rail

the first time i saw it it was sitting on a flatbed trailer across the street in front of the bed and breakfast. some sort of tiny orange car with metal wheels. i stared out the living room window and felt dizzy. my chest was collapsing in on itself like my heart was trying to devour my body. it is rare that i feel an overwhelming desire for objects, but when it happens, it's crippling. the need makes me sick. i didn't know what it was, what it was called, but i knew i needed one. maybe more than one. my need was so great i was unable to speak. i went out onto the porch to stare at it some more.

on the back, near the top left side of the orange body was a plus, the sort you see on first aid things. some sort of tiny railroad ambulance, maybe. i sat on the porch, forgetting the mountain and the birds and everything else. little orange rail car. little orange rail car. then it was gone. the sweetie mentioned he'd seen another one and we thought maybe some sort of convention was going on. tiny rail cars everywhere. then, yesterday, it was back. sitting on its flatbed in the evening. how many were there in town? how many could there be?

this morning, we drove by the depot, which is nearly impossible to avoid, because it is about a block from our house. they were lined up. ten. twelve. more. mostly orange but a few yellow. some had two seats like my orange ambulance. some had four. and there were old guys milling around everywhere grinning like little boys, sitting in the things, wandering around with reflector vests. gray hair. white hair. orange vests. orange cars. we kept driving. we had someplace to go. but when we came back, we saw them a few miles down, driving on the rails, spaced out like cars on a highway, full of still grinning old guys, two in a car or four. like they had new bikes or something.

the depot was empty so the sweetie called when we got home. the woman on the phone called them "putt-putts" and said the old guys were a gang who roamed the country riding around on little bits of railroad in these things. i'll bet when they're not riding, they're working on their putt putts or talking about engines and parts and railroad history and bridges made of stone or iron from before even they were born. and when they're riding, they don't say much. they just grin like idiots and drive somewhere between 20 and 30 miles an hour down the track.