24/7 Tickets

??/08/2018

I hate the noise my shutters make when someone knocks on them. It’s not that I’ve grown tired of the sound, I don’t even hear it every day, I just hated it from the start.

Today is one of the days I’m tormented with that metallic shaking, a day with a potential customer.

“What are you here for?”

I have no speaker in my little kiosk, no electricity to operate one. It means I have to push my teeth right up against the cold metal if I want people to hear me outside.

“I’m looking for a train ticket… I wanna take a ride on the trans-Siberian.”

“You’re a long way from Yaroslavsky Station to be looking for one of those.”

This side of the Urals, I’m the only vendor who can sell these kinds of tickets. Me and one other guy, but nobody goes to him anymore. I like to think it’s because of my superior customer service and not because of the other thing.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t set up shop so far from Moscow!”

He sounds annoyed, rightfully so. I’d be annoyed too, if I had to drive to Finland to buy a ticket for a Russian train.

“I’m just wondering what makes you think you can get one here?”

“Because every man in the world who knows where to get one tells me this is the place!”

He’s not shouting because he’s annoyed now but simply to be heard over the icy winds outside. His voice sounds kind of muffled, probably being filtered through a scarf.

“You want a ticket, then what have you brought as payment?”

“10,000 dollars, cash.”

“And what business do you have on the train?”

To ride on the underground trans-Siberian, you have to be brining something with you. It’s a place where all the worst people from the non-natural come to trade their stock. Modern money will get you a ticket, but without something special, you’ll be thrown right back on the platform.

“I got diamond rings that’ll wipe the wearers mind. Perfect for anyone looking for a short-term marriage. Turn your bride into a vegetable, no one will know why.”

“Sounds like something those train freaks might like…”

I lift my shutter slightly, allowing the man to pass through his bundles of cash. The heat from my candles melts the snow off them, making the notes a bit soggy.

Making sure I have my gloves on, I slip his ticket out under the shutters. The ticket nearly rips as he grabs it, because I don’t let go.

“Wrap your payment in plastic next time. Wet hundred dollar bills smell like shit.”

??/06/2022

Summer is my favourite season. The sun never sets this far north, so I don’t need to waste any candles, all the light I need filters in through my opaque glass ceiling.

It used to be stone like the rest of the place, but after a few decades of submitting requests, the higher ups graciously replaced it.

“Anyone there?”

Another customer. Whoever it is spoke before he knocked on the shutters. The arrogant voice probably suits him.

“If I count as anyone, then I suppose I’m here.”

“Brilliant! Two tickets for the Trans-Siberian, make it quick.”

“You’re a long way from Yarosl-“

“This isn’t quick pal.”

Very scary. If this wasn’t my thirty thousandth day on the job, his voice would send chills down my bones. But he’s not the scariest customer I’ve ever had, he speaks a mortal language.

“What business do you have on the train?”

“I think it’d be easier if I just showed you.”

I crack the shutters slightly and he slips his hand underneath. On its back there’s a very distinctive tattoo of some playing cards. The mark of dangerous men, it’s not a tattoo one sees very often.

“Alright, who’s the second ticket for?”

“A lady friend of mine.”

“What business does she have on the train?”

“Her business is that she’s with me.”

“I’m not with him.”

A female voice interrupts him.

“We’ll you’re here aren’t you? That means you’re with me.”

A lovers quarrel isn’t something I’ve seen in a long time. I hate them, the lowest form of conflict.

“Listen, I don’t care who’s with who, what’s your business on the train?”

“I have the same tattoo as him.”

“Can I see it then?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s on my chest.”

That’s strange, I’ve only heard of the mark of the cards appearing on the back of the hand.

“I don’t care, show it to me or I’m only selling you one.”

“Told you he’d be a pervert.”

Despite her flippant remark, she pulls up her jacket and shirt in one practiced motion, leaning down a bit to give me a good look. She wasn’t lying, between and just below her breasts, she has a tattoo with the same terrible energy as her partner.

“Seen enough?”

“I think so, yeah.”

She pulls her top back down and the man hands me plastic wrapped bundles of payment.

They don’t have any inventory to sell per say, but people of their ilk have services people are willing to hire.

I slide the tickets out to him.

“Try not to cause too much trouble, selling these tickets is my livelihood.”

He snatches the tickets from me the second they see daylight.

“Then don’t sell them to the wrong people.”

Snow crunches loudly under his feet as he walks away. A detestable man. I know very little about him but that doesn’t matter. Is it that hard to say ‘thanks’ to the guy behind the till? He’s clearly never worked in the service industry, else he’d know how awful his kind are.

??/01/2022

I love the turn of a year, it’s always so quiet. My normal rate of customers is 2 or 3 a week, most Januarys go by without a single visit. People aren’t able to excuse themselves from family duties as easily right now, all the worst people you know love Christmas.

The drop in traffic gives me the opportunity to read my yearly book. In theory, I always have the time, but I just can’t concentrate when there’s the threat of a customer at the turn of every page. I find if I put a book down mid chapter, I never pick it back up. That’s why I need to be reasonably confidant I have time to finish the entire thing between sales.

This year’s choice is a quaint little mystery novel. One of my previous customers, Abdul, left it for me. He had finished it, allegedly. The cover is blank and there’s no authors name attached to it.

It’s alright. The description isn’t very vivid, but then again, nothing is. Dialogue is quirky, mystery is engaging enough, a little self-indulgent. It’s split up into arcs told in a non-chronological order. Probably the author’s excuse for not setting things up in advance, but I must admit, it’s growing on me.

I’m only a few pages away from finishing the second arc and things are really kicking into gear.

“Oi! Someone in there or what?!”

Oh. This is unpleasant. It seems I’ve got another customer. Just my luck.

I put the book down without marking the page and press myself up against the shutters.

“Yeah, I’m here alright. What do you want?”

“Told you’re the man to get some train tickets from. That right? You the guy?”

“Does this look like a train station to you?”

“Ah come off it mate, you know what I’m talking about. A ticket for that magic train, the one where they sell all the weird shit.”

This one sure is a loudmouth. I hope he doesn’t ask the conductors in Yaroslavsky to point him to the magic train. Not my problem anyway.

“What business do you have on the train?”

“None of yours, that’s what.”

“Fantastic, do you have the money?”

I’m not supposed to sell these tickets to just anybody but this guy will get himself killed the moment he steps foot on the platform. The only way he’ll make it on that train is in a bodybag.

“Sure do.”

I crack open the shutters and wait for him to hand me the cash. Instead, I’m met with a rectangular piece of plastic.

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s my credit card.”

So this is what they look like.

“I can’t accept this.”

“Why not, you don’t accept card?!”

“Of course we don’t fucking accept card, what kind of business do you think we’re running here?!”

“A modern one, I would’ve expected. Isn’t it the law that you have to accept card.”

“We don’t sell anything that’s legal!”

I throw the card out at him and slam the shutters.

“We’re closed. Come again next year.”

“You can’t close on me!”

“I absolutely can.”

“Do you even know who I am? What’s your name son? Who’s your boss???”

I try giving him the silent treatment but he won’t let up. He just keeps pounding on the shutters screaming profanities and racial slurs at me, despite not having seen my body at all.

“Open back up you stupid bastard! You’re obligated to serve me!”

That’s it, I’m not taking this. I take my standard issue revolver out of its holster, throw the shutters open and point it at this guy.

At first he doesn’t look scared but then he notices the gun, then the chains around my wrists and finally, his eyes go wide when they try to meet mine and find nothing but a skull.

“I ain’t obligated to do shit.”

One, two, three. Both eyes and the mouth. I’m still a pretty good shot.

I shut up shop once more and try to get back to my book. No good, I can’t get back into it.

I throw the book outside with his body and go back to staring at the wall.