Train Tracks

John Newton rearranged himself on the railroad tracks.

He was lying there for some reason or other.

It was uncomfortable; a thick morning fog had drifted in from the sea.

He felt very stiff. And damp. Chilled to the bone.

How long had he been there? Several hours? What was going on? His head

was like a blank piece of paper. He couldn’t think of anything. Numb with cold, he shook himself.

Slowly, he sat up. A bottle of whisky, one-third full, lay at his feet. He reached over, opened the bottle, and took a large swallow. It burnt going down his throat—like liquid smoke. Brrrr! That was good.

Faint outlines of what had happened slowly came into focus inside his head. Now he remembered. He was trying to kill himself. Yes! That was it! He was trying to commit suicide. He should have been run over by a train by now: a dreadful way to end things, but sometimes there is no way out.

John had lived out west as a child. The shudder and the whistle of a train in the middle of the…