The Train Compartment
The train clatters along the tracks. The young man, swaying with the rhythm, licks his lips, rubs his meager stubble, and reads the telegram again by the dim light of the oil lamp.
MEET YOU AT STATION STOP STORY DEADLINE UPON ARRIVAL
He rolls and unrolls the message, then checks his watch. Only three hours to go.
He settles back against the wall, and considers ignoring the typewriter on the cramped compartment's folding table for the rest of the journey. The quiet judgment of its keys clicking along with the bumps of the rails is too much to bear, so the young man heads into the corridor, careful not to jostle his snoring neighbors.
At this time of night, the corridor is deserted. The youth holds the wall as he ambles to the back of the car. He slides open the door and steps into the cool night air.
There's something magical about the last car of the train. The man leans against the banister and rolls a cigarette. The light from the match momentarily blinds him, then shoots off like a comet, flicked into the darkness. He smokes and thinks, attempting to organize the cacophony of thoughts from his trip into a semblance of coherent narrative. The effort is fruitless. If only he could line it all up like this train, with a locomotive of an introduction thundering into the night, pulling a set of supporting passenger cars, an exciting dining car in the mix, all connected by perfect transitional couplings.
Those couplings are the hardest part. A drag on the cigarette burns his lip, and he discards it, surprised. The time flew by. But an idea had crystallized in his mind. It was all about those couplings.
Back in the corridor, the man takes pains to silence his steps. He rehearses casual acknowledgments in case he meets a nocturnal conductor. At the connecting door, he pauses.
"Story deadline upon arrival," the telegram said. Steeling his pounding heart, the man pulls open the door.
The train's clatter is louder between the cars. The coupling glints in the moonlight, expanding and contracting with the motion of the cars, as the track ties blur past below the young reporter.
After a moment's consideration, the latch is lifted, and the gap begins to grow.
The man eases the compartment door shut behind him, and retakes his seat. As the car slows, imperceptibly at first, the typewriter keys start to tap against the blank page.
The story will be done upon arrival after all.