Explanations lubricated by little lies and liquor

“Well for starters, my name is John Smith, and I need some things explained to me” you say, playing for time to consider how to explain yourself without coming off as utterly deranged.

“You need things explained to you?” The conductor repeats, her eyes narrowing at you, and cocking an eyebrow, “what sort of things?”

“Well like, uh, well you see, where are we right now?” You ask.

The conductor looks at the bar girl, the bar girl looks at the conductor, and then the conductor takes out a little brass pocket watch.

“About halfway between Topeka and Wichita?” She says, snapping the pocket watch closed.

“Ok, ah, and those are in the state of Kansas, right?” you state.

“Yes?” She says, tucking a wayward blonde hair out of her face, and looking more and more confused.

“But it’s the People’s State of Kansas now?” you ask, exasperated.

“Yes?” The conductor asks, shooting an uneasy look at the bar girl. The bar girl for her trouble shrugs at the conductor and looks at you.

“Honey, please don’t take this the wrong way,” the bar girl says with a arms crossed over her chest, “but were you dropped on your head as a babe or something?”

“No, I wasn’t, I was―” you say, fumbling with the journal with a wild idea rocking around in your head and producing the discharge papers, official looking stamps and all, in hand.

“What’s that?” The bar girl asks, taking a sip of a glass of something that looks an awful lot like whisky on the rocks.

“My discharge papers,” you say, smiling that even a broken clock can tell time twice a day.

“Like from a mental―” the conductor says, looking you in the eyes and reaching out to take it gingerly from your offering hand.

“From a general hospital, I just finished up spending a long time there, you see,” you say. “I got really sick and one of the things that the doctors said might happen to me is amnesia,” You lie.

“Amnesia?” The bar girl asks, propping herself up on the bar and reading the discharge paper over the conductor’s shoulder, drink still in hand.

“Yeah,” you say, “it means that I can’t remember things. Sometimes. Temporarily.”

“Like your name?” The bar girl asks, pulling the paper up and out of the conductor’s grip.

“Yeah like my―” you start, “wait what?”

“Says right here,” the bar girl says, holding the paper up to you and tapping it with a free finger from her drink hand, “John Brown.”

“That it does,” you chuckle.

“Cute name, by the way, no idea how you can read most of this though, terrible handwriting” she adds. She absently flips through the rest of the pages while sipping her drink.

“Well,” the conductor starts, “it’s a good thing then I’ve been watching out for you, you were out cold for quite a few hours there.”

“Yeah,” you chuckle.

“And you got me right riled up when you started screaming,” she said, the bar girl nodding along.

“You wouldn’t believe how fast she moved when she heard you hollering,” the bar girl states, still skimming your documents.

“It’s really quite dangerous for you to travel without a chaperon,” the conductor said without a hint of levity in her voice, “I’m glad that a young man like you feels comfortable enough to travel unaccompanied, but that’s no excuse for letting your guard down.”

“Hey,” the bar girl says, lips puckered and excited, leaning to show the conductor one of the pages of your discharge papers, “A minus,” she says, “not bad right?” nodding at you while giving a knowing look to the conductor.

The conductor’s eyes go wide for a second and then she gives the bar girl a mean mug, lips scrunched up, snapping the discharge papers from the bar girl’s hand. The bar girl hisses a little, failing to re-secure the papers before the conductor squares them with a couple of taps on the bartop and hands them to you.

“Uh, thanks,” you reply, taking back the discharge papers and tucking them into your journal again.

“So, uh, John, what do you need me to explain to you then?” The conductor asks, grabbing her own drink and taking a sip.

“Well for starters, is this still America?” You ask.

“Sure is,” snorts the bar girl, “Glory to the Union and all that, right⸮” she adds sarcastically with a fist salute beside her head, the conductor frowning at her. You flip open the journal and look for the first term that you fancy a gander at. A familiar acronym jumps out at you.

“So is the USSR still around?” You ask.

The bar girl snorts again, bringing her hand up to her eyes.

“Huh? I mean yes?” the conductor says, again giving you a look like you’re crazy for a second, before her eyes soften again.

“Huh,” you say, “and what are the Russians doing in America?”

“What?” the conductor says, blinking and shaking her head. The bar girl starts snickering.

“What?” you ask.

“I―” the conductor pauses, rolling her words around in her mouth for a moment, “sir, it’s who runs the trains,” the conductor says gently, taking off and then pointing at the little metal badge on it, the words U.S.S.R. in a little roundel with a distinctive cross section of a railroad rail in the middle of it.

“Ah,” you say, even more confused.

“See,” she says, pointing at each letter in turn in a soft voice that seems more pitying than demeaning, “U, S, S, R.”

“And so what does that stand for?” You ask, watching the conductor as she puts her hat down on the bar again, trying to catch more wayward hair escaping her ponytail.

“Oh, it stands for Union of Socialist States Railroads,” she states, her eyes softening again while looking at you. “You poor thing, you must have been really sick to forget so much,” the conductor says, reaching out a hand but not enough to touch you.

“So nothing to do with Russians, then?” You ask. The bar girl snorts.

“I mean the superintendent certainly looks like the Tzar when she’s angry,” the bar girl says, words slightly slurring and taking another gulp. The conductor gives her a look. “She’d probably behead as many folks too if she thought she could get away with it too.”

“I see,” you say.

“No it doesn’t,” The conductor says to you, “ignore her.”

“Huh,” you reply.

“Don’t tell him to ignore me,” the bar girl gasps, then takes another gulp of her drink, looking you dead in the eyes. Then she burps, then smacks her chest twice in a row with her fist. “Whooo-hee! Firewater! So hun, what's your next question?” she breaths.