Bells and Whistles

I was standing in the middle of the tracks, a half-empty, flat bottle of Miller High Life gripped in my trembling left hand. My adrenaline—even in my dull, drunken state—was pumping. The night was hot. It was early summer. The train whistle blared, bleating like a demonic goat as it barreled toward me.

“Watch this,” I said, glancing off the tracks to Kolya, “Just like a fucking bullfighter.”

At what I perceived as the last moment, I dove from the tracks, tumbling down through the mounded gravel. The train blared again as it passed. I stood triumphantly in front of Kolya, posing like a happy idiot, a grin spread across my face.

“Olé!” I slurred.

A can flew from the cab of the train and struck me in the head. It was a 64oz big gulp of cherry-red soda. Fizzing liquid covered me like the sugary, bubbling blood of Willy Wonka.

“Goddammit,” I said, shaking my arms dry pathetically. We continued walking the tracks. Though the conductor’s car was distancing itself from us, the sound of the horn’s jarring blare wasn’t fading.

“Can you shut the window? And close the curtains!”

It was my wife, Mary. Sun shone in through our bedroom window. The train’s blare from the nearby tracks was filling our small bedroom with a crazed, nightmare inducing, frantic wall-of-sound. I shoved the window shut and yanked the curtains closed. Our house was in Erlanger, not far from the railway intersecting Dixie Highway. It was only 5:30 a.m; the sun is an early bird in the summer. I’m not, regardless of the season. The train was still screaming. I muffled its wail with my pillow, wrapping it around my head like it was the helmet of a lethargic hoplite. I nodded back to sleep.

The tracks were always such a great place to walk, especially late at night. Especially drunk as hell. There was no way to get lost. Just follow the tracks, and you would always know exactly where you were—on the fucking tracks. After the train passed, Kolya and I stepped onto the middle of the railway and walked along happily. We were on our way home, after May Fest, unwisely deciding to walk the few miles from Covington back to Latonia, where I lived then. I hopped onto one of the rails, balancing like a trapeze artist, impressed with myself considering my level of intoxication.

“You shouldn’t have done that, you know,” said Kolya, “Your foot could have caught in the tracks and then the train would have crushed you. I don’t blame the conductor for launching that big gulp at you. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience either. And what a shot.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. I was still wet from the soda bath, but I was quickly drying in the muggy summer air. My whole body was sticky and I tried to ignore it.

“How often do these trains run?” I asked.

“Who knows,” said Kolya, “I’ve never lived close enough to the railway to know. A couple times a night, maybe? Three or four?”

The next train blared. They seemed to run continuously. Shutting the window didn’t do much good. I tossed and turned in my bed—rolling around and making a burrito of myself with the blankets.

“Hey!” said Mary, “I want some blankets too.” 

I shared the wealth. It was a chilly morning for early summer. An uncomfortably cool breeze blew in from the opened window. I liked the fresh air, but hated the bleating train. It continued its abysmal siren, as if at any moment it would crash through our bedroom window like a metallic serpent.

I rolled back and forth, twisting in my bed. I looked outside; it was still early, but the day was bright. The warning blasts from the tracks continued and were soon accompanied by a more melodic sound. It was the bell tower from nearby St. Henry church, jangling the tune of “Holy God We Praise Thy Name.” The organized, clanging notes of the traditional hymn merged with the screaming eldritch blasts of the train to create a frenzied horror in my bedroom. My eyes, bloodshot and groggy, widened. I sat up in bed, shaking its creaky foundation. My pet rabbit, Achilles, sprang out from underneath. He looked at me, attuned himself to the chaotic, invasive symphony from outside the window, and thumped loudly to communicate his displeasure. I reached down and clutched the metal frame of the bed. My sweat was cooling from the breeze blowing through the window, causing me to shiver. 

My wife awoke briefly, looking up to me:

“Go back to sleep,” she said, “It’s not even 6:30, yet.”

She flipped on her sleep mask and rolled over—back to snoozing. 

Another train was coming.

“Come on,” I said, looking to Kolya, punching him in the arm, “You give it a go this time. It’s a hell of a feeling, dodging these mechanical bulls. You know, that’s exactly what they are, right? Trains are bulls! They both have the same job; they’re both beasts of burden.”

“You’re fucking drunk,” said Kolya. He nevertheless stayed on the tracks. I hopped off, down the manmade gravel hill, to the dirt below.

“You got it!” I said, “You’re a bullfighter! You’re Francisco Romero! You’re Clint Eastwood!”

I put my hand on my hips and watched, waiting in excitement. Kolya stood—looking nervously to me—firm on the track. The train continued its approach. The horn blared, again and again. It was as if the train were itself afraid, as if it wanted to avoid its fate—as if it felt forced to kill. Kolya dug his feet into the rock, twisting the toe of his left shoe back and forth like a baseball player readying himself at the plate. The noise grew.

I awoke again. I couldn’t sleep. I was done trying. I got out of bed and walked toward the bathroom. Achilles was now perched in his usual spot, guarding the entrance to our bedroom. He seemed to think he could stop a train, if he wanted to. He looked at me inquisitively, twisting his head as I stepped around him and out of the room. I looked at myself in the mirror. I wasn’t tired, but I looked it. I splashed water on my face. The train blared its horn again. That night was coming back to me again. The train always reminded me. Forced me to dream about it, again and again.

Kolya was frozen. The train kept barreling toward him, its horn growing more frantic, its lights brightening—blinding our already dim view of the dark, surrounding foliage comprising the canvas of the night. 

He was incapable of movement. The train was incapable of stopping. An object in motion will stay in motion. An object at rest will stay at rest. His body was there, in the middle of the tracks, and then it was gone. The conductor’s car passed by; no big gulps were thrown this time. Car after car whizzed by, brushing me back from the edge of the tracks. I screamed and screamed. I ducked, looking below the tracks for Kolya’s body. I saw nothing. The train cars kept passing. It was a long, slow train. Slow train, coming, just like Bob Dylan said. I stood in silent horror. The train passed and I scrambled onto the tracks. Kolya was nowhere to be seen. Only rocks—bloodstained rocks. He had disappeared.

The whistle of the train finally subsided, but the bells from St. Henry continued. They would play all morning, I knew. The tune had changed, though. Now the bells were clanging along to “O Sacrament Most Holy.” The day was brightening. Wide awake, I opened the curtains fully.

Mary stirred, “What are you doing? I’m trying to sleep. Give me some peace.”

Achilles, still in the doorway, thumped and ran out of the room and away from the light. I looked outside. The sun was already high, though a cloud hung atop the hill, near Dixie Highway—near the tracks—above St. Henry’s. I saw the swinging bells. The light shone dimly through the stagnant gray cloud. and between the pillars of the cupola I noticed a shadowy figure. It stood swaying in organized rhythm with the bouncing bells. Blindingly bright, its large eyes shone a warning, straight from the top of the tower into my bedroom—into my eyes. I shielded my face, wincing. I looked again. The figure opened its gaping mouth. The church was far off, but due to the unnatural detachment of its drooping jaw, I could tell that its swirling, black maw was agape. It screeched like a train, then closed its demented mouth, its body twisting in wavy, non-Euclidean fashion, and looked at me. It was Kolya.

Artwork by Pawel Pacholec

Robert Pettus is an English as a Second Language teacher at the University of Cincinnati. Previously, he taught for four years in a combination of rural Thailand and Moscow, Russia. He was most recently accepted for publication in the online journals Yellow Mama, Apocalypse-Confidential, Mystery Tribune, Blood Moon Rising, and The Green Shoes Sanctuary. ‘Bells and Whistles’ is one of his more recent stories.

Pawel Pacholec was born in 1986 in Poland. In his work, he often refers to classic, traditional techniques and ways of expression, and creates in a balanced and thoughtful way based on visible structures and forms. For inspiration, he looks to Constructivism or industrialism, as well Dadaism and Expressionism. While producing, he tries to relate to geometry and mathematical proportions which he sometimes breaks with something completely oppositional, like an irregular shape or expressive gesture. Pacholec often fuses photography with graphics. Follow him on Instagram @paul.piotrowicz