1Fumes from coco and other warm winter drinks, wafted up from the first class cabin of witch I was checking tickets. My hands twitched and I rubbed them together in the hopes of generating heat, it was 7:00am and 15 minutes before departure.
"Good morning sir, may I check your ticket?" I asked as I came upon a rather pompous looking man with a cigar popped into his mouth. He had a glass of champagne resting on the armrest.
The man sat silent and I was about to move on when he turned to look at me, staring directly into my eyes. He nodded his head stiffly as if the cold had hampered its movement and gave me his ticket.
He had a very gentle look about him and it bothered me that he was spoiling his good fortune with a drink and a smoke. It was poison to his potentially wonderful social life because the ladies never like a man who has filled his heart with alcohol or champagne instead of love and passion.
My mother used to drag me outside to the porch whenever I took a fleeting glance at pa's glass, filled to overflowing with vodka, and scolded me with her usual rant about drinking.
"Your father was perfect until he picked up some odd wine in Japan, and he hasn't been the same since!" She would say,
"I swore I wouldn't drink the tea when they set it in front of us, I'd heard the cook saying he'd put a 'rather strong flavor' into it and I'm sure he meant alcohol! Now I couldn't stop your father from drinking it, especially with his odd cravings for Japanese tea, but I can stop you!"
"Just a drop won't hurt, will it?" I would ask
"Don't even think about it young man! Your father lost his job because of the foul stuff, and I won't be having you do the same! Now, go up to your room, think about what I've said, and don't you dare plan on disguising something in Japanese tea! You won't put anything past me!"
That's how it always was whenever I snuck downstairs at night, or was caught at anytime staring at Pa's vodka glass, for whether empty or full, it had fascinated me. This man, who happened to have taken the Stagecoach Double Decker Train, reminded me of my old pa, and my mother's advice suddenly took on a great deal of weight. I found that I felt for him, a stranger, who had no idea what he was putting into his body, at this very moment.
I gazed into those dark eyes and was strongly reminded of my pa's eyes, witch contained a similar pigment. My pa who had waved me away from pestering about his drinking problem (it had become an obsession of mine to see if I could persuade him to quit, however, my attempts where always a failure) with a tall tail, about how it had been a white faced angel who had instructed him to drink and he was bound by an oath to obey her.
"Tiea, was her name. She had beautiful black eyes and a radiant white face, she wore a strange flowing garment, like one a goddess would adorn, and it fell gracefully upon her maidenly form. Your mother is as plain as the plainest Jane, compared to her." He always paused at this joke and chuckled to himself with a silly grin on his face. Another sip of vodka would then entice him to go on as he had countless times before.
"Well, you probably know what happened next. She came to me and set this glass upon my table, I haven't stopped drinking since. Whenever I look at this glass, I remember her and drink to her health, well being, and beauty."
"Ah" He would then exclaim with a loud smacking of his lips.
"What a pretty lass she was, if only she could walk through the door one day and say 'you've drunk enough, I'll have back my glass,' what a glorious day that will be."
When pa was finished reciting his usual excuse for being subject to alcoholism, I would sneak up to my dresser, pull out a hidden wine catalogue that I had saved from its voyage to the dumpster, and flip curiously through it's pages. Then, on Christmas, I would buy da his traditional gift, (for witch a I got a telling of by ma) every year I gave him a bottle of the best wine in the country. Though da preferred vodka, he still guzzled it down and made sure to comment on my excellent choice in wine that I had most assuredly inherited from him.
When this stranger, with his handsome and dignified face, looked at me with such a mournful perfection, my boyish self bubbled up inside and I blurted out without thinking,
"Have you met the white angel?"
A few stuffy and proud passengers twittered in disapproval, I had undoubtedly spoken to load for their dainty ears. One stunningly beautiful woman turned around in her seat and gave me such an accusing stare, that I almost jumped back several paces before the man's reply put me back on my guard.
"The white angel," he said
"Yes, yes I know her well. She is my sadness. She is my pain. She is the medicine that cures my loneliness." He took a large gulp of champagne from his glass.
I was absolutely baffled at the man's sincerity. He had spoken so fervently that it seemed as though he actually had met a white angel before and been acquainted with her since. I shifted my feet uncomfortably, and, feeling embarrassed about having asked such a childish question, I glanced quickly around the cabin; the lovely lady still glared at me accusingly. I felt myself swallow uncomfortably, and then I tugged on my uniform and straightened my back.
The man followed my gaze put down his glass, and beckoned me to come closer. I lowered my head to the level of the seats, politely, and cleared my throat.
"Have you met her?" He asked in hushed tones. I stared at him, confused.
"Ever come unto the train, has she? The white angel?"
I swallowed again and shook my head.
"No," I whispered.
He maneuvered his head so that he could look me directly in the eyes. His dark ones quivered as if they were muttering something. He nodded slightly, and looked satisfied, put his head to rest on the cushioning of his chair and took up his champagne glass. He fingered it with an absent look on his face.
"Thank you sir." I said in a warm voice, and moved on to the next passenger.
As I shifted my way through the rows of first class travelers, I glanced at the arrogant lady who had glared at me as if I'd committed a horrible crime. I was strongly reminded of my mother, and throughout the day her words and da's story kept flitting into my head. An idea had formulated with these thoughts and when the drinking stranger got up to disembark from the train, I swiped the wine catalogue from my coat pocket (it was a good think I had taken it too work) and handed it over to the forlorn fellow. He stepped off the Stagecoach Double Decker Train, with a brilliant new archive of tasteful wines.
And I was satisfied.
As for my da, he will no longer drink alcohol, for a white angel shall come to him, but this one will deprive him of his glass. It is fitting that she happens to know him very well, very well indeed.