Not Quite Midnight

"What's it gonna be, chump?" asked the man at the wicket at Grand Off-Central Station for Dreamers.

"One way ticket on a midnight train to Georgia?" the mysterious handsome man with a nervous leg tick answers.

"How much?" he asks, as he adjusts his expensive plaid Borsellino cap. A tasteful cigarette hangs off his lips.

"There's a train leaving at 11:48pm on Track 7. Etty-fi dollars."

"Well, that's not exactly midnight, now is it? Is there a discount?" The man behind the wicket is slightly confused. He recovers after taking a sip from his white-cola. Before he replies he wipes his head - an odd thing considering it's below zero outside.

"Look feller, I don't know who you are or where you've been or where you're going but that's as close to midnight as you'll get. Prices are not negotiable. It's not like buying kiwis from a fruit vendor. We don't sell 4 tickets for 99 cents 'round here."

"What are my options then?"

"Like I said, 11:48pm or 12:15am."

"I'm trying to change my life. Things didn't go so well for me here in California."

"Join the club, buddy. This was once the face of a Vaudeville singer who could have been something in Tinsel Town. 'Mammy, mammy!' Tin Pan Alley is now Skid Row for the transparent souls that hang 'round here. Broken dreams get no discounts."

Life is what you make of it. You have to learn to pick and choose your battles. The man with the cigarette knows this. He's watched enough movies that confirm this fact. He looks around and sees the desperate eyes swirling around behind a false sense of importance.

"It's all a facade. So is this midnight train. My baby is waiting." He loosens his tie and straightens. "I see a train is leaving at 11:48am to Georgia. One ticket, please."