The Last Train

I’m swinging my feet back and forth while sitting on a bench at the San Juan subway station. The floor is dirty and the trash cans are overflowing with random flyers, plastic bottles, and snack wrappers. It smells like stagnant water, and I can hear big AC machines whirring loudly. Even though I’m the only one here, I don’t feel scared. In the distance, the rumble of the train starts creeping in. Unfortunately, it’s not the train I’m waiting for. I keep swinging my feet while watching the yellow cars of the train slowing down. When they finally come to a halt and their doors open with a hiss, lots of people step onto the platform and hurry their way across the station.

I’m surprised, like every kid is, to recognize Myriam, my second grade teacher, coming out of the train. She is even wearing the white uniform teachers wear in my country. She is a middle-aged woman, short, plump and with a motherly look about her. I remember when I met her.

It was my first day at her school because my mum and I had just moved from a different part of town after she and my dad broke up. My mum was a wreck of nerves at the thought of leaving me alone there because she was afraid my dad would do something stupid. She wanted to stay the whole day with me and was having problems understanding she wasn’t allowed to. She kept insisting and arguing with the principal. When the bell rang and it was time for everybody to go to their classroom, Myriam opened the door to the principal’s office, put her hand on my mum’s shoulder, looked her in the eye and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of her.” My mum was never scared of leaving me there again.

One of my best friends, Rocio, is also leaving the train. On that first day of elementary school we sat together and we immediately became inseparable. We used to get in trouble because of how much we chatted and laughed during class. I remember a winter she even lived with us because her dad was in the hospital. The man had worked at the mines in the north of the country when he was young, so his lungs were pretty fragile, and that winter was viciously cold. Rocio and I used to chat so much my mum decided I should sleep with Rocio on the couch, instead of sleeping in the bed with her, like we usually did because of lack of space in our studio apartment. Every now and then we would get scolded because our giggling and whispering didn’t let my mother sleep, even though the couch was on the opposite side of the room.

After the passengers disperse and the train continues on its way, I am left by myself again, now pacing back and forth along the yellow painted line at the edge of the platform and I realize I’m not entirely sure of where I’m supposed to go, and there are no maps on the station, just vague signs covered by dust and flyers. I start checking the contents of my purse to see if I wrote my destination down on something but the distant skidding of the wheels against the rails reaches my ears and interrupts my train of thought. Unfortunately, as the new train arrives, I can tell this isn’t the train I’m supposed to take, either.

Mr. Rosa, one of my high school math teachers, and his wife exit this train as it stops at the station. She is carrying the cutest little baby. When I met Mr. Rosa, his wife was still pregnant. He was a tall, happy man with a friendly tooth gap. From his black shoes and Khakis to his green sweater and short ebony hair, everything about him resembled the geometrical figures he used to teach us. I recalled one day, in order to make us understand the similarities between negative numbers and positive numbers, he grabbed my good friend Sebastian from his ankles and turned him upside down asking, “Is he still Sebastian?” to the delight and laughter of the whole class. He used to tutor until very late at night to make ends meet after his wife had the baby, and more than one of us still owes him more than one evening’s worth of tutoring for helping us get through high school math.

Paula is also leaving the station. She was one of the first girls from high school to get pregnant. She kept attending in spite of having a belly twice the size of her head. Too bad raising the child became too much for her to keep up with her studies. She was very lucky to have her in-laws help so much with the kid even though the father wasn’t involved. I heard he ran to the countryside and now has a whole other family there.

Once this second train leaves and I am alone again with my boredom, I pick up one of the flyers that are all over the floor and walls. I realize it’s the invitation to my first art gallery as a painter. My mum was so proud. She went all the way from her Villa Del Parque apartment to the art gallery in Recoleta - that’s a 50-minute bus ride - just to see my drawings hanging on the gallery wall. She even bought one of them after I told her I would be happy to just give it to her for free. After the show, my friends, her and me, went to a pizzeria and stayed talking and laughing until very late in the evening. The piece she purchased and a picture the waiter took of all of us that night are with me still today.

The horn from another oncoming train interrupts my trip through memory lane, but since, yet again, it’s not the train I’m supposed to take, I sit on one of those horribly uncomfortable benches to watch the passengers leave to their destinations.

Leaving this train I see Matthew, Rocio’s son, coming from school with his mum, my oldest friend. He is wearing the same uniform we used to wear when we were his age. Rocio and I are still best friends, and meet all the time when she does my hair at the salon. I’m pregnant now, and it’s hard to stand up to greet her. Plus, the roar of the train’s engine starting again, drowns out my hey’s and Rocio’s, so she leaves the station without noticing me.

My boyfriend also leaves the train. A skinny, balding, stressed looking man. He is one of those people that go through life being chased by an impending sense of doom. I remember the day we met.

My mum and I were at a rough equivalent of a social security office asking for benefits. My mum and I were going through some hard times, and we needed to get some money to get through them. He was the teller to whom we pleaded our case. He was very patient and funny and ended up approving us for benefits. When I left for the restroom - a bit of an emergency after standing there for a couple of hours - my mum told him to copy my phone number from the application and give me a call later in the week. I thought the whole thing was kind of embarrassing and even a little bit creepy, but we ended up going out for drinks anyway and soon enough we were a couple.

I sit down after the crowd goes about their business to wherever they’re going to. The bench is cold and doesn’t feel designed for sitting over long periods of time, yet I’m feeling too tired and faint to stay on my feet. To pass the time I play with my wedding band. The second and last wedding band I ever wore. The first one, given to me by the boyfriend I mentioned before and who ended up being a monster of a husband, I had sold years before. The distraction works perfectly since I can already hear the thunderous roar of yet another train coming. I think this might be my train. I can hardly remain seated from the excitement, but I am soon disappointed to find out it’s not the train I’m looking for.

From the doors erupts a smaller crowd, the smallest yet. Only two or three people leap over the treacherous gap between platform and machine. My second husband was the first of them. He was a strong man, some ten years older than me, grey-haired and barrel-chested. And oh was barrel chested the right word to describe him. Not only did his body share the shape of barrels, but also the predisposition to hold large amounts of wine. I remember after coming from the factory, he could hardly wait before opening a bottle of table wine and indulging himself. Although I admit I initially found him rather brusque and uncouth, I spent some of the happiest years of my life with that man. He had a steady job, an accountable disposition, and never laid a finger on me. He was also very talented at making me laugh, and was always there for me, even if he wasn’t always sober. We were by no means rich, especially after the factory shut down, but we were a team.

I remember he stood by me on the worst day of my life. It was a cold Thursday afternoon when I received the call. I don’t really know what I was doing at the time since I don’t really remember anything about that day except the feeling that something was inexorably wrong. The whole day had felt like the moment in a dream when you start suspecting it’s indeed a nightmare. The raspy voice of a lady informed me, between cigarette puffs, my only son had died. Back in those days, the life of a woodcutter was savage and more often than not, cut short by a combination of treacherous wilderness and poor working conditions. Good old Ricardo - my late husband’s name - stood by me, and tried to nurse my grievously injured spirit back to health. But a mother never fully recovers from the death of a child.

Still sitting on the bench, no longer able to swing my feet back and forth, I take a look at myself. My hands are wrinkled and my hair is thin and white by now. But it won’t be long. I know the next train I hear coming is the one. I’m certain of it. When the machine puffs to a stop, I recognize it instantly. It isn’t different from the other trains, but at the same time, it’s very distinct. This is it. It is empty except for some pigeons that fly out of the car as soon as the doors slide open. Those pigeons have been my staunch friends throughout this last few years of my life and I find it very fitting they are the last ones to say their farewells. I conjured the strength to walk towards the train, while I said my goodbyes to the station. My last home, I guess. I get on the train, the doors close and I’m soon enveloped by the darkness of the tunnel.



Graham grumbled and looked at his phone. His girlfriend was angry at him for being late, but what could he do. He sent a text message to her

train's delayed. homeless lady died on a bench