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                                 Train Love:
            The Shadowy Pallid Sensational Death of Hope and Promise
                                  --------
                              by Captain Happy



       Timothy James strapped himself in with a pleasing stabilizing click.
       The bags were in the trunk. Every possession and every obsession he
  owned were folded and packed volume-friendly in a colorful array of
  rainbow-hued suitcases, garbage bags, cardboard boxes (with the words
  "Safeway" or "Kleenex" or "Mom's Jewelry" stenciled on the side in faded
  black near-forgotten ink). His soul and his brain shrink-wrapped in
  unobtrusive, user-friendly, bland and boring packaging.
       But the world loomed ahead.
       He started the motor with a flash of a shadow of a routine action.
  Grind, cough, purr. Pretty baby.
       Foot to the gas and the past dribbling down his spine like forgotten
  imagery. Bloody steps on the linoleum, the corpse not even cold yet, the
  limp body of his knowledge and memory.
       Timothy James had his lunch packed and his keys in his pocket.
       Timothy James knew the way and had a map.
       Timmy could finally, consummately, without a spark of hesitation,
  fuck the world.
       Tim was on the move.
       The sun was setting like a melting potful of orange, red, and yellow
  marshmallows. Like cotton candy for the eye. Brain food. Music
  sledgehammer from the 'Mobile cranking out at max juice. Pedal to the
  metal. The present unraveling behind his eyes and underneath his wheels
  like a thread from a grandma-knit sweater. Gravel crunching and spitting.
  Gravel never to be seen again. How symbolic.
       Open book. Blank sheet.
       The Johnsons were waiting. The Snob Babes, too. And the Juicy Juice
  Combo Punch. The Flick Chicks had given him their address and wallet
  photos. The Mayor of PissView had given him a key to the city. A fuzzy
  photocopy image of the world was swallowing him up and Timothy James was
  just so totally, without-a-doubt, absolutely digging it. The vibes from
  the trees, the sands, the distant moons and telephone wires were buzzing
  through his bones.
       He had toilet paper and juju beans. He had his television and his
  wallet. He had his sleeveless shirts and desensitizing novelettes. He had
  kneeless jeans and SuperClean. He had his compact disc library. He had
  hopes and dreams. Exciting. He had memory and past. Less so. He had socks
  and clean underwear. He had extra bedding. He had a shower curtain.
       Fuck the world and eat me up, thought Timmy.
       Adrenaline pumping, wheels spinning, scenery fading, life passing,
  minutes slowing, blooms opening.
       The 'Mobile peeled away from the town he'd known all his life.
       Let the journey of life begin. Let all that is potential congregate
  within my brain and caress my thoughts and nerve endings. Let the women
  of the world know that I am one hot character. Let the skylights and the
  skyscrapers crumble to my feet. Let the hot pavement lick my soles. Let
  this all not be for naught. Let the gods deem themselves worthy to stroke
  my forehead and pinch my nipples. Let me conquer the forests of mind and
  the chasms of love. Let me get away from here and never come back. Let me
  be a party animal with a totally fab hairdo.
       Let's get this shit on the road, thought Timothy James with a
  subtle, movie-star grin.
       A large train hit the car within which Timothy James sat, killing
  him instantly--yet far from painlessly--and pretty much totalling the
  car, too.




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