"Trying to survive?" The steel doors made a whoosh sound as they opened.
"Very funny. You're a real brainiac."
"I try. Make yourself comfortable." The doors closed again.
"It'd be the first time, you know what I mean? What's comfy
anymore?"
The driver nodded. "Yeah, no kidding. The longer we live, the harder it gets. Well, at least it's not a long trip."
"Good. I'm ready to get this over with."
"Most are. So what's your story?"
"Who's asking?"
"For a first timer, you’re pretty suspicious, but okay then. You can play it that way. Like I said, it's not a cross continent kind of trip. I usually keep us both occupied with talking. Do it your way."
"Like the burger place? I can have it my way? Fine, fine.
Music. It's music. I'm the talent behind the scene, you know what I mean?"
The driver seemed to draw into himself."Wow. That's what makes you special then?"
"Dunno. Makes me stupid more like. I mean, what kind of
jerk goes around filled up with music oozing out every
step?"
"Usually the gifted ones. I understand being gifted makes
it more difficult. So what happened?"
"Oh you know, got busy, set up the stuff, made a few sounds. Got on a yapping trip with a roadie outside while
sucking in some nicotine."
A small laugh. "Smoke? Oh boy. That's the worst."
"Hey it comes with the territory. Chicks think it's macho.
You don't have any do..."
The driver slid around uncomfortably. "Um. No. Don't go there."
"Okay, okay. So anyway, we were analyzing and talking when
this dude comes strolling down the alley. Looked drunk to
me, but the roadie decided to be nice and say hi."
"That's when it happened?"
"Yeah. You sure you don't have a ..."
A quick shake of the driver’s head. "No. You wouldn't like it anyway. Things change."
"What kind of things?"
"Tastes for things. Your appreciation for things."
"I see. I guess I've been out of connection too long."
"What happened then?"
"The dude pulled out a gun. No time for a meeting of the
minds, you know what I mean? The shooting went on and on.
It seemed forever. My friend the roadie had one too. He
sure knew how to use it."
Now the driver was shaking all over. "You got caught in the cross-fire?"
"I guess."
"I heard how it ended. You were quick to think. The gun ended up in your hands, how’d that happen?"
"That's the deal, isn't it? Things got really fuzzy after
the shooting started."
"You don't remember anything?"
"Yeah. Like that."
"Well, at least you don't have some dreadful disease that
made you forget. The last guy who got in with me, well, it
was awful what diseased minds can conjure up."
Silence.
"Is that it up there, with all the flashes?"
The driver seemed to grow larger. "Yep. Just ahead."
"Never thought before about the words 'end of the line'.
There really is one huh?"
"Oh yeah. There really is. At least your body died the day
of the shooting. No pain if you go through those gates
now. Minds are the last part of the train to humanity. The caboose if you will."
"I'm on the way then. Thanks for the ride. You're a pretty
cool dude. As minds go."
The driver smiled as the light grew brighter and brighter. "That's what I am. That's what I do."
The deep-dive literary meditations presented as stories, poems, and essays in The American Poet Who Went Home Again, A Mosaic of My Soul at Work, have captivated and inspired readers ever since its first paperback publication in 2008.
