You get a phone call. She rang — it’s over. Before you even know what’s happening, the song

is ending, leaving you repeating moments, looping back, trying to remember the fading details.

The leaves beneath your shoes crack as you fumble to light a cigarette. It hasn’t set in yet.

You are left out in the numbing cold, the synthesizer and guitar plucking that comes from your

headphones covers you like wool. You gotta get out of the city. Leave all this behind. No, leave

her behind.

The road is calling for you. Well, you don’t own a car, so the train is calling for you. You walk as

fast as you can to the subway, heart quick, ready to hop on whatever train is first out of Toronto.

Croce and Cohen agree, humming in your ear—what’s keeping you here now, anyway?

The stifling subway air chokes you. You are on your way to something better, you tell yourself,

but you know it’s a lie.

Union Station, busy as ever. You buy your ticket on autopilot, every movement rehearsed and

frantic. You run through it all — the crowd, the platform, the thin aisle of the train.

You collapse in your seat. Paul Simon repeats who you foolin’, circling around you. The VIA Rail

drink cart begins shuffling down the aisle with a disinterested train attendant. The train squeaks

along past the collapsing stations along the lake. All these hamlets used to be connected, but

perhaps they weren't profitable enough anymore.

The guitar is soft but steady, it’s going to be alright, a pat on the back from Lennon. This time,

you don’t believe him. The drink cart usually sails by, ignored, or given a gentle wave of no by

each row. But not today. Something is keeping the train bar cart longer than usual. You look out

the window again, hoping the changing leaves will be distraction enough.

You don’t notice until the smell hits. Every row, every passenger is ordering Clamato— yes, that

cold sea creature= infested tomato juice. It wasn’t even shaken, just lukewarm, sluggy Clamato

juice from a jug poured into a plastic cup. You take out an earbud.

The drink cart moves up the next row. It really is every passenger. The clam, tomato, and cheap

vodka envelopes the carriage, the kind of nauseating that you feel is seeping into your clothes.

Julian Casablancas’ off-putting melody lifts you higher away from the smell.

The train attendant’s recipe is no secret, everyone can see the mixology occurring here. Even

with quality ingredients, clam juice is worth no one’s time. You see her gold name tag shine a

bit, Monica. She is being so professional, honestly. Fuckin’ pro, not even commenting on each

juice ordered. Monica pours the last contents of a Clamato jug, adding the extra gift of all the

settled residue to her nth clamato. You would never order this, you tell yourself. The drink cart

moves up a row. This is madness.

This is clarity. You’ve figured it out. All you need is some Clamato. It will fix everything.

Your hand moves back, one with your card, the other now clasping a clear plastic cup with

sluggish red liquid. You feel giddy. The whimsical splashes and bubbles of Nilsson bring you

lighter with each sip of the Clamato. The weight of your body begins to dissolve. Why were you

even worried? What was that call about anyway, what's her name? No really, her name is

becoming harder to remember. You take another sip.

You’ve never had Clamato like this. It is surprising, notes you’ve never noticed before suddenly

become nameable. A briny revelation in a cup.

Everything is great. French you don’t understand, but feel is very thematic, plays in your ears as

you jauntily nod along. You forget your destination, your departure — all you know is Clamato.

You finish your last sip, leaving clam and tomato tinged foam behind.

Once I had a love and it was a gas. You signal for another glass.