We’re going to spread Mr. Internicola’s story “Train Robbers” over a next few days, for it is long. This is a great story. Enjoy. Read Part 1, if you haven't already.

"TRAIN ROBBERS (PART 2)"
by Michael Internicola

Good Luck Charlie is the secret agent. I am now the Electrified American of the year 2001. I am doting I's and crossing T's on letters like this to Char a few years later from the previous message, "You have been a God send to me, Honey."-I wrote, "How to explore a letter to you? I haven't written many of them to you, huh? For a writer anyway. This letter is a bout my dreams.

Thank you for accepting me like I am. I feel like I was supposed to meet you, Doll. I wouldn't have said that sometime before. That's not a bad thing, kid. I'm so happy about things and how how gradual they have progressed. I mean it so much. I love you. I love you so fucking much.

Everybody is giving up on me. I feel close to being dead. Tonight. Tonight, Doll...all I'm thinking about is Europe. Mostly Paris and shit. I don't belong in New York anymore. You know that. I do belong with you right now.

Paris feels so right for me out of all the places I've been. You never see me writing. It's my stage right now. I love you. I guess working on your third book at twenty eight isn't that bad, huh? Feels pretty good. You've had amazing strides mentally since we've known each other. can you feel it?

Don't worry about all that other bullshit. It will work itself out. I know and you know I know. You don't have to have some creative gift to make strides (hold on the CD is skipping). I hope you don't feel I'm taking you for granted. I don't. I love you so much. Things are hard but soon they will be a piece of cake. Don't worry about us. We will always be together. If you feel distant from me it's just because my writing is number one always. It's been a progression too just like our relationship. The word relationship sounds so nice. you're a good pace for me. You don't rush me and I love you even more for it. Do you know what I mean when I say on stage? Writing is introverted. I'm really not. You feel you should be doing more...so do I. In time, Love--in time. The other morning before you left I looked into your beautiful eyes and I knew you would love me forever--no matter what or who may come into your life. I don't have anyone else like that. You watch out for me as much as I watch out for you. This book has love. I never saw it coming like they said. Whoever they are. You can love me as much as you want. I'm not going anywhere. Don't be scared of that. Don't hold back. I'm yours, fragile and hard. You glow. Everyone says so, Charlie. Sometimes I need you to be my cushion. Sometimes I need your shoulder. Your my safety in this shit world--soon to be a happy one. you and I in Europe is another level. A branch in the tree to climb. I know what everyone thinks of me.

They think I'm there or going there but I won't lick that ice cream cone.

Just wanted to say I love you on this summer night. Listen to this...I love you. I love to watch you grow and experience. That's all."

THE discovery is growling, hard headed and soaked with vodka. The wind is riding on boxes outside the train station as I walk up to Good Luck Charlie all droopy, mumbling up my sleeve from three days of no sleep and mumbling mostly because I've messed this whole trip up by arguing like a shithead and then blaming the whole autonomous tourist feeling on her although HASH and I very descriptively talked about this many many months beforehand...about how that would happen or outlining the whole trip and how I would just see these better days and do my time seeing stuff in Europe until we met up in Paris a couple months down the line and then we would just catch up on all that we've done and go smooth sailing through out the place undisturbed for weeks on end drinking cocktails, taking pictures, writing and obliged to me in each other company. But to my surprise I've jumped right into the trap of having to play chickenshit right in the middle of Switzerland on a Tuesday right now rambling about what I really can't fucking say. I can't get a hold of him. I don't even know if he's still here. Is he on a mission to conquer the most land ever? Be the butterfly? Is he spending the quality time by himself like I told him he has to do? Is he paying his debts off or still hiding out? will he reach the sea? Is this the end to our tight friendship, I wonder. Have we been in too many dark corners to enjoy the good life together? Either way, I would miss my brother because it hasn't been the same for years now and the Higher Power is telling me, it's saying you really need somebody to take care of you...I will die hard either way...and Emmy...Will you remember me, baby like I remember you? When I can barely cross the street will you come to me? will you say to me I've read your book...or I didn't even know you wrote or what a duck you must think I am for not reading your work...oh, Darling. Where did you go? Are you fishing for salmon like you liked to do? In the ripples? Are you writing like me or eating bagels with cream cheese? What kind of music? Steven Stills every time I looked at you? Is there a heaven or are you parked in a box sweating and wanting to get out? Is the dirt covering you everywhere? Quick sanding you to death? And I'm sorry for missing the fucking funeral but I didn't know...and nobody called or told me and I'm sorry but I needed to talk to you one last time to see if things were okay or if we could give it another shot...but I can't believe your fishing in heaven...are you a bird? Are your hands still callused like they always were? Do you still drink that stuff or seem boundless, untouched to the naked eye or perhaps they've lied to me and your living somewhere because you were sick of it all too. Are you reborn into a baby girl eating cold hot dogs on a Sunday afternoon in a park with the tiniest of images: fingers, I mean...this resurrection of some sort.

Emmy can you hear the piano? Are you listening to the special keys, the distant pulse being...being so overworked and sullen? Are you gripping hard on the pole or are you just letting the water do all the work? Remember like I showed you? Oh, baby I need you to call me like I knew you would someday.

I need to meet you unannounced ed at that book signing in California like it was supposed to go. Can we touch...can we, Emmy...smoke a butt outside the railing. Can we just kiss or hold hands or have something because I still love you some and I never got a chance to meet you tonight at stupid Mercado Bar on rue Oberkamph by the hotel we were staying at. It's all coming back to you, Emmy and the poem, Emmy...I never got a chance to say certain stuff.

Remember To Remember. I don't know. I'm just rambling along. The crowd is cheering or booing and all I know is I'm running out of money again, baby.

THE plan five Tuesday's ago leading us to today was: 11:56 leaving Paris to Eborn, Spain. Leave by 10:15 A.M. arriving in Pamplona at 12:23. It's always 10:15. Check face for zits. Face looks good. Look at sack. Sack looks everywhere. I slept on the floor that first night, grabbed the Euro-suck rain at 1:00 A.M.--the one in charge of ordinance. The train was fucking nuts because they booked too many reservations so seats were limited. Once again, on the road again. Between the cramped seats, Good Luck Charlie's hacked ponytail and somebody strange smacking gum all night I am very dead to the world. Well, everything equaled no sleep, not being able to get our stuff out of the lockers, dirty and salami smelling like real Americans.

That's why it kills me when I hear Good Luck Charlie ask, "What's the matter?"-"What?"-I answered but by now our first stop out of Irun was leading us to San Sebastian and if it weren't for Good Luck Charlie talking the police into opening the gate around 11:45 we would have been fucked and demoted to touristy Barcelona for sure. Instead we are fine and make the train to Pamplona in search of Los Fermines/The Running of the Bulls (July 6-14). From what Charlie had read they ran the beasts at 8:00 A.M. but only for three minutes long when the bulls stayed together. Somebody in Paris said already three men had died but, like I said, at least you know nobody strange is gonna sit next to you when you travel with another person. Upon arrival flies are everywhere on Good Luck Charlie--chasing her around in pajamas and shit. We talked with a couple from Hawaii who ran this morning down by Dead Man's Corner and they said it was exhilarating. Not a mutter of these deaths like I thought. Next thing I know I'm in a bar called El Kiosko drinking Carlsberg and watching some little girl dance next to a Spanish sounding band--seeing the statue of ********* in the foreground by the bullring. Every time the music stops she runs to her mother, faces us and hides embarrassed. when the music begins again she dashes towards the speaker and starts dancing some more. Today was the last day of the festival. The last run was held that morning with thousands of people out as early as 4:00 A.M. to bind with the bulls. Spoke to the taxi driver about getting tickets for the bullfight around six and for a small fee he referred us to the market outside the ring. We got in too late to actually run. After lunch we decide to get trashed, book our second class train to Valencia in time to make Spain's greatest party past twelve midnight. Go. Note: moody girl singing with socks up to her stomach. A very tall order.

[More of "Train Robbers" will come tommorow. . .]

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Michael Internicola lives in New York City.

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PREVIOUS WORK

"TRAIN ROBBERS (PART 1)" by Michael Internicola

ART by Vanessa Hall-Patch

"DOUG'S HAMSTER" by Beau Levitt

"BARGAINING" by Colleen Neumann

"YOU DON'T GOTTA BE SMART" by Allen McGill

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