When I posted the Curious Commute prompt a couple weeks ago I had not considered ‘what happens next?’ That was it. I was presented a prompt, I wrote about it, I moved on. I was amused by the reader feedback and gave some thought to ‘what happens next’. Here it is.
When I get home from work, I tell my roommate, Shelley, about the guy on the train with the pizza bag.
“So, what was in it?” she asks me.
“I don’t know.” I say. “You know what I know. He stayed on the train; I got off the train and came home.”
She looks at me like I’ve disappointed her. “I need to know. Don’t you?”
I don’t think I do, but as the evening wears on, my thoughts keep returning to the train ride home. The guy didn’t seem familiar, but I can’t be sure if I’ve seen him before or not. I realize I don’t think I could even give an accurate description of him. I was so focused on the pizza bag and his odd actions that I wonder if I could pick him out of a line up.
I picture myself in a room with one-way glass. Six guys with insulated pizza bags stand against a wall. A detective behind me says, “Number 3, please step forward, sit in the chair provided, and put your hand inside the bag.”
I typically spend my time on the train in my own world, listening to audiobooks or podcasts, and staring out of the nearest window. But for the next week, I pay attention to my fellow passengers, particularly on the way home. I’m somewhat surprised to realize I recognize quite a few of them as regular commuters on my route.
There’s the lady with the brunette bob who has an array of stylish coats always accessorizing with matching hats and scarves. A worried looking man who always carries an attaché case and keeps a linen handkerchief in his hand is also a regular. Maybe he’s not worried, but his forehead has deep furrows.
People are creatures of habit for sure, and I’m feeling positive about finding Mr. Pizza, but he does not resurface.
“Did you see him today?” Shelley asks me every evening when I get home.
On Friday, as I’m getting ready to leave the office, I decide that if I don’t see him tonight, it was a fluke that he was on my train. What is, or was, in his pizza bag is not important, and honestly, none of my business. And then Evan stops by my desk.
“Hey, I just wanted to thank you again for staying late last Friday to cover for me. Ain’t nobody wants to hold over on a Friday, so I really appreciate you doing that for me.”
And that’s when it clicks. I was the stranger on the train – the stranger on his train. I didn’t take my regular train at my regular time. I took his regular train at his regular time… hopefully.
I hurry to the station, but instead of getting on and studying passengers on the train, I stay on the platform and watch the passengers that come and go after the train I would usually be on. I check out the items that the guys are carrying and look for a familiar, yet unfamiliar face. For the next forty-five minutes, I bump into bodies constantly apologizing, trying to look into train cars without committing myself to getting on. This is easier said than done during rush hour in Chicago.
I’m about to give up hope and write this search off as a ridiculous snipe hunt. I tell myself three more trains. I’ll wait for three more trains, but when the next one comes to a complete stop, I see a weird guy in a hoodie with his face smushed against the window. It’s a sign. This is the train.
I join the wave of people flowing into the car. There’s nowhere to sit so I reach up for the grab bar and turn around to survey the group. I look at tired passengers, tote bags, baby and dog carriers, brief cases, but no pizza bags.
But then, just as the door chimes signals that the door is about to close, a pizza bag appears between the two passengers closest to the door and Pizza Man pushes his way inside. His hand locks onto the grab bar next to mine.
Once Upon a Willow 