the slow tunnel of margaret
a game of continuing a story. this one went nowhere fast. but I like it anyway--
lunaboca wrote:
Margaret sat on the hard plastic bench at the depot, studying her ticket as if it held the answers to some final exam. She wore an incongruous puffy down coat over her thin cotton dress. It was Tuesday, it was raining, and she had three more hours to wait. A Jethro Tull song blasted from the boombox of the boy next to her: "Skating on the thin ice of a new day". She looked at the gray enamel painted concrete floor, at her feet. Both were dirty.
Morgen added:
She'd left in such a hurry, as soon as she saw an opening, that all she'd brought with her were her memories--and even those were frayed. Six o'clock. She realized she was hungry, hadn't eaten anything to speak of for a couple of days now. She dug in her coat pocket, down through the hole into the lining, and finally fingered an old cough drop. Carefully she peeled off the sticky wrapper, placed in on her tongue, and swished around the cherry and menthol a bit before she swallowed. St. Louis seemed a long way off.
A couple of days later, Elsemore penned:
The boy with the boombox removed a flattened pack of Camels from the pocket of his jeans jacket, took out a bent cigarette, then held the pack in front of Margaret, his face holding no readable expression.
She said, "No, thank you", and he put the pack back in his pocket without a shrug or nod. Margaret examined his face while he searched for matches in the various pockets of his jacket. She guessed he was
probably close to Ella's age. Or seventeen, like Ella would have been. If he found the matches, Margaret decided, she would ask him for a cigarette after all. But he patted his jacket all over one more time, then gave up without displaying any annoyance, and put the unlit cigarette in his mouth. When he looked up, Margaret quickly resumed her examination of her bus ticket. The boombox was playing Bungle in the Jungle. She thought of a word her grandmother used to say quite often. Indeed.
three torturous days later, lunaboca continued:
The three hours passed like three days. Three sticky days. She watched the boy a while. she stretched and strolled the tiny cement porch of the depot, she stared at the gray sky from the gray window of the gray building. The boombox laid down its sorry soundtrack. The boy sometimes sang along. His voice was thin and clear, like glass. Occasionally he looked at her, still deadpan. She felt she should say something to him, but every time she began to open her mouth, he
would close his eyes, or look away, or get up to bum matches. She wished he'd offer her a cigarette now. The taste of the coughdrop still lingered. Maybe tobacco would be an improvement.
"Prepare for arrival, St. Louis Star" said a voice over the crackling loudspeaker. Why, she had no idea. The whole station wasn't much bigger than a living room, and the man behind the counter could have easily been heard without amplification. But she liked hearing it announced, and the sound of the train coming in, and her heart sped up some. The boy reached down, punched off the radio, looked her
hard in the eye. "You better get on." His spoken voice, unlike his singing tone, was deeper, almost husky, like he'd just woken. "Aren't you?", Margaret asked. "Oh sure," he said, "but it looked like you were thinking of chickening out." He winked. He didn't smile. Picking up the boombox and a beat duffel bag, he headed to the now-stopped train. Margaret looked around, shrugged, picked up her suitcase and followed.
nenawena chimed in the next day:
Following hard, Margaret steps on the back of his shoe. Enough to pull it off, revealing a worn-down heel and sufficient dirt. Without hesitation she slips into the first seat trying to conceal her embarrassment and neediness that balled her up against the window seat. A left-behind corduroy shirt pulls her further in to the corner and with her strokes on the soft lines she falls in surrender to the dream..........
From: luna boca
Date: two days later
Subject: "MOVE THE PLOT OR WE OFF HER" threatens writer terrorist group
AP WIRE----TOLEDO---
In the latest development of the very slow moving Margaret Plot Line, MilkBootBaby terrorist/artist "Gippy" announced via untraceable fax she planned to "have Margaret permanently downsized if I don't see some major plot development by Wednesday noon". The renegade former member of the Voodoo Pins Bowling League says she speaks for many in the underground. "I log in, this chick ain't moved off the platform in what, three days. Now she's sleeping in the coach car. I say someone better stick in a porno dream, a few interesting characters, or hey, how bout some PLOT for chrissakes-- or the little mousy gal bites it." "Gippy" and unnamed other members of MilkBootBaby are implicated in similar character assassinations in the recent past. "Yeah, you bet we did 'em", an unrepentant Gippy told this reporter. "I don't get why people get upset, though. It's not exactly a murder. It's a mercy killing." At press time, Margaret was sleeping and unavailable for interview. A fellow passenger identified as "Boombox Boy" refused comment.
---
this drew out long silent winslow, who said:
-----
Date: that day
Subject: Margaret Does Dallas
Margaret was just slipping into a dream, a gauzy world inhabited by Dick Clark, old grammar school teachers, strangers she had once stood next to in check-out lines, and her estranged parents when she was
awakened by the violent retort of a gunshot. Her eyes snapped open to see 2 men standing at the head of her car, big imposing men with swarthy skin, dark beards, and enigmatic smiles who stood holding
their automatic weapons before their chests with both hands. Hairy hands with rings.
They laughed. They kicked at the scattered pieces of boom box that lay at their feet, victim of their bullet of introduction. Although Margaret was scared and confused (how in the world can you hijack a train?), she also had to admit to herself a shocking realization; these men were the _sexiest_ hunks of unwashed male flesh she had ever laid eyes on.
---
this inspired sistergamer evelyn to jump in, only moments later:
---
Subject: frantic gunmen
Margaret's eyes snatched some intimacy from those of the smaller bandito. They exchanged a pleading that hung confused in the air.
The boombox boy was injured and although she was concerned for the boy's welfare, and although the situation pierced her with a keen knowing of how close is the boundary between life and death, Margaret felt some layers of tension release. She could feel Ella's smile on the side of her neck.
"Everybody freeze," the larger, hairier of the two gunmen shouted. "We're looking for a red duffle bag."
Margaret focused her peripheral vision on the beat duffle bag under the boy's seat. Pieces of the boom box obscured it from view.
The gunmens' feet echoed above the sound of the train as they hastily moved around the car. It was clear that they were frantic.
------
despite this dramatic turn of events,
alas, a whole week passed silently, then finally:
From: lunaboca
Subject: TRAIN WRECK--NO SURVIVIORS
and that was the end of that.
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