Bartholomew’s Stop by Nathaniel Nelson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.
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The train rattled noisily along its rusty metal tracks at a speed that made is passengers overwhelmingly nauseous. Whenever the vehicle so much as jolted—which happened quite often—at least one passenger would let out a frightened yelp, go green in the face, get puffed-out cheeks, and hurriedly lurch off at the next train station. They would return shortly before the train sped off again, with flecks of something green on their faces. Bartholomew watched them go in amusement, for while the train still sickened him, he was far more accustomed to it by now.  After all, he had ridden this train many, many times before.

Bartholomew shrugged his backpack into a more comfortable position, slouched down in his seat, and stared longingly out of the window. He gazed at the telephone poles as they flitted by, as if fleeing from the train in terror.

The train was small. There were seats—uncomfortable ones with torn up cushions that made Bartholomew itch irritatingly—in aisles of two along the walls. Both the size of the train and the size of the seats only allowed a tiny margin in the middle for people to negotiate their way through. Most of the seats were full—with sickened passengers who yelped at every vibration, however small—and Bartholomew was getting more and more claustrophobic with every unbearable moment. Sitting next to him was an overweight man wearing a stained orange shirt and red sweatpants (also food stained in several places). He was fast asleep, and snoring at an obnoxious volume, with a string of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth, which looked to be ringed with nacho cheese.

Bartholomew suffered noiselessly—but for a few protests from his upset stomach—as the train traveled along, occasionally stopping to let relieved passengers off at their stops. Bartholomew stared after the people leaving with envy—his stop was at the end of the line. He groaned. This felt like it was never going to end.

Finally—after another half-hour of repeatedly having to push his sleeping neighbor off of his shoulder and wiping the disgusting man’s spit off his shirt—Bartholomew shot up excitedly as the train jerked to a gut-wrenching stop. He hastily unbuckled his belt and pushed his way past the sleeping man, who groaned and mumbled something about a cheeseburger but did not awake. Bartholomew sprinted to the sliding door off the train and was the first one to exit through it.

He fell through the door and onto the dimly-lit train platform. The place was large, empty and grey, with a smooth concrete floor (cracked in some places), walls, and ceiling. It was lit by hanging light bulbs that descended from the ceiling from frayed chords and cast a dim glow on the dismal place. A moth flew repeatedly at one of the bulbs, making a quiet clinking sound.

There were four exits from the train station. Bartholomew sprinted for the closest one, threw himself at the door, and stumbled out into the blinding light.

The sun dazzled his eyes; he was momentarily blinded. He squatted down with his hands on his knees for support, waiting to regain his sight. Once he did, he took a moment to survey his surroundings and recover from his nausea. He was on the right side of the sidewalk next to a wide street with four lanes of cars crawling along in the morning traffic.

Finally having fought down the urge to empty his stomach into the gutter, he checked his watch. School should be starting about fifteen minutes from now. He should arrive on time, if not a little earlier. He set off at a brisk walk with his hands crammed inside his pockets for warmth.

He fingered the handful of coins in his left pocket, the change from his train ticket. His dad would want that back once Bartholomew got home.

Something rattled on the sidewalk behind Bartholomew. He felt around in his pocket, and reaching under some of the coins he found, to his extreme frustration, a hole in the pocket of his jacket. He glowered, and turned around just in time to see two coins roll on their sides through the sewer grate in the gutter. He screwed his eyes shut and bit his lip. He ran an agitated hand through his long hair. It would be all right, he told himself. His father wouldn’t notice two coins gone.

Bartholomew’s family was poor. They barely had enough money to feed themselves every day, yet his parents insisted that most of the money be used to put Bartholomew through school. It made him angry, to think that for once he could have a decent meal, but instead he had to learn long division, and write essays. There was no school in their town, so he had to ride the train-the wretched train-into the city to learn in the school there.

He roused himself from his thoughts. There were seven minutes left to get to school, and he still couldn’t even see the schoolhouse up ahead. He quickened his pace, which had slowed down with his bitter thoughts.

Something twinkled out of the corner of his eye. Curious, he stopped and turned around. Laying in a puddle in the gutter with a few spilled copper coins by the street was a wallet.

A wallet.

He walked over and stooped down to pick it up. It was made of leather, which felt smooth and comforting in his hands. He could tell how old it was by its worn surface from a life of use. He opened it greedily.

The smiling face of a beautiful young girl stared out at him from a photograph in the wallet. She had silky brown hair and smooth tan skin. Her eyes were beautiful, the color of ocean waves. Bartholomew’s gaze lingered on her for a second before he saw a velcro pocket in the wallet and tore it open hastily.

Out spilled a handful of coins, of varied size and quality. They were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He counted them up.

He gasped.

There was enough money for… well, almost anything he could think of! He could give it to his parents; they would buy food for the family! But no… they would surely snatch it from him and use the money for school. He wouldn’t give it to them, he decided.

He could buy his own food! He could have the first decent meal in his life!

He could—

His fantasies were interrupted by the distant ring, almost like… a school bell! He was late! He must have been fantasizing for a full six minutes! He hastily stuffed the coins into his pocket—his left jacket pocket—without realizing his folly, and sprinted off to the school.