On the evening of the 29th May 2005 I was stopped by a train at a train crossing. I decided I’d idle at the crossing in my stationwagon, waiting patiently for the train to finally pass. But it didn’t. It remained on the tracks until finally it completely stopped.

The train remained stopped. Forever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, ad infinitum. It was no more a train than a wall.

I waited as patiently as a reasonable person would, then I waited much longer than a reasonable person would, moving into that amorphous category of victim becoming enabler, or some such in the way of psychoanalytical mumbo jumbo phraseology.

I abandoned my stationwagon. I thought about hopping between the two rail cars but decided not to. I went to see about the engineer in the engine car. He might have died. I wanted to see if he were dead.

He had not died. He was drinking. I found him with a bottle of Buffalo Trace set in his lap. He snored. Actually it was more of snort. He wasn’t entirely asleep, so his snort was the result of gasping for air and rousing himself to an alert posture. He yawned briefly. I could smell his breath, which reeked of whiskey, naturally, and also some kind of sour smell probably come from cheese. It smelled how my mouth tastes after a plain American cheese sandwich, except much worse. Acrid, completely acrid.