To Watch the Train

I had to do double duty this week working the reference desk at the circulation desk. Happens on holidays when staff go off to do whatever it is they do. They all said they were not traveling, staying in, just going online to say hey to family.

     Whatever they are doing, the small crew here is catching up on small projects and manning desks. The phones all route through the circulation desk anyway due to most questions being about the hours and account issues, so catching the occasional question here is not a large bother. Still, those odd balls come bouncing when everyone else is on break.

     "I want to watch the train," he said. His voice was deep and measured. Not quiet. A low rumbled on the other end of the line.

     "Sure, how can I help you?" I said.

     "I want to watch the train."

     "Do you need directions to the station?"

     "To the people with the train."

     "I'm not sure I understand. What do you need?"

     "I want to watch the train."

     "Which train, sir?"

     "The train."

     I decided to change tactics. "What do you need to do at the train?"

     "I want to watch the train."

     "Is it at a museum?" Silence, no words, just a heavy thick breathing. "Sir, are you there?"

     "I want to watch the train."

     "Sir, I need a little more. Which train?"

     "The train. I want to watch the train."

     "Is it a real train like Amtrak? The subway? A painting or sculpture? What kind of train do you want to watch?" Now the breathing stopped. Pure quiet. "Sir, are you there?"

     "The train. Goodbye."

     The rest of the lunch hour went by. I kept my eye on the phone, hoping it would not ring again. In case it did, I searched every train station around, all the paintings and sculptures with trains I could find, and even found a model train store two towns over. Brenda came back, and I filled her in. 

     Brenda said, "That's Mr. Logan. Yeah, he don't talk much. Don't know why, he's fine in the head. Probably embarrassed. He wanted to put the Human Centipede on hold."

     I just looked at her.

     "You know, the movie where a crazy ass doctor sews-"

     I stood and put up a hand. "I got it," I said.

     "What end do you think you'd rather be on? I always said first because that's the right answer, but my dad said he thought everyone was already on the back end. I guess that's true, but in a more metaphorical sense. I just don't want someone telling me where we're going."

     "I'm going to lunch," I said.