lifted his entire arm, and repositioned it so his hand spread wide across the windowpane. Readjusting his legs, (subtly shuffling in the process) he turned his head, and straightened his eyes at the man sitting next to him on a nearly empty bench. Only one. Frustrated, Greg stood, expectantly exposing the pistol for half a second. His neighbor glared at him, but to Greg’s discontent, failed to notice the gun. He had a little more luck with the conductor, who rushed to a telephone, staring at his jacket. At the conductor’s feet was a long aisle, stretching to…

“Why do I care so much about some carpet on a train?” Greg’s face, turning red, looked to the strangers in the vicinity. Luckily, none of them seemed to hear what he had said. Each had their attention directed somewhere arbitrary. None knew it yet, but when morbid pining leaked from their mouths like blood on a train aisle, they would wish they had forgotten their distractions for just a few minutes. The man seated two rows in front bore a newspaper dated November 2, 2007. A woman beside him glared at the sharp monitor of a laptop, and to her left, a child pressed the keys of a cell phone. It seemed that no one really cared enough to pity a dead man until after he was a corpse. Easy to see but hard to come by. Eye candy for your average American, but most foreigners appreciate still limbs and cold red in equal enthrallment. Any self-respecting human does, and this is what Greg would try to tap from.

He stared at the brown carpet of the thinning aisle. It doesn’t matter what the train looks like. The sooner it’s done the better. Fear leapt into his chest. Oh no. The carpet was a good shade to hide blood. Would have hoped it was a lighter color. Before he could finish his thought, an unanticipated, alien burst of loyalty to a swing at his soon-to-be-dead cranium. Knowing the place you die is something special. Special? The place hadn’t the dignity to put his gore on display. It hadn’t the committed patrons to watch his act. But. But, it almost feels like this train is mine. He stared at the aisle, aware of its cold indifference to his desire for it to be a different color. Suddenly, he was reminded of his mother’s apathy and when he broke their long silence a few days before.

“Ma, I need your gun.” She hadn’t told him no, or begged him to stay (like a mother should have). She’d given him the gun, not a soft word spoken. She even let him stay in the guest bedroom. Similarly, the train would give him rest and succor, but it would not care, would not even let him stain the already dull brown carpet. Greg slowly moved his eyes away from the aisle. The uninvited man sitting beside him wore a faded red windbreaker that failed to conceal his wrinkled skin and thick, fleshy hands, another hided sheep. Mouth for keeping open. Eyes to look. Sighing, Greg knew they shared his train, and decided to acknowledge him.
    
“Stopping at LA?” A grunt of recognition, and he turned to Greg, revealing watery eyes framed by glasses.
    
“I’m staying with my mother when we drop off.” Remembering the last station, as well as his old predicament, Greg said, “Me too. From Chicago?” The older man perked up, pleased with the question.
       
“Lived in Milwaukee when I was a kid. Guess my mother wanted to go somewhere warmer. Good place to live California, bad place to die, all alone from your children you taught to love home.” He smiled, sharing his joke about his dying mother with himself, and continued, “Everyone is still up north. She didn’t listen.” Choosing to remain silent and let the man continue to grin at himself, Greg turned to the ceiling, only slightly repulsed. It was low, dotted with lights and little vents where warm air trickled from, a healthy shade of grey. This again? Greg couldn’t figure out what he was doing wrong, until he caught himself looking at the red of his chair. What does the color of my chair matter when a bullet threatens to pass through my skull? Pushing the unsettling thought to the back of his head, Greg decided to glance out his window.

Nebraska’s monochromatic plains stretched to the horizon, where they met the vast drear of clouds. He wouldn’t have seen the other train racing with them if not for the distant call of its horn. He looked away from the window, once again at the aisle. As he smiled and sat back, his seat embraced him. The other train could not have comforted him then. What a feeling, to belong. This train, this train is my train. Greg looked at the man from Milwaukee. Our train. He almost didn’t care when the conductor brought a group of policemen to his seat. Greg smiled, and eased his outstretched arms to their handcuffs, allowing them to shove him to the ground and rummage through his coat until his gun was collected. Not even the horrified look of his neighbor managed to shake off his feeling of content; Greg knew his train was better than the one that passed by, and no gun, stranger, or set of handcuffs would change that. He shared one last smile and a soft, reassuring touch with the carpet, and permitted the officer to lead him from the gaping passenger compartment. They were fooled. Though Greg wasn’t swaddled in a body bag, he still managed to capture their thoughts. For now, but not for long. Greg would see his train again, he knew it.