Where had Ernesto gone again? He couldn't remember. He remembered walking with Ernesto. They fought earlier, but they made up over a toast. Did they get into another argument? Last he remembered, he and Ernesto were joking and laughing like normal. He had a stomach cramp, but he was fine now. He picked up and kept going. So, why wasn't Ernesto with him? Did he go back to the hotel? Did they have another fight? He would have remembered if they had another fight, right? Where was his friend? And why was he walking all alone now?
Despite his questions, he walked on. He kept going, dreamlike, toward the train station. Maybe it was just exhaustion, like after a late show when he couldn't remember the trip from the venue to the hotel. It's nothing to worry about, he told himself. He just had to make it to the train station. It was the only thing that mattered at the moment.
But he hoped it wasn't another fight, though. He thought they just got done fighting. The biggest reason he hadn't gone home sooner was losing his best friend. He talked about going home, but Ernesto always become cross and gloomy when he did. He'd throw out little digs and snide remarks implying that Héctor was the bad friend in this situation. It always made Héctor feel guilty for leaving Ernesto behind. But in all fairness, their tour was only supposed to last 6 months. Ernesto promised him that, and the promise of a definite end date, the promise of going home, was the deciding factor for him going on tour in the first place. He didn't want to wander around aimlessly until success struck. Maybe that sort of life was fine for bachelors like Ernesto, but he had a life and a family waiting for him in Santa Cecelia. But here they were, 9 months into their 6 month tour and Héctor just barely managed to get out the door without Ernesto tackling him to the ground.
At least they had their toast. The toast gave Héctor hope. Even if Ernesto blustered and threatened and cursed his name, they would still come out friends in the end. Friends fought sometimes. It was a part of life even if it was a part Héctor tried to avoid if he could, especially with Ernesto. It was just so hard to pull Ernesto out of his grudges. Not to mention exhausting. But there were times he couldn't just let things slide and this was one of those times. Ernesto is a grown man. If he can't handle me putting my wife and daughter first, then he'll just have to learn to deal.
He hear a train whistle and let out a sigh of relief. He was on his way. He'd be home soon. Whatever happened, he'd see his girls again and he could figure out what to do with Ernesto later. He wondered what their reunion would be like. Imelda wasn't happy with him when he left and he could tell from her letters that she wasn't happy that he stayed away so long. He had some apologizing to do for sure, but it'd be worth it to hold her and kiss her and see her smile again. Then there was his little Coco, who no doubt would be excited to see her Papa. He imagined her running into his arms as soon as he walked through the door. He'd sweep her up and plant a million kisses on her face while she told him about everything she did while he was away.
The thought warmed him so much, he barely noticed walking through the door. The train station was mostly deserted, with only a few people milling around, waiting for their late-night (or early morning, depending how you thought of it) trains. He walked up to the ticket station where the bored-looking clerk absentmindedly flipped through a newspaper. "Excuse me?" Héctor said. The clerk didn't even look up. Uh, rude. "Excuse me? I'd like to buy a ticket for the next train to Santa Cecelia." Still no response. Héctor pursed his lips indignantly. What was with this guy? He knew it must suck being on the night shift and everything, but that didn't mean the clerk could just ignore him. Well, he didn't like to bring out his 'dad voice' as Ernesto called it, but he didn't have much choice. "Look, I know you must be tired with it being so late, but you could at least answer me."
When he still got no response, Héctor geared up to give the clerk quite the stern talking to. He had a pretty draining night and he wasn't about to let some ticket jockey pretend like he didn't exist. He was just about to launch into a "Listen, muchacho," when another man stepped into him. Literally, stepped into him. Just stood exactly where he was standing as if he wasn't there at all. Héctor jumped back, trying to recover from the surreal sensation of literally standing in someone else's shoes. His head spun and he barely noticed the ticket clerk interacting with and selling a ticket to the other man.
Héctor looked down at his hands and for the first time noticed their dull color. They had a slight glow to them and he could see the tiled floor through his palms. No, this… this is a dream, he told himself. I'm back in bed at the hotel. I'll wake up any moment. He waited. Nothing changed. Okay, I'll just have to help it along. He smacked himself in the face but didn't feel it. He tried again and again. He could feel the weight of his hand on his face, but he couldn't feel the sting. It wasn't working. He was still there, still in the train station.
The man in front of him took his ticket and walked away while the ticket clerk went back to his newspaper. Héctor lunged in a panic at the clerk's desk. "Please, sir, can you see me?" The clerk didn't look up. He didn't even acknowledge Héctor. Growing desperate, he reached across, trying to grab the clerk's shoulders. "Please, please look at me!" His hands phased right through the other man. He leapt back and looked at his transparent hands again. This can't be real. This isn't happening.
Looking down, he realized he couldn't see his feet. They weren't touching the ground. He was floating. I must be having some sort of crazy out-of-body experience. He tried to think back. What could have happened to him? He was walking with Ernesto. They had a fight earlier but they made up over a toast. He was almost at the train station and… he felt a pain in his stomach... Yes, that must be it. He was sick and having a fever dream. But why can't I wake up? He'd had lucid dreams before. He'd wake up if he commanded himself to. He renewed his efforts, slapping himself, pinching his arms, clawing at his own skin. Wake up, wake up.
Nothing happened. Nothing changed. He didn't even manage to cause much pain. He could hardly feel anything. That's fine, he told himself. That's just further proof that this is a dream. When he looked up, he noticed a woman across the station staring at him. Wait, staring at him. She saw him! He wasn't sure how he got there, but next thing he knew, he was standing (floating?) right in front of her. "Please, doña, tell me you can see me."
She didn't answer. Instead, she squinted her eyes and looked past him at the spot by the ticket clerk where he stood (floated?) before. She rubbed her eyes and muttered "must be tired," before walking away.
So, she couldn't see him. Or she could, just from far away. Maybe it was just because it was so late. Everyone was tired and that's when the weirdos come out. Maybe I am one of the weirdos. He was slapping himself in the middle of a train station, after all. And floating. Can't forget the floating.
Wait, no focus! He was having an out-of-body experience, right? So, all he needed to do was get back into his body. Simple. Then everything would be okay. He just needed to find his body. Maybe it was still on the street where he collapsed. I must have just keeled over. Ernesto's probably panicking right now.
He headed out the door (or rather, through the door) and out onto the platform. He stepped off the platform, crossed that tracks and...found himself back on the platform? Wait, that can't be right. He tried again, but found himself stuck in the same spot on the platform. This…this can't be happening. He tried again and again, from different angles different sides. He tried going back in and coming back out. He tried stepping, leaping, running, floating. Nothing changed. No matter what he tried, he always reappeared back on the platform.
"How is this happening?" he yelled after his fifth attempt to leap off of the platform. "What is going on?" He tried to kick the wall, but his foot phased straight though. "I need to find me body! I need to go home!"
The sun began rising, turning the dark sky to pinks and yellows. Stupid colors. Why'd they have to be so pretty while fate played this cruel joke on him? He didn't stop trying. Not when the night clerk and the morning clerk switched shifts. Not when travelers bustled in, mocking him with their ability to simply live their lives and be on their way. Not when the futility of every attempt to leave the station became so painfully obvious he questioned his own sanity. He couldn't give up. He had a life, a home. He wasn't going to let something as trivial as unknowable supernatural forces keep him from his family.
The only thing that gave him pause was a fragment of a passing conversation. Someone mentioned a body and that was enough to cause Héctor to stop in his tracks. He followed his ear to two people who looked like traveling businessmen. He silently followed them as their conversation continued.
"Cops said it didn't look violent. More like he just keeled over for some reason."
"Must have happened last night. What a way to go, just passed out in the street…"
"Caught a glimpse as they were coving him up. Looked real young, the poor bastard."
One of the men tsked and shook his head. "Tragic. Scary to think how you can die any moment and not even see it coming…"
Héctor froze and let the men walk on. Die? Did he…? No. No! Impossible! He wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead. He was still right here. There was nothing wrong with him. He was perfectly healthy. But that pain in my stomach… No, no that was nothing. Just a little indigestion. It meant nothing. He got right back up and kept going. He wasn't… He couldn't be…
Where's Ernesto? Some part of his brain wondered. But, that was unimportant. He probably just went back to the hotel. Or stayed with my body… He imagined himself lying on the road, Ernesto frantically shaking him, going to get help…. No, that wasn't true. That didn't happen. There must be some other explanation.
Around him, he started picking up slivers of conversation, apparently all discussing the hot news of the morning.
"Such a shame."
"Heard he was young."
"He just collapsed in the road?"
"Well, someone must have called the police and…"
"Maybe from out of town."
"Terrible and so young."
"What a sad way to die."
No, no, no, no, no, no! It wasn't true! It couldn't be true! He had too much to live for! This poor man, whoever he may be… it wasn't him! He was alive! Alive damn it! And he'd shout that from the rooftops. He wanted to scream. He didn't care how completely crazy it'd make him look. He had to stop this nonsense right now. He had to let them all know he wasn't dead, that he was right there and he was alive.
But when he opened his mouth, his voice didn't come out. It was blocked by a river of blood. He couldn't speak. The blood drowned his own voice. He snapped his mouth shut and slapped his hands over it for good measure. This was a nightmare. He'd wake up soon, surely. Back to this again? I've already tried that.
I have to get home to Imelda. He told himself, with nowhere else to turn. We can fix this. Whatever it is, we'll fix it together. But how? He already knew he couldn't just walk away. How could he get home if he leave the train station? Why, on a train of course! The logic was flawless. He just needed to wait for a train and…
Wait, was that Ernesto? It was. He spotted his friend leaning against a wall, clutching a ticket in shaking hands. Next to him rested two bags, a suitcase and a guitar case, Héctor's guitar case to be exact. So, that was it, then. Héctor floated up to him. He stopped right in front of Ernesto, but it was clear his friend couldn't see. Ernesto looked like hell. He had bags under his eyes like he barely slept. His hair wasn't pomaded to perfection. He slouched against the wall, trying to make himself look small and inconspicuous. All so unlike him. On his face, he wore the haunted expression of a man who just watched his best friend die.
It was all true. He couldn't deny it any longer. Ernesto's face told the whole story. He was probably up all night dealing with the police. Any sleep he might have gotten was lost to grief. He couldn't bring himself to go through his normal grooming routine, not when much more important matters needed to be taken care of. He was probably on his way to bring word to Imelda. Never, when they started the journey, did they think it would end like this. Now, Ernesto had to return home, alone.
Don't worry, mi hermano. You won't be alone. He remembered, when he was young and his abuelita died. Their batty old neighbor comforted his mother by telling her she could still feel abuelita's presence. Maybe she wasn't so batty after all. Maybe that's why he was still here.He'd take the train home with Ernesto, be with them when Imelda received the news, and maybe even kiss Coco before bed one last time. Then he'd cross over and wait for them.
A train whistle sounded, bringing Ernesto out of his daze. He picked up the bags and stepped forward, unknowingly through Héctor. Héctor turned and watched as Ernesto presented his ticket and boarded the train. Héctor floated on board himself and took the empty seat beside Ernesto. He felt the need to say something, but he wasn't sure he could. The blood drowned his voice before and other people couldn't hear him anyway. But, those people were strangers. This was his best friend. Maybe they were linked somehow.
"Ernesto?" He didn't speak with his voice, but rather his mind.
Ernesto looked up and glanced around. Ah, so it worked. He tried again.
"Ernesto, thank you old friend. Thank you for taking care of me, once again."
Ernesto turned in Héctor's direction. His eyes darted around, apparently looking for the source of the message. They never landed on Héctor, but looked through him. "Agh, I need some sleep," Ernesto grumbled, running his hand down his face.
That was fine. Héctor already knew Ernesto couldn't see him. He'd stay by his friend's side regardless. They helped each other through so much. He could be there for Ernesto one last time.
The whistle blew again and the train roared to life. It began chugging forward, but somehow, Héctor moved backward. No, not backward. Héctor stayed in the same spot, but the train went on without him. Seats, walls, people, all passed through him. When he finally realized what was happening, he was left alone, floating over the tracks.
No! No! This couldn't be real. The train left him behind. Why was this happening to him? Was it because he left when Imelda wanted him to stay? Was this his punishment? His own circle of hell? Was he being denied his last chance to see his family? But, this wasn't fair. He always said he'd return to them. Abandoning them was never part of the plan. All he wanted to provide for them with his music, to give them the life they deserved. Why should he be punished for that?
He dropped down onto the tracks and rested his head in his hands. He knew he should be thinking all kinds of profound thoughts right now. He should be reflecting on his life, weighing his victories with his regrets. He should be looking at where he went wrong and what he did to deserve this fate. He should be contemplating the greater existential meaning in all of this. None of that concerned him.
Tears began and they never stopped. They flowed hot and burning down his cheeks as one thought repeated in his head.
I want to go home.