It wasn’t long before my stomach began to growl. "Am I the only one feeling hungry?" I asked.
"How about another boost up, Amy?" said Devin. "Maybe you’ll see some golden arches out there this time."
Devin crouched down. I braced myself on his narrow shoulders, being careful not to muss his well-groomed whiskers. He staggered to his feet, then rotated me around like a periscope. I scanned the horizon. As usual, the view that hadn’t changed, but as Devin lowered me to the ground, something caught my eye. "Wait!" I said. "Take me back up."
Off in the distance, a column of smoke rose above the cornfield from a point directly in our path. Then I heard the blast of a steam whistle. "You hear that?"
"Sounds like a train whistle," said Lydia.
"And not too far off, either," said Devin.
I jumped down off Devin’s shoulders, and we raced toward the sound. I dodged the cornstalks as I ran, like a football quarterback through a defensive line. I could see daylight through the leaves up ahead. The end of the cornfield was coming up fast.
We broke through the last row of corn onto an open plain. Train tracks ran alongside the edge of the field right in front of us. Down the tracks, a huge steam locomotive hissed under a water tower, alongside a railroad station. Passenger cars were coupled behind the engine, their shiny chrome shells glistening under the sun. The train was still a good distance away, but close enough that I could smell its hot engine grease.
"Ladies," said Devin, with a gentlemanly bow, "transportation is provided."
Just then, the steam whistle blew again, and white smoke puffed out of the train’s smokestack. A bell clanged and the engine’s massive wheels began to turn. Our transportation was leaving—without us!
We ran for the train as it chugged down the tracks. There we were, running to catch a ride again, and like before, despite our efforts, it only got farther out of range. It was like falling down a well, and the rope to climb to safety on is just out of reach.
By the time we got to the station, the train was well on its way, leaving us no chance of catching up to it. We stood on the tracks, panting like we had just run the four-minute mile. "There’ll be another one along," said Devin. "You’ll see."
Somehow, that didn’t seem too likely. The train station looked like a whistle stop for a ghost town. Cobwebs clung to old-fashioned lampposts and waved in the breeze like torn curtains. Broken glass lay on the ground below every window.
"You think anyone was on that train?" asked Lydia.
"If there was," said Devin, "they were sure in a big hurry to get outta here."
"Who’s they?" I said. "Doesn’t look like anybody’s been here in ages." There wasn’t a soul around; no camera-toting tourists, no baggage-lugging porters, no tearful good-byes, no embracing hellos.
"Let’s have a look around," said Devin. We climbed onto the elevated platform, being careful to avoid the gaping holes where the wooden planks had rotted through.
Devin stood in the doorway to the station’s waiting room. "I’ll see what’s in here," he said. "You guys check the ticket booth. It’s out front, next to the mail box."
"Mail box?" I said. "How do you know that? Have you been here before?"
Devin gave a puzzled look while scratching his furry chin. Then he reached for his wallet in his back pocket and pulled out an old photograph from it. "I thought this place looked familiar," he said, staring at the photo. "Look at this."
Lydia and I leaned in to take a look. The black and white image showed the very same train station—clean, bright, and bustling with travelers. A distinguished-looking gentleman in a business suit was posing in front of a ticket booth.
Lydia pointed to the man in the picture. "Who’s he?"
"That’s my uncle, George," said Devin. "That’s him in his younger days. He was quite the business traveler back then."
"Your uncle’s been here? What luck! So, where are we?"
"I wish I knew. Uncle George never told me where this picture was taken, and I never thought to ask."
"And we’ve got no way to contact him, either," I said.
An old phone booth stood nearby with a rotary-dial pay phone inside. Lydia forced open the folding door, lifted the dust-covered receiver, and listened for a dial tone. "Phone’s dead," she said. "Just like this whole place." She dialed the operator just for the heck of it.
We walked around to the front of the station and found the ticket booth right where Devin said it would be. It matched the one in the photo exactly, except that it now showed its age. A long crack ran down the center of the thick glass window. A small desk bell rested on the counter. I slapped it with the palm of my hand, then poked my skunk nose through the ticket slot. "Anybody home?" No answer.
Above the window hung a blackboard with wide columns for posting arrival and departure times. Beneath the layers of chalk smudge, I could just make out the final entry: "Westbound—Departing 8:45 P.M.—July 6, 1951."
We walked back to the boarding platform and gazed down the steel tracks that seemed to stretch to infinity. The longer I stood there, the less convinced I was that another train was on its way. Still, on the slim chance one did come by, missing it would be pretty stupid. We decide to stick around to see if Devin’s prediction would come true.
I swept off a wooden bench that faced the tracks and sat down. I laid my head back, closed my eyes, and took a slow, deep breath. It was the first peaceful moment I’d had all day.
We were all so tired. Lydia sat down and was out like a light in seconds. Devin sat down next to me and began to doze off. I leaned over to read the time on his wristwatch. "6:15," said Devin, with one eye open.
The jewels on his Rolex sparkled like stars in the night sky. "You’ve probably heard this a hundred times before," I said, "but that’s a pretty awesome watch."
Devin raised his wrist and admired the elegant timepiece against the setting sun. "I’ve always treasured it," he said. "Got it from Uncle George years ago. He gave it to me out of the blue one day in the back of his private limo."
Lydia was immediately awakened at hearing the word "limo." "He must be a totally rich uncle," she said.
"That he is," said Devin. "I never learned how he made his fortune, but he sure loves to spend it. Big houses, fancy cars, expensive yachts, you name it, he’s got it."
"Must be nice, growing up rich," I said.
"Correction," said Devin. "It’s my dad’s brother who has all the loot. My father barely earns a middle-class income, and my mom’s the stay-at-home type."
"Then how is it that you’re so well-off?"
"The day I was born, my uncle opened a bank account in my name and made sure that a hefty balance was always available to me."
"Your dad and his brother must be close."
"Not even. Truth is, they hate each other. Dad would sooner see us starve than accept a handout from Uncle George. But, as you can see, that hasn’t stopped me from livin’ large."
"It hasn’t helped you from being sent to Bonehead Bootcamp, either," said Lydia.
Devin yawned. "A small price to pay for financial security, don’t you think?"
Though Lydia ached for more details on Devin’s personal wealth, she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. Devin and I soon drifted off to slumberland with her.
The train station was aglow in amber light as night fell. The old lamps had come on while we slept. I was the first one awake, and made a quick search around the station for any signs of life.
Lydia yawned and stretched out her arms. "I miss anything?"
"Any trains come by?" asked Devin, rubbing his eyes.
"Doesn’t look like it," I said, "and the place is as deserted as ever." I patted my tummy. "Who else is hungry?"
Devin walked to the edge of the platform and stuck his long nose into the night air. His whiskers pricked up as he breathed in. Then he marched toward the station entrance. "This way!"
We soon discovered a paved road and followed it into a small town. Florescent streetlights illuminated the center of a downtown business district. It had a grain and feed depot, a Western Auto parts store, and a Rexall pharmacy. A movie theater marquee displayed showtimes for The Day The Earth Stood Still, in faded red letters.
Above the town’s main intersection hung a huge banner that read "Welcome Home! High School Football Champions." I could almost hear the marching bands and cheering crowds that must have filled the street the day that sign went up. No parades for us, though. Like the train station, the town had been abandoned a half-century earlier.
We moved up onto the sidewalk where tall, dry weeds sprouted up through the cracks. Along the curb, rusty parking meters stood guard over empty parking spaces.
Despite the town being in such bad shape, I loved how it evoked a simpler time: the red-striped pole at the barber shop; the filling station with 18-cents-a-gallon gas; the bank boasting its financial assets on its front window. What I wouldn’t give to have lived in that carefree age!
Devin’s nose twitched, and he redirected us around the corner. Halfway down the block, light poured onto the street through a storefront window. A neon welcome sign glowed above its front door. Fortunately for us, it was a diner!
We hurried over to the restaurant and pushed open its stainless steel doors. The air was filled with the aroma of coffee and doughnuts. Neon signs hung all around on the walls, advertising Bubble Up Soda, Frostie Root Beer, and Howdy Doody Fudge Bars. Les Paul’s "How High The Moon" played from a corner jukebox.
It was a perfectly charming eatery. It was also a very empty one. There were no people seated in the booths, around the chrome tables, or on the red vinyl stools at the counter.
The song ended and the jukebox went dark, leaving only the sound of buzzing neon.
Suddenly, the kitchen door swung open, and out walked a man with a red bow tie, white apron, and a paper server’s hat. He whistled cheerfully while balancing a tray of pies on his shoulder. He carefully placed the tray under the counter, unaware he had customers.
Devin cleared his throat. "Excuse me, sir."
"Jiggers!" said the startled man. "Didn’t hear y’all come in. Have a seat, folks, and I’ll be right with ya." Then he retreated back to the kitchen.
The man seemed harmless enough, and we would have had no reason for fear him if not for one distinct, physical feature: his sheep head!
"Is that who I think it is?" I asked.
"That’s him, alright," said Devin. "It’s that sheep-headed sergeant again."
"What’s that guy’s problem?" asked Lydia.
"I don’t know," I said, "but if I don’t get something in my stomach, I’m gonna faint."
"Better see what’s on the menu, then," said Devin. "Don’t worry. I’ll keep a close eye on Sergeant Soda Jerk."
We crossed the checkerboard floor to the counter. The stools were the old-fashioned kind that swiveled. As we each sat down, none of us could resist the urge to go for a spin.
Bam! The kitchen door slammed into the wall as the sheep returned. We abruptly stopped spinning, our faces flushed, like naughty children who had been caught misbehaving.
"Oh, come on now," said the sheep, smiling. "You ain’t ascared of little ol’ me, are ya?" He walked over to us and shook his head. "Goodness gracious. Y’all look skinnier than a litter of wet poodles."
Then the sheep reached under the counter and produced the most scrumptious-looking apple pie I ever laid eyes on. Its sweet apple filling oozed up through a steaming, golden-brown crust.
The sheep served each of us a generous slice. Before digging into mine, I nudged Lydia and nodded toward Devin. We watched him take the first bite. Devin’s eyes rolled over with delight as he chewed, the juicy pie filling dripping from the corner of his mouth. Lydia and I grabbed our forks and dove into our pies, like it was our last meal on Earth.
"Like it?" asked the sheep, still playing the cordial host. We nodded our heads, our mouths too busy munching the sumptuous treat to answer. "Tell you what. Since y’all are newcomers, this one’s on the house." He stepped over to an old-style cash register at the end of the counter and pressed a key.
Ka-ching!
"No, no!" said Devin, stepping in front of the register. "I never accept favors." He reached for the wallet in his back pocket. "Treat the others if you like, but I insist on paying for mine."
As Devin opened his wallet, the old photo of his uncle fell onto the counter. The sheep snatched it up. "What’s this?"
"Nothing," said Devin, reaching out to reclaim his property.
The sheep pulled it back while studying the photo carefully. "Hey!" said the sheep. "I know the man in this picture!"
Devin reached for the photo again, but this time the sheep grabbed hold of Devin’s wrist and pinned it to the counter, then rolled it over to reveal his Rolex. "That’s a darned expensive watch you got there, son," said the sheep. "Only seen one other like it. Must have set you back a pretty penny. Right . . . George?"
"George?" said Devin, surprised. "Oh, you must have me confused with my uncle. We share a close resemblance."
"Don’t give me that, George. I’d know you anywhere."
Devin finally wrestled the photo back. A stunned look crossed his face as he stared at it. He stood frozen as a popsicle as the photo slipped through his fingers onto the counter. I craned my neck to get a look at it. The photo looked the same as it did before, only now Uncle George had a weasel head like Devin!
"Don’t you remember, George?" said the sheep. "You used to come in here every Saturday when you were a kid." He dragged Devin behind the counter where dozens of old Polaroids were thumbtacked to the wall. He pointed to one showing a small boy eating pie at the counter. The boy had a weasel head on him, too!
"Ya know," said the sheep, returning to the cash register, "you used to be quite an asset to this community. You were the most respected man in town—before you and your money destroyed it!"
The sheep hit a register key.
Ka-ching!
The lights in the diner suddenly went out, all except for the wall signs. The glowing yellow, red, and blue neon lit up Devin’s face like a carnival midway.
Lydia and I dove under a nearby table.
Just then, a raspy voice called out from the back of the room. "You ruined my life!" said the voice. I peered out from under the tablecloth. Out from a booth stepped a thin man with dark, sunken eyes. He wore a ragged suit and held a tattered, old briefcase. His coat was torn and wrinkled, and hung over his bony frame like it was five sizes too big for him.
The ghostly figure raised his arm slowly and pointed his skeletal finger at Devin. "You sold me those worthless stocks," he said. "I lost every cent I had while your legal goons got you off scott free. You made living unbearable for me." Clumps of fresh dirt fell from his shoulders as he took a step toward Devin.
Though somewhat shaken, Devin clearly resented the man’s accusation. "Tough luck, pal," said Devin. "You gambled and you lost."
Ka-ching!
A second voice called out, "We went homeless because of you!" A woman wearing a thin veil over her face crept out from a dark corner of the room. Her body was frail and her hair matted. Two malnourished children with dirty faces clung to her torn dress. Though the veil concealed the woman’s identity, it couldn’t hide the burning hatred in her eyes.
"I was your devoted secretary for twenty years," said the woman. "I endured years of harassment so I could keep my job. You rewarded me by laying me off and foreclosing my home." She took the pitiful children by the hand and inched toward Devin.
Devin was unmoved by her story. "You should have read the fine print on your mortgage," he said.
The jukebox suddenly lit up. "How High The Moon" began playing again, loudly.
Ka-ching!
A pale, old man wearing a bloody hospital gown rose up from behind the counter. He looked haggard and sick. Dark bruises covered his face, and his arms were riddled with wounds. He shuffled ever so slowly in Devin’s direction.
"You cut off my pension and my health care," said the man. "I was too old and too sick to look for work. I was denied medical treatment and died from a curable illness."
Again, Devin was unfazed. "You should have taken your vitamins."
The music got louder as even more apparitions appeared:
Ka-ching!
"My family went hungry while you dined with senators."
Ka-ching!
"I froze in the street while you guzzled wine in your mansion."
Ka-ching!
"I begged for pennies while you squandered your millions."
Ka-ching!
Ka-ching!
Ka-ching!
Sweat formed on Devin’s brow. He tried to run, but couldn’t move his feet, as if his shoes had been nailed to the floor. "Wait!" he cried. "You’ve got it all wrong. That wasn’t me." He reached into his pockets and tossed all his money onto the floor in front of him. "Take it! It’s yours!" But the restless souls continued to move closer to him.
The ghoulish group formed a circle around Devin, then raised their arms up over their heads and wailed like banshees. Their voices were incredibly loud and shrill. Light bulbs exploded. Electricity sparked from the neon signs and arced across the room like lightning.
The short-circuited signs plunged the diner into darkness. At the same time, the cries, the screaming, and the loud music stopped.
After a moment of eerie silence, the overhead florescent lights flickered back on. The hideous figures that had surrounded Devin, had fanned out into a straight line along the counter.
Devin was nowhere in sight.
Lydia, who had covered her eyes throughout the whole episode, tugged at my sleeve. "Is it safe to leave now?" she whispered. But before I could answer, the sound of applause began to fill the room. The clapping got louder, building to a thunderous ovation. At the other end of the room stood a crowd of people, clapping wildly. They cheered and whistled as if they had just seen the greatest Broadway show ever.
Then I realized that I had seen those people before. They were the angry protesters from the cornfield, now friendly toward each other. They had put aside their differences and united to witness a scheming weasel get his comeuppance.
The cast of the freakish play all joined hands and bowed to their euphoric audience.
The sheep stepped forward to take his own bows, then approached the table where Lydia and I were hiding. The applause died down as he bent over and lifted the corner of the tablecloth. He glared at us, then swapped his restaurant server hat for his drill sergeant hat.
"Encore, anyone?"