Tom tapped his foot impatiently, mindlessly scrolling through social media, surrounded by equally impatient to-be passengers of the delayed Amtrak 2331 train. The wind cut through the air in howling screams similar to train track screeches, and like knives, sliced at any spot of bare skin—fingers flicking through phones, cheeks peeking out of a woolen scarf, half an inch of ankle between the break of pant cuffs and warm socks. Three teenagers huddled under a broken heater hood that flickered on and off in split seconds of bright orange and rusty gray.
From far away, a honk signaled the incoming train. Turning heads, hopeful eyes met the text on the electric sign: AMTRAK 1112: ARRIVING. Disappointed sighs let out white wisps that dissipated into the wind as soon as they were released. Train 1112 halted to a stop, receiving tired glares. Every car was packed, and crowds rushed out, running for the stairs—catching the next train on the transfer, Tom supposed.
One man seemed more leisurely, ambling along in a way like his lax clothing—a woolen, dark beanie; an oversized black hoodie covering the top of his gray joggers; fogged-up glasses against the cold gazing down at his sneakers. As he approached the waiting area, he looked up, scanning the passengers. Tom averted his eyes, but it was too late; they made eye contact. Suddenly, the man’s tired eyes lit up, and Tom flinched. The man started making his way to him in the same rhythmic, loose walk.
“Hey, how are you doing, man?”
Tom looked back to make sure he was talking to him. He was. Sigh.
“Doing alright, you?”
“Actually, not so great,” the man said. (Tom thought: This is so unnecessary.) “I’m kind of new around here, and looks like I accidentally got off a station early anyways. Do you live in this area, by any chance?”
“I do,” Tom replied warily. He wanted to leave, but train 2331 was still delayed as ever.
“Oh, that’s so awesome! I’m staying around here for, like, a week. Business trip. By the way, is that scarf from Disney World?”
Small talk went on and on, making Tom uncomfortable with each passing minute; he wasn’t the one to refuse anything. But the goddamn train was not arriving. As soon as he saw the faintest lights of 2331 in the distance, he turned to the man, hiding his relief. “That’s my train, I’d better get going.”
The man seemed disappointed. As Tom was about to leave, he held out his phone. “Hey man, can I have your phone number by any chance? Still staying here, so y’know, questions about the area.”
Sigh. “Sure,” he said, hastily typing out his number with incredible speed and handing it back. Train 2331 came to a screeching halt, to the joy of the waiting passengers. “Well, I hope you have a great time here,” Tom said, heading over to board the train. When he looked back, the man was grinning and waving, clutching his phone.
—
The next day, he regretted this choice immediately. It all started with a simple text:
hey this is andy from the train station 🙂
But since then, the man—Andy—had been bombarding his phone with the most random questions and continuations of the small talk from the day before. Questions about local restaurants, entertainment, parks, walkways—and Tom’s replies getting sparser and sparser, until he started replying with single-word answers. The questions were just too innocent; Andy just wanted to know more about the area. Right? Or was there a reason that he had so clearly approached him at the train station? Tom shivered. A little déjà vu feeling of creepiness. He resorted to not looking at his phone for hours at a time, instead of blocking the man. Late at night, he checked his phone at his bedside:
thank you so much for all the help man
can I take you out to dinner at steak n bones tomorrow for dinner
?
all on me
Okay, never mind the creepiness. Free dinner at a luxury restaurant? Seemed pretty fair for all the trouble he went through (answering text messages). Yawning, he set down his phone and went to bed.
Yes, @6?
—
Dinner was not too bad. The steak stole the show, of course, and Tom gazed at it in wonder before taking a gentle slice. The shining juice oozed out from each meticulous cut of the steak knife, revealing the most beautiful pink center within the charcoaled outer crisp. The meat was wonderful. Then, unfortunately, there was Andy, who was not so wonderful. They were sitting at the outdoor tables, but his outfit, unchanged from the train station, still stood out against the sea of blazers and blouses like a chicken within a flock of swans.
Andy, with his incessant multitude of questions, once again irked Tom as he tried to focus on his steak. From basic questions such as “What’s your favorite movie?”, Tom found himself facing more and more personal questions. The steak grew colder. “So, do you have family living here, too?”—no, they lived in his hometown—“Where do you work?”—freelancer—“Do you live alone or with other people?”—…no?—“Significant other?”—eyebrow raise, and so on.
“Tom, have you– do you–” Andy cleared his throat. “What are your opinions on intrusive thoughts?”
Another eyebrow raising question. Intrusive thoughts? “Uh, what do you mean?”
“Like, impulses to do illegal stuff, violent stuff, y’know,” he leaned forward, which would have been creepy if he didn’t look this genuinely curious.
“Um, I think everyone has them from time to time, I don’t think they’re that serious as long as you don’t act on them.”
“Yeah?”
Andy seemed to think for a moment. Then came another question.
“Hypothetically, if you knew you were destined to act on a specific violent thought in a future, would you try your best not to do it?”
Tom’s hands froze mid-air reaching for his napkin. What the. That was an oddly specific, very hypothetical question… that he’d heard before. But whatever.
“Well, maybe—but then again, maybe fate is inevitable. People trying to change their future and whatnot and getting themselves into a deeper mess,” he replied. At least this wasn’t a personal question, hah. “And you?”
Andy leaned his chin against a propped up arm. “Probably. I’d hate to act on stuff like that, even if my thoughts are weird, so like, try to prevent it.”
Tom had finished the steak, the last few bites tasteless and cold. They had been sitting here for way too long. There were only a few groups eating outside in the cold weather now, although the giant columns of heaters were doing their best to keep the customers from shivering. Andy had basically finished, too, but he was keeping a last bite on the plate, stretching out the wait. The steak was almost shredded in a way that suggested that Andy’s steak knife was pretty dull. Good old Steak ‘n Bones, never sharpening their knives. Tiny details like these made up the overall restaurant experiences.
“Anyways, do you intend on staying here for the next few years?” He asked. Never ending. They just keep on coming, don’t they.
“Staying at Steak ‘n Bones?”
Chuckle. “Nah, I meant, this area.” He waved to the city streets.
“Probably, unless I get a better job that requires me to move.”
“Are you looking for a better job?”
“Meh.”
“Maybe you should? Heard a freelancer isn’t that stable or comforting. Also, isn’t your apartment a bit crowded and small anyways?”
Tom hadn’t mentioned his apartment yet.
“Uh, I don’t think so, I’m pretty happy right now,” he replied nonchalantly, eyeing the final bite of steak. Andy had ordered his steak well done. The brown, dry middle looked as disgusting and a disgrace to meat as it could be. It lay there sadly on the edge of the greasy plate. But with that reply, Andy took his fork, stabbed it through the lump, popped it into his mouth, and chewed. The sound of dry fibers rubbing against teeth and each other made Tom wince.
He noticed that his expression had darkened significantly, compared to the cheerful face just minutes before.
While chewing, Andy signaled the waiter for the check. He swallowed. “We should go drink at the bar next door,” he said. He was definitely a bit distressed. Tom made a guess that the cold weather was bothering him, sitting outdoors and all. Or maybe it was the well done steak.
“Um,” Tom said, “I think I should go home. It’s getting late.” A mild headache had been bothering him for the past hour from the incessant talking.
He thought about this for another second.
“Andy,” he said. Andy, taking a sip of water, looked surprised and put his glass down.
“Yes?”
Why did that yes need to be a question? Every time he heard a voice trailing up, insinuating to an invisible question mark, a dull pain ached at his right side of his head.
“You want to come by my house briefly before going back to your hotel? I have a couple guide books and maps about this town, just lying around for some reason. Don’t need them anymore. You can just take a look around—I’ve been meaning to get rid of those for a while.”
Enough resources meant Andy would stop texting for the next few days. Tom felt proud of himself for thinking of this plan—and he would seem extra nice for giving those away for free.
Andy’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, that sounds fantastic! Would love those,” he said eagerly.
The waiter returned with the check, and after payment, the two men left, Andy leaving two twenty dollar bills tucked under the salt shaker.
–
The busboy came by to clean up the finished plates and utensils, and noticed that there was an odd number of silverware left from a two-person meal. He looked under the table to see if one of the men had dropped something, but there was none. The customers were nowhere in sight. Shrugging it off, the busboy picked up the rest of the forks and knives and jostled happily back to the kitchen.
–
Tom dug through his drawers, fishing out a map of the neighborhood, a second map, a mini restaurant booklet that he received years back at a festival, a subway schedule sheet, and—
Andy peered over his shoulder. “Can I go over to use the bathroom for a sec?”
Tom stopped rummaging through the papers. “Yeah, sure, I’ll show you there. The door’s a bit complicated, there’s an outer lock and an inner lock. You need to make sure you don’t accidentally lock yourself in.”
The two men walked over to the bathroom, where, like Tom’s description, an outer bolt lock hung menacingly from the left edge. Tom scratched his head; “Sorry, this thing was here since the previous owner of the house. So you want to make sure that you don’t close this flap outside, but you can lock the inside lock through the handle.”
“Is this the light switch for the bathroom?” Andy asked as he pointed to a switch on the outside wall.
“No, it’s for something else. The bathroom light should be inside.”
Andy gave a thumbs up and went in as he walked back to the drawers. Tom had noticed the man’s bulging pockets of his hoodie, even though he carried no bag with him—from the restaurant and back. Maybe his wallet, probably something else. Once he heard the door close, he broke into cold sweats, just a little.
Tom opened the second drawer below the guidebooks. Grabbed a small plastic bottle. Silently slid back to the bathroom door and gently closed the flap of the outer lock so it couldn’t make a sound. He put his ears against the wooden white door, holding his breath, silent, the rough painting job grazing against the soft cartilage of his ears and the edges of his cheeks.
Kkkkch.
The sound of metal against ceramic quietly but unmistakably vibrated against the bathroom tiles and into Tom’s awaiting ears. He raised his arm, against the door, and tapped his fist, once, twice.
“Hey, Andy?”
The sound of frantic clothes rumpling, any other scratches from the metallic weapon he possessed relatively hidden.
“…yeah? Anything wrong?”
“The door is locked.”
“Yeah? I locked the door. Why, you trying to sneak up on me or something?”
Tom laughed nervously. The invisible question mark at the end of each “yeah” was irritating as ever, especially in this situation.
“No, I locked the door. From the outside.”
Pause—hesitation.
“Tom? Anything wrong?”
“Andy.”
“Yeah?”
Tom chewed on his bottom lip, where a flap of dry skin had started peeling off. He bit it with his teeth, trying to pick at it, but gave up after a few seconds. “You’re not the first person.”
Silence.
Tom continued. “I’m not a mass… terrorist. I don’t have the heart to kill four hundred and thirty nine people, or whatever the number is that you people keep telling me.”
Silence.
“I’m going to keep living in this apartment. And I have no reason to bomb that venue across the street in three year’s time. Like, what the hell. I don’t.”
Silence.
Glad that Andy wasn’t responding, Tom spit out his final remarks: “But I do know that I want to live.” He slid down against the door, sitting down in a feeling of vulnerability but honesty. He had never talked about the other visitors to a visitor before. But to combat the questions, he put out answers before they could be asked.
And then poured in the last of the question marks.
“Tom? I can explain—I—I’m not like the others—but there were others? People visited you? And they didn’t—you’re alive?”
Tom looked into his left palm. The plastic bottle that he had picked up from the drawer read: GORILLA WATERPROOF CAULK & SEAL, 100% SILICONE SEALANT.
“Tom? I’m actually not here to kill you. I’m sure others tried to. Um. Are you going to kill me?”
Tom went around the doorframe, applying the silicone all around the door generously.
“Tom? You know what you’ve done in the future? Will you try to not do it? Not follow through with whatever violent thoughts?”
For Christ’s sake.
“Tom?”
The clear substance around the corners of the door against wall shone dully under the ceiling LEDs.
“Tom? What… happened to the other time travelers?”
He flicked on the switch. The release of pressurized air made a faint tsss sound through the thick wooden barrier separating the two men. A few minutes later, the clang of silverware dropping to the ground and hitting the ceramic tiles could be heard for a split second, but Tom was already back at the drawers in the other room, organizing the pile of brochures.
No more voices trailing up were spoken in the studio apartment for the next few days.