Written by Terry Ward – In Jacksonville, Florida where I grew up there was a man we called The Train Man. We would see him downtown when we rode the city bus from our neighborhood on a thirty minute (ten cent) ride to watch a movie at the Florida Theatre, a beautiful old Art Deco theatre built in the 1930s with large balconies, ceilings with painted stars, and really good popcorn. We would see a John Wayne movie or a cartoon festival. It didn’t matter. We were in our early teens, and a bus ride downtown was a true Saturday event in the 1950s.

Sometimes we would see the Train Man from the bus window as we stopped at a red light. We considered it a sign of good luck to spot him in the crowd of pedestrians crossing the street or walking down the sidewalk. He was fairly easy to spot because of his shuffle. Some people called him Choo Choo because of the sounds he made, but I always liked to call him the Train Man. It was somehow more respectful, as if we had known each other for a long, long time and I wanted to be his friend.

Everyone knew the Train Man. Cars would stop for him; pedestrians would clear a space for him. He wore an old, well-worn black suit and a black fedora, but the distinguishing feature was his shoes. They were also black and had not seen polish for many years. And they seemed to be oversized – too big for this man of medium height and build – but just the right size for the Train Man.

Everyone loved the Train Man. As he shuffled across the street or down the sidewalk, he would make a sound with his voice of a steam locomotive. It was not very loud but it was thoughtful and deliberate. He was on a mission. The mission was to arrive on time at the train station in his imagination. Somehow during his lifetime he had slipped into his own world, and there he stayed.

Even though he was focused on his shuffle, he had a pleasant demeanor. Sometimes, if you smiled at him and nodded hello, he would move his right arm in a gesture of pulling the cord on a train whistle and give an audible, remarkably train-like whistle sound. We somehow knew not to take advantage of this, as it would break the spell and wonder of just being there with the Train Man.

We loved his quiet friendliness. He was an anchor point in a busy world. And I suspect there were those who were secretly envious of his singleness of purpose. No worries about employment (he modestly accepted handouts) or taxes or any of those things that we all fret about. He was on a mission. The train was due at the station on time. No other thoughts or distractions. Complete dedication to a cause.

My hope is that the Train Man passed peacefully into that Great Railroad Station in the Sky. I suspect he did. Everyone loved the Train Man.

And I’m sure he arrived right on time.

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Terry Ward lives in Asheville and has been writing poetry and prose since high school. Ideas for writing come from personal experiences and a love for the history of sailing ships. Pastimes include playing guitar, photography, and teaching sacred geometry.