The Gab


The morning journey across this beautiful land most often unfolds in a quiet routine that is both glorious in its landscape and equally efficient in its order. An established accreditation lost not among the awake. The great accelerating silver locomotive slides through dawn’s dew sodden fields, glistened to the blade by a brilliant rising autumn sun, delivered from a distant Eastern horizon. Behind the train’s thunderous inertia, is left a fantastic multitude of foiling twirling mists. At once pushed aside, they are lifted upward and folded quietly back down to the backdrop of a purple Western sky. In the vacuum of the passing noise, it is once again, all silent.

As the Sixty-six carves through the morning countryside populated by small coastal towns consisting mostly of farmers and fishermen, it approaches its third stop, a major city. By this stop, it is generally crowded, although still muted in its acoustics given the early hour.

Down the aisle come two women, middle aged, no luggage (day trippers) and energetic, in a loud way.

‘keep walking dear, we’ll find seats . . .’

Instructed, as they pass and again behind me, replied:

‘oh, no ! . . .this next car is the quiet car – we can’t go in there, no.’

‘no, that doesn’t work – I have too much to tell you and the trip is only a hour and a half.’

‘. . .right, and you my dear, certainly have your mother’s great gift of the gab.’

‘Ha – let’s just stand back here., shall we . . . I have so much to share . . . as I started to say in the car when I picked you up, you are not going to believe . . . ‘

Most folks have now been awakened by this banter that has all but muted the conductor’s frequent announcements and stare back in an inconvenienced way towards the rear of the railcar at these two loquacious women speaking over each other, in full dialogue.

It is then, at that very moment, having found myself standing and choosing the precise moment to speak, that I hear my voice in its most humble and polite delivery, instinctively disguising all semblance of the slightly facetious tone:

“Excuse me ma’m, miss. . .ma’am, if I may, nothing on this wonderful bright morning could possibly give me greater pleasure and a deep satisfaction than to offer up to you both, my seat and the vacant one beside it. Here, please sit and I do apologize for the interruption.”

The woman in the red blouse and wearing the most makeup has risen her hand over her heart, while revealing two her gold fillings and mildly blushes in genuine accepting shock:

‘Why, aren’t you just a lovely peach. Are you sure, really?’

As gravity draws and pulls them into the two seats in the rear of the railcar.

As I walk up the aisle to the next car, the glares of the seated are not lost upon me, clearly shouting:

‘thanks a lot buddy, you’re just full of it and now we’re stuck with it!’

As the doors slide open, the loud gab is still discernible, yet faded and soon to be forgotten to the day ahead.


                                                              Sent from 📞 🚂. . .


© All rights reserved 2018

Author: Breck Masterson

Tales From The Rail is a collection of short stories revealed in observation during a commuters journey across this land. Most, if not all stories are based on what actually happened or at times, surmised to what might have happened. . . Granting on some occasions, levity to the mundane. Enjoy!

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