You Can't Fix Stupid

 

----an essay by Noah Tominez

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As darkness drowned northern Pennsylvania a phone rang in a small house on a small street paved with gravel. The phone by the bedside lifted before it could ring again and wake others in that house. Joe knew this call was coming, he knew he only had so many restful nights, and he knew he had to answer the call. As the phone clicked over he was greeted with Mr. Willer’s raspy demanding voice. “Joe, we need you here. Tom is sick. Be at the Amtrak station by 4:15, you're on the oil liner.” 

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As he drove his 1963 Sandy Tan Chevy Impala down the bumpy gravel roads of the welfare town that was Bradford through the chilled misty air of September he thought about this ‘Tom.’ He knew many Toms but none of them were worth a damn; they were those young engineers fresh into the trade who fell asleep on the job constantly and were just on the railroad for the money and no one there to tell them otherwise. This disgruntled thought quickly left his head as he screeched to a halt at the station.

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His eyes weighed down on him like barbells begging to give into gravity. As he entered the station he was greeted with the static damp air and whining floorboards of the station. He boarded the train that stole him from the embrace of his mattress to see his co-workers John, Frank, and Mikey lounging about as helpful as a hare in a hundred-foot hole. The wheels screeched as if they were souls being torn from heaven as the engine pulled them down the tracks.

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John’s snores beckoned Joe to end his fatigue and join the siren call of rest. But, when you are barreling sixty miles per hour down tracks winding through the hills that watch every turn, sleep is not an option. Only sixty miles down the track, that track clacked at each weld, each one sounding off as a metronome. The rhythmic beating drum of the track interrupted with what started as a quiet creak as the track winded into a steep turn. Like butter scraped over too much bread, they carried too much too fast and the turn swept the leg. The caboose fell off the track as if it were shot like a moose. The train lay down after a single crash, stealing Joe’s desire to slumber. “Oh, shit.” were the only words uttered in a tired gravelly voice while the engine was the only thing left on the tracks. At the same time, oil oozed on Main street running down it like a raindrop on a windshield, watching on in horror as the oil ignited and grabbed hold of homes and other buildings along the street. Minutes did not even pass before the whir of sirens was heard from a fire station.

 

John and Frank were jolted awake with terror as the fire crept closer to the tank in which the oil was stored. For the first time, Joe yelled at his coworkers “Get off the train, go stop that fire from reaching the tank.” The two Neanderthals simply replied, “How?” With a motion to follow they all left the train. Leading by example, Joe grabbed a shovel and started to dig a ditch for all the oil to pool in and hopefully suffocate the fire. John, Mike, and Frank followed suit and the massive fire drowned itself out, at least near the train. The fire suffocated as if it were an ouroboros finally eating itself. “We saved the train, but look at the damn town!” Joe screamed at his coworkers “Oh we want to sleep” he mocked “Someone could have died you idiots!” Baffled and choked on his words, John uttered only two “Understood, sir.” As fire engines raced to protect the town.

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A few moments later the sun broke through the night sky and the fire was out. That fire that lit up the town was replaced by one in the sky. But then dread came, a red Chevy Tahoe with the words “Fire Marshall” painted on it. A small portly man exited that vehicle. He questioned and prodded them but the shock was too much for them to respond. As he formed his story with the omissions, and nothing but omissions, from the engineering crew another vehicle squealed to a halt next to the other. A sigh of relief was shared among the men as they saw Mr. Willers step out of his car. “Alright boys, you go home I’ll take it from here.” He insisted with a gleeful wink.

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The following day he awoke uninterrupted by his landline.  As he left the house  he honked the horn twice and his kids waved goodbye. The ride to the station was filled with dread and fear of that horrible meeting with Mr. Willers. Surely someone was going out of a job for this he thought. But, as he entered the train there was no call, no meeting, no harsh criticism. He was only met with one request that day. As he entered the engine room John asked him “So, what other tricks do you have to show us?”