Lights

By David Danforth

IS THE PATH THROUGH LIFE OURS TO WALK OURSELVES, OR HAS IT BEEN PREDETERMINED FOR US?

A recently laid-off accountant, a married couple, a thief, and a prostitute board the last car of a Bay Area Rapid Transit train on Christmas Eve, 2008.  At midnight, they witness an event that will change their lives, and change the world, forever.

Tom Tulley, a BART employee, witnesses the event as well, on his security monitor.  In his quest for the truth behind the event, the affected passengers begin to make the world better.  As Tom digs deeper, he receives advice he fears will become prophecy:

"Everything in the universe is about balance.  If the event you witnessed was good, you need to start worrying about the arrival of the bad."

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Story Inside Press
• Release date: Aug 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386382928

Book preview

Lights

David Danforth

Antioch, California

LIGHTS

Copyright © 2018 by David Danforth

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.  Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2018

www.daviddanforth.com

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Details can be found at the end of this novel.

This one is dedicated to my Father, who is an eternal optimist and, contrary to his constant protestations, is one of the best storytellers I know.

Contents

PART ONE 2008

BART:  THE YELLOW LINE CHRISTMAS EVE

PAUL

MARY

RICH

STEVE

TOM

LINDA

PART TWO 2014

FEBRUARY

JUNE

NOVEMBER

PART THREE 2020

NOVEMBER 1

NOVEMBER 2

ELECTION DAY

FOUR YEARS LATER

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PART ONE

2008

BART:  THE YELLOW LINE

CHRISTMAS EVE

1

T

om Tulley’s skinny body rattled like a flagpole in gusty winds as he stood against the Christmas Eve cold night air on the small metal platform next to the Bay Area Rapid Transit track at the Concord rail yard.  He clenched his teeth and pulled his grey hoodie over his curly black hair as the swirling wind announced the approach of the 9:15 p.m. BART train from Pittsburg to 24th Street/Mission.  The high-pitched squeal of the front car’s wheels grew loud as the train slowed right next to him and came to a stop, the front doors to the first car right in front of Tom.  He waited for a moment then smiled as Tina Razzoni, the driver, walked over and placed the override tool into the socket near the floor; the doors opened with a click and groan.

Hi, Tina, he said, still smiling.

Hi yourself, Stick, Tina grumbled.  Tom let Tina lead the way to the driver’s compartment, and he shut the door behind them.  Tina, with her long, straight, raven hair with slashes of grey throughout, fell into one of the two groups BART found for their train drivers:  Older, past fifty, who have been with the company for so long they need to ride the rails to break up the monotony, or younger, under forty, lured in by BART’s rather generous wage for train drivers.

Both groups, as with most everyone these days, hung on to their job for the income.

How’s your holiday, Tina? Tom asked, looking at the security camera monitor screen panel as Tina pressed the large red button to start the BART train moving again.

"My kid’s at home watching Frosty the Snowman while I’m here; how do you think my holiday is?"

Even though the driver’s compartment, all told, was an arm’s width wide by six feet, Tom stood apart from Tina.  She wore the standard issue BART navy blue windbreaker, dark grease stains and all, and she smelled like motor oil.

Sorry to hear it, he said.

How’s yours? Tina grumbled.

Oh, I don’t celebrate, Tom said dismissively as he zoned in on one of the security monitors—middle car—with as many of the usual jerks and lurches a BART ride brings, one passenger, a man looking to be in his mid-twenties, nothing remarkable about him...except for the fact that he was standing in the middle of the aisle.  He was dancing, not holding on to any of the handrails, his body swaying with every lurch, every shudder, like he knew it was coming.

You Jewish? Tina asked.

Hmmm?  No, Tom replied.

One of those Seventh Day Adventists, then?  I don’t think they celebrate—

No, nothing like that. Tom waved his hand.  Hey, look at this guy, here. Tom pointed to the Usher wannabe.

What about him?  Hold on, Tina said, and pressed the intercom button.  Pleasant Hill, Pleasant Hill station, approaching Pleasant Hill.  She tapped the button again.

He’s dancing like he’s on stage at the Oracle Arena, Tom said, leaning in, still staring at the monitor screen.

Yeah, well watch this, Tina said with a smirk.  As the train approached the concrete station platform, she pumped the airbrakes twice in quick succession.

Nice try, but look, Tom said, pointing.  The dancer performed a flawless move.  Tom noticed the wires from the dancer’s iPod earbuds sway with the brakes, but that was all.  Look at that, Tom whispered.  He’s even smiling.

Well, why don’t you walk back there and marry him, then, you’re so damned impressed with him, Tina grumbled.

I just...I like his exuberance, Tom said.

Oh Jesus, MacAurthur station can’t come fast enough. Tina groaned, pressing the button, making the BART train advance to its next stop.

2

Tom transferred trains at MacArthur station—an imposing concrete platform and three sets of tracks placed right at the edge of Highway 24 and the Interstate 580-980 split, near Oakland.  He boarded the next Freemont train and traveled to Lake Merritt station and walked across the street to BART’s corporate headquarters.  There, he swiped his security card to enter the dispatch room—a large room where the absence of overhead fluorescent lights made the room dark, except for the large, fifty-by-twenty-five-foot LED board with its flashing red and white moving lights indicating every section of track and every car traveling on them.

You’re late, Ron Staves, Tom’s large, jelly-belly barking supervisor, said.

I’m five minutes early, actually, Tom said, looking at his watch.  When he took this job, three years ago, he bought a watch with glow-in-the-dark hands and numbers on its face with his first paycheck.

Why do you have that stupid smile on your face? Ron barked.  It’s Christmas Eve, and you’re here.

Tom sat down at his workstation, put his headset on, and immediately heard mixed-up conversations through the BART system.  He turned on his monitor, and random, flashing, black-and-white images, split into quadrants, came up.  Why was he smiling?  He didn’t know.  He supposed he was still thinking of the dancer, moving to his music, in the middle of a chugging BART train headed for San Francisco, dancing without a care in the world.

3

Paul Abbott stood apart from the other Christmas tourists, those who come to look at the lights at Union Square and the decorations in Macy’s windows, at Powell Street station.  The dimly lit underground platform matched his mood as he waited for the next train.

Twenty years I put into that damn company, balancing their books, he thought.  Then, after I put in overtime—on Christmas Eve, no less—I get kicked to the curb?

Paul separated himself further from the holly-jolly crowd, walking back, glancing up at the red LED display to make sure he’d be standing where the rear car in the train would stop.  He spent the remaining time waiting envisioning just how he would tell his wife he was now unemployed.  A statistic that was growing disturbingly large in America.  That fact wouldn’t matter to Melissa.  She had just been let go from her job last week.  How would they pay the mortgage?  Bradley needed a round of allergy shots—the kid was allergic to everything.  He also needed his vaccines for kindergarten.  How the hell can he pay for that?  He had no insurance anymore.

The train arrived at quarter to midnight.  Paul expected to enter an empty car—the rear cars of most BART trains always had the fewest people, even during commute hours, as most folks just enter the middle cars out of convenience.

But, in fact, there was someone else in the last car, dancing in the middle of the aisle, no less.  Well, at least he’s having a merry Christmas, Paul thought as he sat in the third row of pale green, vinyl-covered seats.

4

Mary Crenshaw held on tight to her husband, Steve, as he shielded her against the brutal winds coming up from the ocean.  They stood on the MacArthur station platform, thinking they had some shelter by crouching against one of the many metal, form-fitted benches that lined the platform, but the wind seemed to laugh at them as it made Steve take a step back.

We could have just taken a taxi to City Center. Mary’s teeth chattered in spurts.

I just didn’t feel comfortable, even taking a short walk to the station in Downtown Oakland.

"But it’s not the bad part, Mary pressed.  It’s City Center, for Christ sakes."

Mary’s cellphone started playing We Are Family by Sister Sledge, and she reached into her purse to answer it.  Hi honey...yes, it was good; it’s always good. Mary snickered.  "No, Molly, Tiny Tim doesn’t die, he never dies, why do you have to be so morbid...yes, we’re at the BART station, we’ll be home within the hour.  Please let Larissa know."

Steve was already looking forward to tomorrow and re-watching last week’s Niners win over the Rams.  He had taped it, and had asked Mary for the uninterrupted pleasure of watching the victory for Christmas.  The approaching train broke his daydream of munching on Fritos, watching the victory.  As the train slowed, Steve noticed it was standing room only in the center cars.  He quickly took Mary’s hand and jogged toward the rear car as the silver doors opened.

What are you—oh. Mary understood as she looked around and saw plenty of seats to choose from.  As they sat and the train chugged forward, Mary’s attention was drawn to the gentleman standing in the middle of the car, in the aisle, even though there were more than enough seats.  The man started to gyrate.

Why are you smiling, Steve whispered.

Mary gestured to the man.  I don’t know, it’s just...look at that man.

What about him?

He...it makes me feel... Mary’s voice trailed off.

Feel what?

Mary shook her head.  I know this sounds weird, but watching him fills me with hope.

5

Richard Perkins paced the Rockridge BART station platform in a perfect circle, toward the far end of the platform, alone.  He nervously tapped the grey metal handle of the gun stuffed in his coat pocket.  Getting the gun inside the station wasn’t the problem.  Getting away with the robbery wasn’t going to be the problem.  He had to pick the car with the fewest people, and that meant the end cars, and since he didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself by having the train driver able to describe him, that left the rear car.  He barely felt the oncoming wind arriving with the train.  When he entered, he took a quick sweep of the car—looked to be about one third full, with a hooker entering the rear door.  Looks to be groceries for Stacy and the kids for the next month.  He slowly walked past the dancing idiot toward the front of the car, waiting for the train to enter the Caldecott tunnel.

6

Linda Rosetti clung to her brown, fake fur-lined winter coat at the Rockridge BART station, making sure to keep clear of the twitchy man walking in circles ten feet to the left of her.  She dealt with enough psychos every night; she deserved a break on Christmas Eve.  Absently, she traced the long straight scar on her arm with her index finger.  Jeremy didn’t give a shit about the injuries, as long as she brought in the money, and Linda knew she was in the upper tier of working girls in the Berkeley area.  She had more customers ask her for the Girlfriend Experience than any of Jeremy’s other girls.  Although she had the scars, they made her more authentic somehow.  She still had the looks.  Now she headed back to Concord, to her normal life—to Ralph, her husband.  As the BART train glided up to the station, her mind was already thinking about checking the paper to see which stores were open Christmas day.  Her cut tonight would be enough to get Ralph something with the Forty-Niners brand on it.  Hopefully there would be a store open tomorrow with something in stock.  She would hope for a Christmas miracle.

She felt the lurch of the BART train as it started toward its next station, Orinda. She found herself staring at a man with long white hair, who looked younger than her, dancing in the center aisle.  His coat was white; his pants were white.

Amazing to be from around here and not have any dirt or grime on his clothes, she thought.

The stranger hooked his arm around one of the metal poles at the front of the car and twirled around it.

Linda smiled.  Looks like a stripper pole.  Never thought about it like that before.

That’s because she never saw anyone dance on a BART train before.  Suddenly, Linda felt warm.  Suddenly it didn’t seem like such a huge deal if there were no stores open tomorrow.  She would be with her husband on Christmas day, which was the important thing.

The windows suddenly lost their view.  They were entering the Caldecott tunnel.  Linda noticed the fidgety man who boarded the train with her slowly stand next to the white, dancing stranger, who was now moving faster, twirling toward the center of the train.

How the hell can he do that? she wondered.

Everybody listen up, the fidgety man screamed.  I want your wallets, and I want your jewelry, and I want you to put them in this bag, and I want it done before we exit this tunnel.

Linda looked up in a daze and noticed the man waving a gun in one hand and holding a black plastic bag in the other.  He threw the bag at a married couple sitting closest to him, but they were staring at the dancing man.

Hey, he screamed, cocking his gun, time is fleeting.  If you’re not helping, you’re gonna hurt!

Pretty, the wife dreamily answered, but she was clearly talking to the dancing man, who seemed to slowly glow a brighter white.

Someone should really stop that man, Linda thought.  But she didn’t move.  No one moved.

What the hell is wrong with you people? the fidgety man kept screaming.  When the dancing stranger’s light was bright enough to break his concentration, he turned the gun toward the light.  Sit the fuck down, Astaire, he growled.

Linda thought she saw the dancing stranger turn toward the man with the gun, but she wasn’t certain.  By now, the light was too bright to see clearly.  She was beginning to have trouble seeing the married couple.  But she heard what the dancer said in reply, or rather, it was more a thought brighter than the light she was seeing now.

Hope.

Now the walls of the train were disappearing into the light.  She saw the fidgety man lower his gun before he disappeared.

Everything is going to be OK, Linda thought as she was enveloped in the warm, white light.

7

Tulley, how many times have I got to tell you, take your dinner to the lunch room.  Your cubicle is already a mess, Ron screamed as Tom sat down in his chair, spilling a bit of watery marinara sauce out of his Stouffer’s Lasagna with Meat Sauce dinner.

Need to stay vigilant, boss, Tulley said, smiling.

Your dry humor never ceases to amaze, Tulley, Ron grumbled and walked away.

The fact was, on a normal graveyard shift the trains were empty often.  The graveyard shift into Christmas?  Well, it was challenging just to look in on a train to try and find people by this time.  Tom tapped his keyboard and split his monitor into sixteen smaller screens, arranged four across and four down.  Each smaller screen had a security feed into a BART car currently running.  As Tom took a bite of his lasagna, he scanned the monitor feeds.

Nothing.

He glanced up at the large track grid on the wall, which indicated which cars were on which tracks, represented by number.  He punched in the next handful of numbers, cars that were traveling the red line to Richmond.  He waited a moment until the pictures came up on the screen.

He noticed a couple in one car, sitting, leaning against each other.  He saw a woman in another car, sleeping.  He saw two young men kissing in another car.  Nothing else.

Maybe another line, Tom muttered, and looked at the grid once more.  He punched in some car numbers traveling the yellow line to Pittsburg and waited.

When the third round of security monitor screens appeared, Tom almost spilled his lasagna on the floor.  He saw the dancer from earlier that day.

Holy shit, he murmured.