Backward Man

Two men rode the morning train. They sat opposite each other. One sat facing forward, the other backward.

“I don’t like riding backward,” said the first man.

“When you sit backward and look out the window you can see what’s coming,” explained the second man.

“How’s that possible? You have sit facing forward to see what’s coming.”

“It’s easy,” replied the backward facing man.

The train emerged from under a bridge and passed behind a row of ramshackle houses. The train passed one backyard that contained a small inflatable pool and a tree with a swing.

“I see a school bus ahead at a railroad crossing,” said the backward man.

“You do!” smiled the forward man.

The train passed a skateboard park with a lone skater, who must have been ditching school.

“I see a young man speeding on his motorcycle to the mall,” said the backward man.

“That wouldn’t surprise me.”

The train passed a churchyard. A wedding arbor stood empty in a plot of flowers.

“I see someone walking into a store to buy rice,” said the backward man.

“That’s funny.”

The train passed a fire engine parked beside a city park. Firefighters in rain jackets were jogging down a winding path that followed the train tracks for a short distance.

“I see an open bay door at a fire station,” said the backward man.

The train passed a liquor store, its red neon sign flashing. The morning rain was picking up.

“I see people walking down sidewalks, staring at reflections in puddles,” said the backward man.

“I don’t like trains,” explained the forward man, “but my car conked out. If I have to ride the train, I need to see what’s coming. I don’t want to miss my stop.”

The train passed behind a large car lot. The new cars were brightly polished.

“I see a car crashed in a ditch,” said the backward man.

“Obviously you can’t see any of that. Because I don’t,” asserted the forward man.

The train passed a flagpole that rose above a brick fire station that had one open bay door. The morning wind was rising, whipping the flag wildly under black clouds.

“I see a lightning strike ahead,” said the backward man.

“It’s not in the forecast,” laughed the forward man, who looked straight ahead at the backward sitting man.

The backward man turned his eyes from the train window. He looked back at the forward man, directly into his eyes.

The train passed a cemetery. Headstones covered newly green grass.

“I see a ghost.”

Paradise Manor

Picking up specimens was a piece of cake job. All I did was drive a company car and stop at hospitals and doctor offices. But my route covered a big area, so I had to keep moving. And as a professional lab courier, I had to know which bagged specimens were room temperature, refrigerated or frozen.

The one place I hated was nursing homes. There was the unbearable smell. And the long wait at nurses stations.

I remember one time I was finally handed a urine sample at Paradise Manor, and I was about to leave the front lobby when, out of the blue, someone came up to me: a tiny, very old woman.

She grabbed my arm. “Please help me,” the old woman implored.

“I’m sorry?” I said, startled.

I glanced at the little person in her pink robe.

“Help me. They won’t let me out.”

This is awkward, I realized. What am I supposed to say?

Paradise Manor’s front lobby, with its empty velvet couch and large mirrors, had always resembled a funeral home. At Paradise Manor there were several nurses stations down long hallways, but no reception desk.

“They won’t let you out?” I repeated with a feeling of dread. In the back of my mind I knew I was already running late.

The old woman tugged at my arm. “Please help me get out of here,” she persisted. “They won’t let me leave. Please help me.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’m allowed to– I mean, I wish I could help you but–I really have to get going–“

“Help me! Help me!” she repeated, her entreating eyes meeting mine.

The old woman kept tugging weakly at my arm as I started to move toward the front door.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I’m not supposed to,” I said lamely.

I glanced around, hoping to be saved, but the lobby of Paradise Manor remained empty–with no friendly welcome or farewell. No help would be coming from the nurses station down the hallway.

“I have to be going,” I tried to explain. “If I’m late, I’ll get in trouble with my boss.”

But she had no idea who I was. Just a person within her reach.

“I really wish I could help you,” I said pathetically, breaking away from her grip and backing toward the door.

The old woman’s arms were outstretched.

She stood frozen with an expression of terror on her face as she watched me push open the heavy door. “Please help me! Please help me!” she called.

I escaped.

All that afternoon I felt guilty, wondering what I could have done.

And, of course, the only answer was nothing.