A Dusty Bar

Jonny sat at the bar gazing at the whisk bottles on the mirrored back wall. After two days, he needed a good whisky to clear the dust from his throat. As for the dust that was everywhere else, that was another matter.

As much as he needed a whisky, he knew it was not to be. It had been nearly a year since he'd last allowed a whisky or any other booze to pass his lips; it was a year since he last sat in Freddy's Bar on the same seat. The bar was just the same: quiet. The bar always had the faint smell of tobacco drifting in from the outside, especially when the place was busy. It wasn't so smelly, and it certainly wasn't busy.

 It was Tuesday. Nobody was around. Jonny sat looking at himself in the mirror and didn't like what was looking back at him. Looking back at him was a haggard, dirty, tired-looking fifty-year-old; he hardly recognised himself. It had been a tough journey, and he doubted that the journey was over just yet. 

He waited for the bar lady to return with the straight coffee he'd ordered minutes earlier. Instead of the door to the kitchen opening, he heard the door open behind him. Looking in the mirror, he could see who had walked through the door; It was the last person on the earth that Jonny needed to come through the door.

Twisting his seat around on a chromium stand, it squeaked as he turned to face his nemesis. He recognised the smell of body odour and wondered what he smelt like. Bringing himself back to reality, Jonny felt challenged by the smell that was standing in the doorway.

'What do you want now?' Jonny scowled, 'You've got me back here; there's nothing further I can do for you.

'You know what I want,' the figure said from the shadow cast by the sign's light, swinging on its attachments outside the front door.

'I haven't got it, and I've never had it. What makes you think that I have it?' Jonny sounded desperate and frightened.

The figure advanced from the shadow towards him, a gun in their right hand. Jonny didn't move a muscle. He knew he was in another tight situation.

'You're going to give me just what I want right now, or it's a good night for you' The figure levelled the gun at Johnny's head.

There was a crash. It was the sound of cutlery dropping on the kitchen floor. A woman issued several expletives. Both turned their heads as the woman burst through the door carrying a steaming mug of black coffee. She trundled down to the other end of the bar without looking.

'You want cream and sugar? I'll have to go back for it and clear up that box of cutlery I've knocked over…'  Stopping in mid-sentence, she looked up. 'Are you on your own?' she asked.

Jonny wasn't there, he'd disappeared.

Two days earlier, it had been a lonesome and dusty walk towards the railhead. Everywhere was dusty, sand blown in from the desert during the night of the storm. The place smelled of cattle, the usual passengers in the freight cars that stopped here for half a day. They did so twice a month. But today was different. Today was different; the Amtrak stopper going north/south stopped here.

 

    There were no cattle today, only Jonny and his rucksack slung over his shoulder. He could hear the train in the distance and increased his step to the ticket office. When he got to it, it was closed—at least the hatch was closed. 

    Banging heavily on the hatch, he waited; it didn't open. Jonny heard the heavy thudding of the diesel motor of the Amtrak coast into the platform and started coming to a halt with the sound of its squeaky brakes. Jonny rushed out and looked up and down the platform. All he could see was the train's Conductor waving his flag towards the driver at the opposite end of the platform. Jonny hitched the rucksack onto his shoulder better and climbed the stairs into the nearest carriage. A whistle sounded, and with a jolt, the train moved off. It had stood still barely for thirty seconds. Jonny staggered down the carriage to take a seat further down. 

Minutes later, he heard the door to the carriage open,

'Tickets, please,' the Conductor brought a smirk to Jonny's face as he was the only person in the carriage. He strode up to where Jonny sat. The Conductor wore a peaked cap and a blue uniform suit.

'Tickets, please,' Jonny looked up at him and smiled

'How much to San Remo?' reaching into the pocket of his filthy denim jeans, he fished through the residue of his pocket and pulled out a big roll of ten dollar bills.

'Fifty dollars' Rifling through a roll of bills, Jonny plucked out four. Here, that's forty dollars and put the roll back into his pocket.

'Fifty dollars, I said.' The Conductor stood impassively.

'That's it, that's all I've got' Jonny turned away to look out the window. It was dark now, and all he could see was the reflection of the Conductor. He saw the Conductor turning away and walking out of the carriage.

The train travelled through the night, and nobody else entered the carriage. The gentle movement of the train on the tracks rocked Jonny to sleep. It had been a long journey, and it wasn't over yet. He slept briefly for about an hour. Then, he was abruptly woken by something dripping from his head. Wiping his hand over the top of his head, Jonny was surprised to see that his hand was covered in blood. Sitting up straight, Jonny wondered if the blood was his. Again, he wiped his head and looked at his hand. This time, there was blood also on the back of his hand. 

Looking above, Jonny saw that there was a large cardboard box in the rack above where he was sitting. He couldn't remember seeing it when he boarded the train and sat in the carriage. The box was still dripping—not a great amount, but still dripping. There was now a small pool of blood forming on the plastic covering of the seat.

Jonny pondered for a moment. Is that blood? What is in that box? Dare I open it? The train rocked across a crossing point on the track, and Jonny stumbled and grabbed hold of an upright chrome pole that supported the racks above. Uttering an expletive, he regained his composure.

'What's in that box?' he murmured to himself. Looking around, he confirmed that he was still alone in the carriage. Reaching up to the box, his hand hesitated; the box was still dripping. The box was made of strong cardboard, something similar to an achieving box, but bigger. It wasn't deep in height; it wouldn't have fitted on the rack had it been deeper, but it was longer. Jonny wondered again what could be inside.

    The train jolted again on the track, and he stumbled backwards onto the seats on the other side of the carriage. He sat down on one of them and looked up at the box. It was an incongruous-looking box. There were no markings on it, and from what he could see, there was no address label either. What could it be?

    There was only one way to find out: He had to open the box and see what was inside. Jonny stood again and got himself closer to reach for the box. He widened his stance against the train's movement, reached up with both hands and got hold of it. Jonny lifted the box carefully to maintain it upright. He didn't wish to spill it all over the carriage floor if it was full of liquid. He steadily turned around and placed it in the set opposite to his.

'Damn,' he thought, 'that wasn't a good idea; that seat is damp from whatever this crud is inside this box.'

    His hands went towards the box lid, and Jonny hesitated again. Did he want to know what was inside? It surely would mean trouble either way.

    Curiosity got the better of him, and he lifted the lid. There was a smell that he'd not noticed before; the train carriage already had a fusty smell, and previous travellers' hot, sweaty bodies were leaving their mark. He lifted the lid further and peered inside.

    Jonny was horrified at what he could see. It was a severed head. He couldn't quite see the face, even if he wanted to, but another unexpected item was inside the box.

     It was a conductor's hat.