Back on the train, the conductor was walking
around saying, “Tickets, please.” I was staring
out the window, rocking back and forth as the
car sped through a tunnel in the side of a
mountain. The woman from the Russian village
was gone. I was alone in the darkness. A
green hand grabbed my arm and a voice asked my name.
I shrugged and said nothing. “Do you really think
you can just leave that woman behind, shithead?
Do you think you have the right to chain her up
and throw away the key? She’s a bird, moron!”
I chuckled and pursed my lips. “She’s a bird, all
right. She’s a big chicken. Bawk-bawk-bawk! Ba-cock!”
A man three rows up shifted in his seat as
if something was poking him from underneath
and I couldn’t help but turn my head and grin.
All of the sudden the train rocked back and forth
and I heard metallic banging outside. Ten
seconds later the train came to a stop in
the middle of a busy intersection.
I stepped onto the pavement, raised the collar
of my topcoat and put on my Wayfarer
sunglasses. 13 feet away, in a red
Chrysler, Leonardo DiCaprio and
Ellen Page sat staring at me as I passed.
Somewhere outside my line of sight I heard Chris
Nolan yell, “Cut! Where did that train come from? Whose
idea was it to put that there?” I rushed
past, hoping to avoid his glare, and when I
reached the front of the train, the engineer asked
for my ticket. I winked and pulled my pockets
inside out. The engineer gasped and nodded.
“Who are you?” he asked, his face white as snow. “I
must have your name for my records. It’s the law.”
“Law don’t go ’round here, law dog,” I chuckled,
as I walked on. “Don’t you know where you are, Mac?”