The Picture in His Pocket

John woke late; the alarm clock on his phone decided not to go off on that warm Tuesday morning. He shot up in bed as he felt the sunlight squeeze through the curtains, a pinprick of light that coasted over his face, disturbing him awake.

He extended his hand toward the phone, grabbed it, and noted the time: seven o’clock.

“Shit.”

He was going to be late for work.

Shifting, he wrestled with the comforter and sheets tangled around him and rolled off the bed, hitting the floor with a thud.

A second later, from the nightstand, his phone erupted into “The Final Countdown.” It was clearly late for the whole “wake up” process.

With a groan, he extended his arm and turned it off.

He sat up straight, shoved the sheets aside, and lunged for his clothes. He yanked open a drawer, grabbed fresh underwear, and changed quickly. With his jeans on the floor, he reached down, grabbed and hopped into them, buttoning as he straightened.

He dashed to the bathroom. Deodorant, toothbrush—done.

At the bedroom door he grabbed a shirt, sniffed it, and winced. After a moment’s shrug, he pulled it on and stepped out.

He scrambled through his morning routine—he threw two pieces of toast into the toaster, grabbed a bottle of latte out of the fridge and snatched the toast as they popped up.

He hated rushing, but his shift started at ten-thirty, and it was a two-hour ride to the city. On any normal given day, he’d be at the station at seven-thirty. Now he risked grabbing the eight-ten.

Which meant he might be late.

He placed each piece between his fingers, shoved the bottle under his armpit, grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. Headed out the door, he fished his keys from the tray, closed it and locked it. He skipped down the stairs and exited the main entrance, stepping onto the pavement.

Bringing up a piece of toast, he took a bite, chewing it. Twisting the cap, he placed it between his fingers and chugged from the bottle before screwing the cap back on.

He also disliked eating in a rush. He always wanted more food when he ate fast. Which he might do. If he could make it to the company tower by ten-twenty, he could grab a bagel sandwich at the bodega in the main lobby. And a real, decent cup of coffee and not the sweetened bottled crap kind.

Lost in thought, he stepped into the street—straight into a car honking its horn as it slammed to a stop. His toast escaped his fingers, falling to the pavement as the bottle jarred loose from his grip and smashed to the ground next to him, wetting his shoe and the hem of his jeans.

He stepped back, his hand raised apologetically as the man cursed him out before driving off. That was another reason he hated being late; the mistakes he made when he rushed. A sigh escaped his lips, shook his head and finished crossing the street.

He wove through the small crowd of New Haven citizens on Crown Street, pulled his phone and checked the time, and cursed. At seven thirty, he was going to miss the seven thirty-six train. Which meant he’d have to catch the eight nineteen. He texted his boss that he’d be in after eleven.

He sighed and cut over to State Street, heading just past Chapel to the main entrance of New Haven State Street Station.

He walked across the copper-toned quarry tile toward the honey-toned built-in circular bench. This one showcased a glass-encased scale model train, with a Baldwin/Westinghouse EF-3b electric locomotive stating “NEW HAVEN” along the side, and attached were passenger cars. A plaque read: “Merchants Limited Streamlined Passenger Train.” He knew only the locomotive type because it was on the plaque.

Sitting against the hardwood, his eyes traveled, taking in the building. Most days he just walked right through, never paying much attention to the interior.

“Appreciating the decor?” remarked an elder gentleman who sat down next to him. He looked up, admiring the interior of the building.

He sighed and shook his head. “They don’t make ’em like this anymore. Twentieth-century Beaux-Arts civic architecture. Limestone walls and a decorative coffered ceiling. Back then, buildings like these were works of art. Architects had more passion. They wanted something that would stand the test of time. Nowadays, it’s cookie-cutter buildings and whatever can go up the fastest.”

John paused, gazing toward the ceiling. It was ornamental, made of repeating square coffers with rosette medallions, finished in cream and gold tones. It was beautiful.

However, the massive TVs—showing departure and arrival information—clashed with the setting. In fact, they hung right over a beautiful archway. Which was a shame.

A smile crossed the elder man’s face as he watched him.

“I didn’t know that. But yeah, it is beautiful.” John glanced back at him, his hand reaching out to the old man. “John Crossfield.”

The man clasped his hand and shook it. “Cleveland Jerome,” he said with a slight grin. “Like the city.”

“Are you headed to the city?” Cleveland asked.

John nodded. “I am.”

He nodded and stood up. “Perhaps our paths will cross on the train.” Cleveland said.

John watched Cleveland walk away quietly and shook his head. He pulled his phone out and scrolled through emails, waiting for the next departure.

***

John hopped into the passenger car after waiting over forty minutes for its arrival. He moved to the center of the car, slipped his backpack off and dropped it in the seat beside him, and sat down. He put on his headphones and listened to music as he rested his head against the backrest and closed his eyes.

A few minutes later, the train lurched forward and began its trek to the city. He shifted his gaze to the window, watching the outside world breeze by. The landscape blurred past — buildings, fields, and trees.

“Oh, hey.” Cleveland said, settling into the seat across the aisle. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

John smiled and nodded. “It is. Hopefully, it’ll stay this way in the city.”

Cleveland nodded. “Hopefully.” He looked over to John. “What brings you to the city?”

“Work.” he replied. “I work in the Financial District. In IT for a law firm.”

“What about you?” He asked.

Cleveland smiled and fished his wallet out of his pocket, bringing up a picture of his family. “Visiting my daughter and grandchild in Queens. I usually go down on the weekends, but my daughter, Kiki, told me Debby was sick. I thought maybe a visit from Papa would help.”

John nodded. “I am sure she’ll love that.”

“Me too. It is important, you know.” He said, putting the picture away. “Family, I mean. You really should make time. Effort. You never know how much time God has given you on this beautiful planet.”

The old man wasn’t wrong, John thought.

He often wished he could spend a bit more time with his parents and siblings. They were back west in California. “I completely agree. I intend to visit my family at the end of the month.”

It might not happen, though. He always made the best-laid plans, only to throw them out at the last minute. Work, cash, time. Many reasons added up to why he hadn’t seen them in over a year. Or maybe it was just excuses; he wasn’t sure anymore.

Cleveland nodded, “Good. It’s always a good thing.” He said, bringing John back to the moment. The old man stood up and said, “If you’ll excuse me. We old men do not have the bladders like we used to.”

He chuckled and headed forward, toward the bathroom.

John smirked and nodded. He laid his head back against the backrest again and closed his eyes.

***

An hour into the ride, John felt the train lurch, shaking him from his nap. He glanced outside to see things were still moving quickly by. Pulling his phone out, he checked the time and saw it was nine-ten. A groan escaped his lips as he leaned his head back again.

Outside, something caught his attention—Greenwich Station flew by. He blinked, brows furrowing at that. The train should have stopped. In fact, it was doing the opposite—the speed was increasing.

As he looked around the cabin, he saw others showing expressions of concern. The next station—Port Chester Station—would be in six minutes. Perhaps less so now with train’s acceleration.

The train rattled, shook, and he fell back into his seat. Passengers murmured, and as the car convulsed again, a few panicked screams cut through the air.

He looked at his phone again. As he did, Port Chester station went by.

The cabin shook, and John watched in horror as Rye Station zoomed by. He didn’t understand what was happening. Turning, he tried to step out into the aisle when the cabin jolted again. Screams cut through the air.

Metal shrieked against metal as the train rocked violently from side to side. The train flung him up. He smashed into the luggage rack before he crashed back to the floor. His phone flew from his hand, struck the seat in front of him, then skidded down the aisle.

As John struggled to push himself up, the train lurched again. Passengers clung to armrests and seatbacks while the car rattled violently along the rails.

Across from John, Cleveland held the picture in hand, his thumb rubbing against his daughter’s face. Cleveland glanced over at John, and their eyes met for only a moment.

Cleveland gave him a small, steady nod and a quiet smile.

Then the train screamed against the rails, and the world tore apart.

***

Three weeks later, after hospitals, interviews, and sleepless nights, John stood in front of an older home in the eastern neighborhood of Queens. A charming picket fence surrounded the property, with a path guiding visitors toward the stoop. A minivan sat parked in the driveway. He shifted uncomfortably before pulling a picture from his pocket.

The smell of smoke, the shriek of tearing metal, the darkness after impact — it all came back at once. He had woken trapped in the wreckage with Cleveland lying only a few feet away. He had tried to save him and failed. Later, John found the photograph in the debris and made himself a promise.

He sighed and opened the gate, walked up the path to the door. He hesitated momentarily, reflecting on the idea of even being here. Cuts marked his face, and a sling supported his left arm. He was still unsure how he, among the few, survived the accident.

He took a breath, held it and released it, and knocked.

A young woman opened the door, her hair loosely pulled back and her eyes swollen from crying. She studied him for a moment.

“Can I help you?” She asked.

He nodded. “Er, sorry. My… My name is John Crossfield. You don’t know me, but I … I briefly met your father, Cleveland Jerome.”

He awkwardly shifted and pulled the picture out of his pocket again. “I was there the day he died. I… he showed me this. I wanted to make sure it got to you.”

He held out his hand as she took the picture. Tears trickled down her face as she looked at it.

She looked at him quietly and asked, “Did… Did he die alone?”

John shook his head. “No, I was with him. I… I tried to save him, but…” His looked away guiltily, his hand sliding back into his pocket.

Her eyes drifted to the picture again, to her father nestled in the picture. “Thank you.” She whispered. “We took this up at Central Park a few months ago. Debby wanted to skate on the rink, but we told her it wasn’t ready.” She chuckled and whipped a tear. “Dad got her to settle on a boat ride instead.”

“I’m sorry.” She said awkwardly, “Would you like to come in?”

John hesitated and then shook his head. “No, thank you ma’am. I... I actually have a flight to catch. But thank you kindly.”

She nodded as he stepped back and headed for the gate. He wasn’t lying; he had a plane to catch. He would have postponed it again. And continued to put off. But this time he booked it.

A flight to California.

To see family.