Uncomfortable Sleep
Chapter 1
There arose from the ground an
unusual fog, encapsulating the campers as they woke from their uncomfortable
slumber. It was cold on the mountain, and they were not prepared for the
sudden change of weather which accompanies altitudes previously unknown to
beginner hikers. The chilly ground had made for a terrorizing bed in
which to lie and their tattered, average sleeping bags and mats had been worn
thin from the campers rolling attempts to find more relaxing positions from
which to dream. All had awoken at
approximately the same time, like dominoes falling in a labored, reverse
fashion. They made a quick stew and some
green tea from the bags they had stolen from the local sushi restaurant back
home. After their fill, they loaded up camp, thoroughly "watered" the
surrounding brush and set off down the hill into the small village which
they had happened upon the night before. They had eaten, washed their faces,
and were on their way down the mountain before a word was spoken amongst them.
The youngest of the three and by far the least experienced in
camping and living simply, was the first to speak. He was the most anxious to get back
home. He had grown very tired of living
without his basic luxuries which he had previously taken for granted: running
water at the pull of a switch, rather than from a hand pump which produced
blisters and tired muscles; illuminating light at the flick of a finger, rather
than the weak glow given from the embers of their campfires; the wonder of a
microwave, a 24-hour grocery store, walls, fresh meat, milk, or the miraculous
convenience of an automobile. However,
he had grown in a way in which he didn’t yet understand. Being away from home for so long was too much
for him, but it had forced him to come to terms with the reality of the most
basic form of survival which had eluded him before. “So how far ya’ll reckon the next town is?”
he said suddenly.
His former college roommate, Lawrence, quickly snapped back an
answer to him, irritated by the unanswerable and vague question that Jackson had posed. “How in the hell are we supposed to know, Jackson? Couldn’t be more than a few more miles, I
guess.” His tone displayed his
suppressed and pent-up anger which he had recently developed for Jackson. He felt Jackson had no place coming with he
and his brother on their tour of Europe and he had secretly somewhat despised
the presence of the smaller, less athletic, and much less trail-seasoned
Jackson tagging along as he had so often done back home at college. He had deeply regretted even mentioning the
trip to Jackson late one night after ten or twelve too many and had regretted
even more his reluctant acceptance of what he felt was an unwanted, and
unneeded, obligation which had been forced upon him by his less-apt and clingy
friend.
“Well sorrrrry, man!” Jackson cried, with a deep stretching of his words and a
sudden remembrance of Lawrence’s
true feelings toward him. He too had
recently begun to dislike Lawrence,
especially his condescending tone and audacious manner in which he often barked
orders to his less weathered follower. Jackson, however much he hated to admit it, knew without a
doubt that he had to succumb to Lawrence’s
commands, for without his knowledge of the outdoor world around them, their
trip would have been nipped in the bud long ago.
This was strange and unnatural territory for three young farmhands,
freshly graduated from the community college in this and that. A hiking
trip through northern Europe had taken them a long way since they had began in
late July and now they were quite ready to return to the sticky humidity of the
Georgia
swamps which they knew and hated but longed for now with unbridled
passion. The boots on their feet were worn, muddy, and they stank
to high hell. Their clothes had been run ragged and were thin from being
scrubbed on various rocks in multiple streams along the way. They were
blistered, hungry, cut and bruised, and in need of a hot shower and some
shampoo for their naturally dreadlocking hair, but their resolve to finish the
journey never wavered, unlike the excited friendship and camaraderie they
shared upon their arrival. What a trip it had been! But now they just wanted to get back home to
their mother's tables and the comforters of their own beds which held that
magic scent of home.
They slowly worked their way down the remaining path leading into
the remote town. The air was stale and
they could taste the faint stench of work from the factory on the outskirts of
the tiny city. James, the smartest of
the group and older brother of Lawrence,
drew out one of the six language guides which he had pocketed from the school
bookstore before they departed and began a fairly ineffective and embarrassing
struggle with some of the locals to try and locate the nearest train
station. Lawrence and Jackson, at the
sight of this, drew their overbearing sacks from their shoulders and slouched
heavily on the nearest wall which lined the grimy street. They knew the time in which it had so often
took James to force his question into a feasible answer from those who were
rarely compelled to donate their time to listen to some American babble and
meticulously butcher whatever language he was trying to pronounce out of his
various phrasebooks. Eventually, the
hand signals and childish train noises he made finally shed some light upon
what few would call a conversation and at once they were heading in the general
direction in which the middle-aged passers-by had pointed. They worked their way through the ancient
streets of the city, striving all the while to suppress the odor which infected
the surprisingly icy air of the valley.
Upon their arrival, they decided to have lunch. Much
better than the raw food and noodles which had served as their base sustenance
for the previous weeks, the food was warm at best and different. The
three of them gulped down the bland meat and potatoes served to them at the
railway cafe and bought a new pack of cigarettes. With bellies full, they
crept outside the smoke-stained café and lit the cigarettes to which they had
so anxiously awaited. The weed and hash
that they had brought along from their brief stay in Amsterdam had long since
been finished high upon the mountain after a delectable meal of cold beans and
pre-packaged tuna with hot sauce on crackers.
“Pretty good trip for you guys too I hope,” mumbled James from
behind his silently hissing cigarette.
“Best trip ever!” piped up Jackson,
trying to bring some much needed joy to their bland conversations of late. “I can’t wait to get back home and show off
all our pictures.”
“For what, to prove that we came?” cracked Lawrence
in an obvious attempt to curb the enthusiasm of Jackson’s statement. He realized immediately that his harsh
reproach was wholly unnecessary and uncouth, but the crippling fatigue which
penetrated every inch of his mind and body would certainly not spend any
thought or effort to apologize.
“Whatever man” Jackson replied in a mild,
defeated tone,
James looked around slyly and seeing a train approaching in the
distance noted, “Bout damn time…get your shit ya’ll, let’s go.”
They scaled the steep, unforgiving steps of the train car, only to
find it nearing full capacity. Lawrence, being the first
of the group on the train, quickly spotted two seats on the opposite sides of
the aisle, but on the same row.
Stealthily, he turned to his brother and gave a look which demonstrated
his intention of him and his brother getting a break from Jackson.
They took the seats, and Jackson,
realizing that he would have to sit by himself and feeling helpless in his new
disposition, continued on, without a word, secretly content to have some peace
and quiet from Lawrence’s
harsh reproaches through four more train cars before finally finding what
seemed to be the only seat left on the train.
They were finally heading east toward one of the larger cities where they could purchase a flight to
return back home with what money they had left. They stowed their baggage,
drank the last of their water, and soon they had all succumbed to the comfort
of the cloth seats of the train and were happily dozing for what seemed to them
like hours. Jackson, like the others, had found the seats to be a bit too
confining and emptied the pockets of his dark-tan turned dirty brown dungarees
which had seen him through the latter part of their expedition the rolling
hills of Slovakia.
Jackson awoke suddenly as the train crept into a small station and decided
that he would stretch his legs and have another cigarette. Since they
would arrive with only a short time to spare before catching their flight, it would probably have been the only chance that he had at a
break from the stagnant smell of the rotten clothes and dirty stainless steel dishes which
filled his bag-turned-pillow. He exited the train, lit his cigarette, and
had a sudden urge to use the restroom. He spotted what seemed to be a
sign for a restroom and hesitantly opened the rotting wooden door which led to
what he hoped were the bathrooms.
The small bathroom was pungent with the smell of feces and ancient
toilets. The dank dust and grime which plagued the corners of each offset
angle made him cringe at the sight, but at least he would be able to sit down
and use the restroom this time, rather than crouch and hope not to soil the
back of his feet and legs. He made his
business as quickly as possible and headed back out to catch the train after
cleansing his face and hands in the metal sink which hung loosely from the wall,
glancing at the chipped, rust- stained mirror to realize that he looked at
least 3 times scruffier than he had initially imagined. He kept his weary
head down as he exited the station slowly stretching his trail worn muscles,
preparing for a few more hours of uncomfortable sleep. He was exhausted,
not only of the trip which had claimed so much of his energy and effort, but
also of the disappointing meals and of Lawrence and James obvious and natural
alliance as brothers.
He rounded the corner of the ragged, stone station and realized that
the train he saw pulling slowly away from him was his own. He raced
forward, pushing and dodging his way through the sparse crowd, his face
contorting with the evident horror which was soon to take place. He leapt
and bounded as fast as he could toward the fleeing train, his muscles
stretching and burning more with every stride—but it was too late. The
train gained speed and left him, mouth open, out of breath and terrified on the
platform. He turned round hurriedly, hoping to find someone else there on
the platform to help him, but saw no one willing to help or even look at him. Then, feeling the sting of the curse which
now dawned on him, his heart sank even further.
He suddenly realized the staggering dilemma in which he now found himself:
his wallet, train ticket, and all of his belongings were on that train. Oh,
how he kicked himself over and over for emptying his pockets before
sleeping! He stood there for the longest
six minutes of his life, softly panting and staring into the bleak countryside
surrounding the station. Finally he muttered, "Well god damn it.”
*
Back on the train,
James and Lawrence exchange a few sleepy glances across the aisles as they
searched for sleep. They began to wonder
which was more comfortable: the hard, rocky ground from the night before or the
constricting, posture-forcing squared seat which was obviously not designed
with any regard to travelers wishing to catch a little shuteye on their way. It was still morning, and the sunlight crept
in around the threadbare curtains partially covering the eyes of the train.
James tossed and turned until he
finally gave up, shooting a sharp glare at the old woman sitting across from
him. Something stunk, and he had good
reason to believe that she was the culprit.
Her oversized knees took up way too much legroom in the cramped, stuffy
nook of the four seats facing one another in which they sat. Every so often, he would bump her knees or
step on her black, crusted shoes, reluctantly apologizing repetitively for
something for which he felt he owed no apology.
She fell to sleep, to his dismay, quite easily and the whistling of her
light snores were heard only by him, ridding him of the possibility to read or
write in relative peace as they cruised down the line. The soggy meat and potatoes they had eaten in
[the town] began to make his stomach twist and strained tilt himself subtly in
order to expel the gas brewing inside him without anyone noticing. He already stuck out like a sore thumb among
the commuting rows of passengers and hoped to not draw any more attention than
necessary. For once, he would be happy to return to work, however unfulfilling
his job may have been. Unlike his
younger brother, Lawrence, James had no one to go home to, so his daydreams centered
around his home and his work—and the dependable convenience of American life.
Lawrence was content to
have a few moments of silence, even if the pull of exhaustion was wearing his
senses thin. He knew that it would be
over soon and he couldn’t help but fantasize about seeing his girlfriend again
after such a long break. He knew that
she would be waiting on him as soon as he arrived at the airport and began to
dream about the smell of her hair, the feeling of the curve of her neck, the
soft crest of her nose, the way he interlocked his hands around her waist. The thrill of touch had been nearly lost to
him in the last month, as he and his fellow travelers had kept their space to
themselves. Eventually, he was able to
drift off long enough for the train to speed away from his helpless friend,
leaving behind any hope of finding him or realizing what had happened in time
to do anything about it.
