But after sixteen years, what did they really have to show for it all? He had been passed over for promotions time after time and still sat in the same dusty cubicle. Connie was probably half drunk by now; before the night was out, he was sure she'd make it the rest of the way.
     Norm pulled into his driveway and heaved a sigh, dreading to go in. What would it be tonight? Constant nagging, a huge fight, or the silent treatment? Oh God, he hoped for the latter.
     He wasn't disappointed. He walked in the door and she stomped through the room without a word, the wafting stench of gin in her wake.
     “Hello to you, too.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it; the silent treatment would have been better that what would come next. He had poked the bear. Let the nagging begin!
     “Oh, good evening, my breadwinner!” She walked back in, almost stumbling over an ottoman. “Make any sales today, hotshot?” she slurred. As he turned to walk away, she kept on, “I didn't think so. You know we can hardly make the rent this month. Are you even trying? When was the last time you made a decent sale?” 
     “When was the last time you…” He didn't finish the sentence. He was going to say, when was the last time you went to an AA meeting? When was the last time you called your sponsor? Maybe if you didn’t drink the damn rent money…! But there was no point even going there, just like there was no point expecting her to have dinner ready like she used to. Now she drank her dinner. He wasn't hungry anyway.
     Norm Macklin plodded down to his basement, which was finished off as a den, with knotty pine paneling, a couple of sofas and his overstuffed recliner, a 65” flat-screen, and sound bar. It had once had a mini-bar, but he took it away when Connie relapsed and drank all the stock. He found a baseball game on the TV and lit a cigarette. Four hours later he would still be there, sleeping on the sofa…like every other night.

*   *   *
 

     “Hey, Stormin’ Norman, guess what. Your turn in the old barrel there, big guy. Herr Gestapo is checking phone logs again.” That was Frederick Tracy, a thirty-one-year-old go-getter who hammered out his trade in the adjoining cubicle. Fred and Norm both held the title of Inside Account Rep, although Fred wore it much better. The job was threefold. When an existing New Century Industries account holder placed an order online, Norm or Fred would call to schedule delivery. While on the phone they could suggest add-ons: Do you need more of this? We have a sale on that. Yadda, yadda! This was the moral equivalent of, You want fries with that? If the customer added the fries, that portion counted as a sale. 
     Secondly, if NCI received an online or mail order from a new customer, whichever IAR was up next would call to try and set up a new account. If they did, they got half credit on the order, full credit on the fries. But, if the customer did not set up an account, and remained a “guest,” they got nada.
     But the majority of Norm’s day was good old-fashioned business-to-business cold-calling. Each day they received a list of “qualified” leads. He never knew who did the “qualifying” because a vast majority were bullshit. The IARs’ job was to enthusiastically call the purchasing agent puke of the customer’s company to make appointments for the Outside Account Reps, the real hotshots. Each appointment made carried a microscopic spiff, and if the appointment led to a sale, the Commission was split 75-25 with the OAR. 
     In other words, Norm Macklin, at forty-seven years old, was a glorified telemarketer. 
     Whoopie!
     The Herr Gestapo Fred referred to was the sales manager, Johann “Johnny” Gunther, a tall man who was usually wheezy and sweaty by virtue of carrying around about fifty extra pounds, reeked of his three pack-a-day cigarette addiction, and invariably had at least one stain on his shirt. Of late, Gunther had a bug up his ass that the IARs should make fifty cold-calls a day. Fred usually exceeded that plateau and received the requisite attaboy. As for Norm? 
     In his German accent Big Johnny enumerated, “Forty-two on Monday, thirty-nine on Tuesday, Twenty-seven on Wednesday! TWENTY-SEVEN! Macklin, what part of ‘fifty’ are you having trouble understanding?” Before Norm could formulate a response, Gunther piled on: “Look at your call production report. Between the hang up and the next dial, you average five point two minutes. That’s FIVE MINUTES with your thumb up your ass! For every twelve calls you’ve wasted a freaking hour!” (Yes, Johnny, I can do the math!) “You know what Fred did? (I’m sure you’re going to tell me!) Average time between dials, a minute and a half. Average calls made, fifty-five, average appointment set, nine! Your daily average appointments set, Stormin’ Norman, was four!”
     In reality, Norm had tuned out Gunther's rant. While he blathered on, all Norm could hear was George Thorogood: “Get it together like your big brother, Bob. Get a haircut and get a real job!” 
There was a time when Norm would deliver numbers like that. But over time, the motivation waned; the real money always went to the OARs. That position had come open four times during Norm’s tenure. Each time he applied; each time the position went too some tall, good-looking ass-kisser. No doubt Freddie-boy would get it next time.

​

*   *   *

​

     “Get it together like your coworker Fred…” The slightly modified Thorogood tune was stuck in Norm’s head during the train ride home, in a mental-medley with Springsteen: “I took a wrong turn and I just kept goin’.” The replay of Gunther's carpet-calling was dancing cheek-to-cheek with the dread of the upcoming confrontation with his beloved bride. He had an ironic chuckle as he envisioned the two of them together, wearing matching swastika armbands, conspiratorially hissing their plans to make Norm's life miserable. They were doing a great job!
     His reverie was suddenly interrupted. “Hi, is this seat taken?”
   Norm turned from the window to see the smiling fresh face of a pretty twenty-something-year-old girl. She was diminutive, blonde, with the deepest blue eyes Norm had ever seen. He looked around and saw at least a dozen empty seats; he shrugged as though to say, “Sure, whatever,” but she was already sitting.
     “Beautiful day, isn't it?” Norm actually hadn’t noticed. “My name is Kristy. That’s Kristy with a K not a CH. I guess my folks were just rebellious like that.”
     Great! Like I'm in the mood for a lot of chit-chat. “A pleasure. Name's Norm.”
     “Hi, Norm. Is that short for Norman? Like the conquest?” 
   Norm had to chuckle. He didn't exactly feel like William the Conqueror these days. The loquacious young woman prattled on about this and that, and in spite of himself, Norm was drawn into the conversation. And in spite of himself, Norm actually smiled a few times.
     Twenty minutes later the intercom chimed, “Next station stop, Alistair. Doors open on the right.”
     “Well, that's my stop,” said Kristy-with-a-K. “It's been nice meeting you, Norm.”
     “Likewise.”
     As Kristy stood up, she patted Norm's hand. It was the first time they had actually touched, and in that moment of brief contact it seemed that some subtle, esoteric energy had passed between them. He looked down at his hand where she had touched him and was amazed to see that the skin radiated a warm glow, a soft, golden aura. Then the light from the aura was suddenly absorbed through his pores, and he felt its warmth and energy flow through his arm into his chest, and circulate throughout his body.
     “Bye-bye for now, Norm. I'm sure we'll see each other again.”
     Norm tried to regain his bearings “Uh, sure, yeah, see ya.” 
  The doors slid open. Kristy glanced back at Norm, beamed her energetic smile, and breezed away to her perfect little life in Alistair. With a sigh, Norm turned back to the window, and it occurred to him that he did not remember any place called Alistair. But then, he'd been so tied up in knots lately, maybe he just hadn't noticed. Until now, he had not noticed…
     …that it was a beautiful day.

​

*   *   *

​

     But, that night was the same as usual. Connie drinking, Connie bitching, Norm fuming in the basement.
     Then, the next day was the same as usual. Gunther ranting, Gunther lecturing, Norm fuming in his cubicle.
     Norm was again angry and depressed by the time he rode the train home, wallowing in self-pity and self-loathing. The Springsteen tune was stuck in his head again, and he wondered what it would be like if he took a wrong turn and just kept goin’. The city rolled by into the suburbs as it always did, punctuated by the ding of the station stops, as Norm just stared out the window. He hadn't been sleeping well on that basement sofa, and the rhythmic drone of the tracks lulled him.
      “Well, looky here! It's Norman the Conqueror! May I join you?”
     He opened his eyes to her cheery smile and said, “Hey there,  Miss Kristy-with-a-K.”
       She plopped down in the seat next to him. “So, how was your day?”
     “To be honest, I'd rather talk about yours.”
     With exuberance that was almost childlike, she gushed anecdotes about her friends, her job, her hobbies. She bounced from subject to subject so fast Norm could scarcely keep up. But he didn't mind; he was thoroughly enjoying her company.
       Norm asked, “So, where do you work?”
     “It's a little bookstore in the city. I love it because my coworkers are fun, and the people who come in are smart and interesting, most of them anyway. When it's slow there are plenty of books to read. I love to read! It’s not much money, but I've got all I need, and all you need is all you need. Right? Anyway, you don't need much in Alistair.”
     “You say Alistair. It's funny, but I've lived around here my whole life, ridden on this stupid train longer than I want to think about, and I've never heard of Alistair.”
     “Oh, we’re just a little dot on the map. Not much goes on in Alistair. They only just built the train station recently. A lot of the townspeople didn't want to; we're not much on progress, you know. But I don't mind; It saves me the drive into the city every day, and, I get to meet interesting people, like you.”
    “Yeah, I'm sure I’m a real interesting guy. What’s it like living in such a little town?”
  “It's great! Everybody knows everybody; you get to know your neighbors and all. The same little shops and restaurants have been there for years. There's a park with a bandstand and every Sunday afternoon in the summer we do a little concert. I play the flute, if you can believe that. I guess by big city standards our little band kind of sucks, just a bunch of us old yokels who oom-pah it up, but we love it.”
     “Yeah, Kristy, you’re an old yokel. Hell, I’ve got socks older than you! Do the folks in Alistair all ride a horse and buggy?”
     She laughed, “No, but you don't see a lot of BMWs either.”

​

*   *   *

 

     Meeting Kristy on the train had become something of a regular thing, and somehow all the crap from work and home seemed more bearable. When things got bad, he could escape to his cubicle, or his basement man-cave, and envision that smile and those deep, dark blue eyes. Sometimes she would show him things he had she had bought: some little knickknack or a sweater or whatever. Occasionally she would have a book.
    “I don't usually buy books at the store, even though I'm always tempted. Gosh, if I let myself, I could spend my whole paycheck on books. Do you like to read, Norm?”
     “Not a whole lot.” This was an understatement. The last real book Norm had read was for high school English class. He didn't remember what it was. “There's not a lot of time, you know.”
  The intercom dinged, and Norm heard the disappointing announcement: next station stop Alistair. Doors open on the right. As she stood, she patted his hand again, and once again he saw the glowing aura, and felt its energy wash through him. 
      “Bye-bye for now, Norm. I'm sure we'll see each other again.”
     “Wait!”
     “What is it, Norm?”
     “Didn’t you just feel that!?”
     “Feel what? I didn’t feel a thing.”
     “I can't describe it. It's like some kind of, I don't know, energy or force or something, I mean it's like…”
     Kristy just smiled down at him, “Gosh Norm, I don't have any idea what you might be talking about.” She winked and whispered, “See ya soon.”

​

*   *   *

​

     It was August, just about a month since Norm had met Kristy-with-a-K, and they had sat together on the train almost every day. He enjoyed her little stories of her adventures in the book store, and of her simple life in Alistair. He learned that she lived alone in a little house down the street from her parents home, her childhood home. She had had a couple of boyfriends over the years, but nothing serious. Her father was a barber who ran the only barber shop in town; her mother taught second grade at the Alistair school. There was only one school in Alistair, and that went all the way from kindergarten through high school. 
     One evening Norm had boarded the train in a particularly bad frame of mind. A few days before, the OAR position did, in fact, open up again, and guess who got the promotion. Good old Freddie-boy of course! To make matters worse, Gunther had brought in Jordan, a snot-nosed kid just out of junior college, as the new IAR.
      “Norm, this is Jordan Cotter. He'll be taking Fred's place.”
      “Good to meet you, Jordan, welcome to the salt mine.”
     “I want you to train him on all the systems and procedures and get him going on the paperwork.” Then, to Cotter, “But you'd be better off talking to Fred about the telephone work.” Back to Norm, sarcastically,  “Isn't that right, Macklin?” 
     “Sure boss. I'm sure Fred won't mind.” But before he finished that sentence, Gunther had already walked off.
       So, Norm was especially happy to see his young friend on the train. He was able to put aside that frustration and anger and enjoy another of her perky little stories. 
     “So there was this boy, Mark, that I'd had a crush on since ninth grade, and I was really hoping he would ask me to...”
     Krissy abruptly stopped. As though a switch had been flipped, her face turned expressionless, waxen, and in a very different, almost mechanical voice, intoned, “Mankind finds peace only when the energetic spirit aligns with the esoteric Universal Consciousness.” After a long second, she blinked twice, then looked at Norm with her brown eyes (Brown!?) and said, “Don't you think so, Norman Macklin?”
     Baffled, Norm stammered “Huh? W-w-what do you mean? I don't know.”
     She blinked again, and the switch flipped and she was again her loquacious, blue eyed self; she continued midsentence, “.... the junior prom, but he asked Julie Barlow instead, and that was...” Norm didn't really catch the rest. 
      The intercom dinged the Alistair stop, and again she repeated the same parting words. “Bye-bye for now, Norm. I'm sure we'll see each other again.” But this time she added, “You know, Norm, you should visit Alistair sometime.”
     As the warm aura of her touch spread through his body, Norm absently muttered, “Yeah, sure, I might do that.”

​

*   *   *

​

     One Sunday in September, Connie carried her hangover to church (what a joke!) Afterward, she was going to drive out to see her mother. The previous night, she had halfheartedly asked Norm if he wanted to go with her.
     Let's see, do I want to spend the day with mama-bitch and baby-bitch?? “Gee, I'd love to honey, but I've got some errands and, uh, stuff. I think I'll pass this time.” She didn't argue the point.
      At 9:30, Connie walked out the front door. Norm heard the car door slam, the engine start, and the car drive away. He took a sip of coffee, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and soaked up the delicious silence. Then, on a whim, he decided to take the train into the city. Since it was Sunday, it was not so crowded, and without a day at the office looming, he found himself actually enjoying the ride. In town he just gadded about with no particular aim. He stopped in at a quaint little deli and enjoyed a Reuben and a nice cold draft beer. And yes, he wanted fries with that. It crossed his mind to try to find Kristy's bookstore, but she had never told him exactly where it was or what it was called. It would probably be closed on Sundays anyway. The autumn air was crisp and clear, and Norm felt relaxed, and dare he say, happy?
     Although Kristy was not on the train heading home, Norm still smiled thinking about her, and about her little town of Alistair. The thoughts of going home were not particularly appealing; he knew that after spending the day with the Wicked Witch of the West, Connie would probably be even bitchier than usual. Kristy had mentioned that she and the old local yokel oom-pah band were going to play in the park that afternoon, their last concert of the season. Norm looked down at his hand and saw the faint glow; yes, it was really there! He felt that subtle, esoteric energy, and he thought for a moment he actually heard Kristy’s voice: “…aligns with the esoteric Universal Consciousness. Don't you think so, Norman Macklin?”
       Norm slowly smiled, and with a newfound resolve, Yes, Kristy, I do! And when the intercom dinged the stop, he may have said aloud, “What the hell?” The doors opened and he stepped out onto the little platform, only to find a familiar face.
     “Well, hey there, Kristy-with-a-K.”
     “Hey Norman the Conqueror,” she said as her blue, blue eyes seemed to gaze right into his soul. “I had a feeling you might be visiting today.” They walked off, arm in arm.

​

*   *   *

​

​     “Doc, what makes people do that to themselves?”
   “It's hard to say,” the coroner answered her assistant. “Depression, frustration, fear? Some combination of all of these? We just don't know what goes on inside another person's mind.” As medical examiner in a large city, she had seen more than her share of suicides, but this one was particularly gruesome. Almost every bone in the man’s body was broken and his skull was bashed in beyond recognition. But what would you expect when a man suddenly jumps from a moving train out in the middle of nowhere? 
     She had seen enough violent death in this hellhole city that she was unfazed. Jimmy the young assistant, however, was a little green around the gills. She laughed to herself thinking that may have been what prompted him to say, “We've, um, got some friends coming over tonight for dinner, and Kathy has asked me to, uh, pick up the wine. Do you mind if I scoot out a little early?”
     “No, Jimmy, that's fine. I can finish up here. You have yourself a good night.”
     “Okay thanks.” And as he hung up his lab coat, “See you tomorrow, Dr. Alistair.”