Somewhere far up north, a man sat alone in a diner called The Golden Spike. A stainless steel monument to the future, streamlined and gleaming on its first day, the Spike quickly found that being a warm respite for workers in the neighboring railyard was dirty work. Coal dust and smoke drifted across the two-lane flattop separating it from the ever-shifting forest of locomotives and boxcars. A thin black fog forever doomed the chrome exterior to never shine again. Only the most vigilant cleaning kept the interior from meeting the same dull matte fate. The welcome mat alone required a deep clean after every shift change just to keep up with the small army of muddy boots.

One regular stood out from the crowd, always taking the same seat at the counter exactly half an hour before shift in a spotless railroad-appointed uniform. His pushbroom mustache always ruler-straight, his polished shoes, his gleaming gold pocket watch chain. Everything was perfectly in its place. Whenever he stepped into the Spike he held court from his stool, sharing a smile and a stiff handshake with seemingly every other employee on the NPRR roster. He was the life of the Golden Spike.

Then came Christmas Eve, 1956.

It was close enough to a shift change that most regulars had filtered out into the yard. Engine cleaners, firemen, porters, all of them braced for a cold, hard night of work and disappeared into the winter darkness. The last group, a handful of cooks, shared the night's final volleys in an ongoing ball-busting session with the Spike's owner.

"Merry Christmas, Fred. If you ever wanna do something more fulfilling than scrambling eggs and burning coffee, come cook in a real kitchen someday," one of them called from the door, striking a match on the wood doorframe to light a smoke.

Fred barely looked up from scraping his work scraping down the grill. "Difference between you and me, Harvey, is I cook for people who choose to eat my food. Your diners are held hostage on that train. Try to not give the gift of food poisoning tonight, bub."

Harvey clutched his heart, staggering back into the doorway, a flurry of thick grey snowflakes whirling in through the gap. "You cut me to the quick."

"I'll cut you a couple other ways if you keep letting the damn heat out," Fred said, pointing an accusatory spatula. As the double doors slammed shut the man at the counter chuckled, possibly for the first time that night. Outside the cadre of chefs wandered off to a nearby depot, lit only by the glow of their cigarettes.

The Spike grew quiet save for the sounds of Fred's spatula scraping against a jet black grilltop and muted Christmas tunes drifting from the jukebox by the door. His work finished, Fred turned to the remaining patron. A spotless plate sat in front of the man perched on a stool at the counter. The only evidence of his having ordered anything was a single toothpick from his usual turkey club and one crumpled paper napkin. Not even a solitary crumb on his mustache, let alone on his uniform.

Next to the plate was the man's cap, the corner of a sheet of paper peeking out from under the brim. Only the official NPRR letterhead could be seen. Fred did his best not to poke his nose into other people's business, but it was impossible to miss the news of the night. The last half hour had felt like a living wake as a procession of well-wishers had shared their condolences with the well-dressed man. He'd smiled and glad-handed with each and every one, but those who'd been in the room long enough could see him always sink back into staring at the countertop, hunched over on his elbows.

Fred collected the man's plate and replaced it with a mug. "Hot chocolate, for the road. It's cold out."

Steam fogged the man's half-moon glasses. He straightened up in his chair, letting out a long sigh as he ran a hand through what little hair he had left. "It's hard to remember a time when it wasn't cold out there."

A bell over the door announced a latecomer, a tall rail of a man dressed in overalls and striped cap. Coated in as much coal dust as the Spike itself, the only color that stood out on the fireman was flowing fire-red beard.

"Forty-two fuckin' years," he said, his high voice sounding on the verge of breaking.

"Forty-three," the man said, cupping the mug and taking a long pull of cocoa.

"Forty-three fuckin' years and they give you walkin' papers on Christmas fuckin' eve," the fireman wailed.

"We all knew what we were in for when the managers started talking about modernization and streamlining the company, Red."

"There's gotta to be something we can do."

Somewhere out in the yard a blast of steam pierced the dull roar of the wind. A locomotive was blowing down over the ash pit.

The man nodded towards the railyard. "Something you could be doing is making life easier on him."

"He's the one who sent me in here to talk some sense into you."

"Not much sense to go around these days, it seems like." The muscle memory of a railyard's schedule and sounds had the man keeping tabs on anything moving outside, whether he wanted to or not. A few blocks away a shunter was building a freight manifest. Across the way a commuter train was crawling through signals. Two whistle blasts from the ash pit signaled the locomotive there was moving.

"None of the unions can doing anything?"

"The unions don't know we exist, Red. We're alone up here." It wasn't necessarily the truth, but it was a convenient lie. There were unions aplenty down south, but the last time anyone had dared think the U-word on the NPRR was decades ago. The well-dressed man spent more time around the managers than most. He remembered that last time whispers of organized protest had circulated, before Red's time. He'd barely broken a thousand miles riding the rails as a porter back then. From what he could recall, a freight conductor had gotten enough people riled up to catch management's attention.

Pamphlets with things like "organized labor" and "worker's rights" had started getting passed around the railyard. A general strike broke out, shipments didn't get to where they needed to get. It might have worked if the NPRR didn't also own most of the town.

As far as the local authorities and company-owned newspaper were concerned the rumors of Pinkerton union-busters being brought in were just that: rumors. Everyone who'd been in that union hall when shots rang out knew otherwise. Some poor old signalman caught the stray bullet. Word on the street was the freight conductor managed to escape in the resulting commotion, smuggled out of town in a boxcar with just the shirt on his back. Anyone the managers even suspected of collaborating was blacklisted. Anyone who could afford to pick up everything and move down south found plenty of open railroad jobs, just none for them.

Metallic thunder echoed across the yard as a locomotive slammed into a car too hard, followed by a chain of smaller collisions as the inertia travelled down the train. The force collapsed the slack between couplers like a giant accordion. The man turned to look out the window, as if his admonishing glare would penetrate the night and find the engineer at fault.

"Sounds like someone's getting sloppy making up the rake."

"He's still pissed. We all are."

"Taking it out on the rolling stock isn't helping anyone," the man grunted, swirling the dregs of his cocoa to collect the last few fragments of unmelted chocolate. .

"You don't have to go out tonight. Nobody would think any less of you, chief. Life's too short."

The man caught his reflection in the glass. Were he born a generation later he'd be told he bore a striking resemblance to a famous actor. A lifetime of hard work had still left his features soft, but that was about it for the upshots. It was the first time he'd noticed his own face outside of intentionally looking in a mirror to groom. Not a single photo of the man out of his uniform had been taken since his wedding day 30 years ago. He didn't have time for vacations, he travelled for work. A company man. A cog in an uncaring machine.

The rattling of wheels and deep chuffing grew louder as the hastily-assembled train approached the depot near the Spike. Maybe the gangly ashcat had a point. It had been a while since the man had taken an evening stroll. He could see a part of town where the snow was still white. There would still be time to go home and dig the boxes of ornaments and lights out of the attic. Perhaps he could spend the afternoon listening to records and decorating the living room up like Nora used to before the fight. Maybe he could summon the courage to give her a call-

Brakes squealed, the whistle barked once. Ready to go.

The man took one last pull from his cup. A polished brass plate on the man's hat caught a reflection in the white ceramic mug. The plaque gleamed against the dark blue cap, proudly informing he was a conductor.

He hopped from his stool and put his cap on. A decision had been made and the fireman knew it was impossible to fight A Decision. The conductor shrugged on his overcoat as he said his usual goodbyes to Fred. He palmed his gold pocket watch, a present given to him on his first day. On time. The fireman followed him into the flurry.

Outside the Golden Spike the two found a familiar sight: the hulking beast of locomotive #1225 parked in a siding. Its consist of freshly-washed matching blue and red passenger coaches gleamed even under the harsh flood lamps of the depot. A small army of porters loaded the dining car, followed by cooks now clad in pristine white NPRR uniforms.

As the two drew closer to the cab a round face poked out of the window, frowning as soon as he saw the conductor standing by the cab as the fireman climbed inside.

"You were supposed to talk some sense into him, ya idjit," he bellowed in a thick Appalachian drawl. The fireman stomped a pedal and the two were suddenly lit by the glow of a roaring firebox.

"And you were supposed to not mess up my fire," he snapped, grabbing a shovel.

The engineer poked his head back out the cab in time to catch the conductor checking his watch and starting to walk towards the depot.

"Forty-three years and this is how they treat you. It's disrespectful." 1225's machinations huffed black smoke out the funnel, given the circumstances it sounded as pouty as its driver.

The conductor let out a dry chuckle, rapping his knuckles on the tender and pointing towards the name painted in white block letters. "That's the way things happen on the Polar Express."