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Edwin Nabler crossed the street, unlocked the front door of his shop, went in, closed the door, and set the lock again. He

retrieved from a small pouch on the front of his vest a Waltham pocket watch and noted that the store was not due to open

for another five minutes, and if there was anything Nabler believed, it was that if said you opened at 9:30 a.m., you didn’t

open at 9:29 and you didn’t open at 9:31. You opened the store at 9:30, like it said on the sign. It was just like the railroads.

They had schedules, and they were expected to keep them. Take that rail line that ran straight through the center of Lucknow,

dividing the north side of town from the south. You could count on the Albany it was a niche, a specialty store, but that didn’t mean Nabler’s ambitions weren’t grand.

He believed his offerings carried broad appeal, that there was something about toy trains that bordered on the intrinsic.

In Nabler’s experience, almost everyone was captivated by toy trains—men and women, despite the perception that the hobby was a largely male interest—even if they didn’t collect them or set up displays

in their home. People were entranced by worlds replicated in miniature. Toy soldiers, dollhouses, model cars and boats and

planes. They marveled at the minutiae, how upon examining a simple steam engine they would suddenly discover that inside the

cab was an engineer sitting at the controls, or a mom and her son sitting at a table in the window of a passenger train’s

dining car, sharing an ice-cream sundae.

And what set toy trains apart from so many other miniatures was that they moved . And as if that weren’t enough, they made sounds . Once those wheels started turning, the train went chuffchuffchuffchuff . Press a button, and a whistle would blow or a bell would clang. Woowoo ! Dingding!

Who could resist such wonders? Nabler was confident that once word spread about his new shop—word of mouth was everything in this business—the train sets displayed so artfully on the shelves would be hard to keep in stock. Which was why Nabler had been preparing for several weeks to have sufficient stock before opening. Because Nabler was more than a straightforward seller and distributor of trains made by major manufacturers. No, everything that Nabler sold had been customized by him personally. While the front of the store was small, the back end was grandiose, deceptively so. From the street, no one could have guessed the space taken up by Nabler’s workshop, the place where all the magic happened. It was there that Nabler had been constructing, with his own innovative techniques, an elaborate model railroad with mountains and tunnels and bridges and stations, and it was on these tracks that every train Nabler sold was put through its paces to make sure it met his particular, exacting standards.

He pulled out his pocket watch again. It was 9:29 a.m.

Nabler walked to the front door, waited for the second hand to make one more sweep of the face, then flipped the switch to

bring the neon open sign to life and unlocked the door.

He had spied a couple of boys, on their way to school no doubt, looking at the window display earlier, and he had a feeling

they might be back, but not until school was over. Anyone who ventured into the store through the day was likely to be an

adult. There were many so-called grown-ups who enjoyed the hobby, plenty of dads who, fearing that their interest in toy trains

might be mocked, used their children as cover.

“It’s for my son,” a man might say, handing over his money, but you could see the twinkle in his eye.

Ah, the joy of it. The setting of the hook.

But Nabler wasn’t exactly reeling them into the boat like some fisherman out for bass. The Trojan Horse was a better analogy.

The customer had to invite him in, take him into their hearth and home. That was when the real magic happened.

Five minutes had passed since turning on the open sign. Mustn’t get impatient. There hadn’t been a lot of time for the townsfolk to notice he was here. It will take as long as it takes , he thought. Just as well that time was something of an abstract concept for Nabler. While committed to punctuality when it came to hours and minutes and seconds, Nabler was vague on days and weeks and months. Was this his first day of business or his second, or third? He wasn’t quite sure. Was this his fourth shop? His fifth? His fifteenth? Hard to say. He had set up shop in so many different places.

All he knew was he was here now, there was much he had already done, and there was much more to do.

It was a quiet morning until shortly after eleven, when a man in his late thirties wandered in. Slim, slightly balding. He

was wearing a short-sleeved white business shirt even though fall was in the air. Dark brown pants with a perfect crease and

a pair of Wallabees on his feet. In the pocket of his shirt was a plastic protector that held several pens. He stepped into

the store hesitantly, briefly glancing over his shoulder, as though worried that someone passing by on the sidewalk might

see him enter.

But once he was a few steps inside and confident he could not be seen from the street, he began to browse. Looking through

the plastic windows on each of the boxes, picking up the occasional one for closer examination. When he got to the larger

box sets, comprised of an engine, three or four cars, a power pack, and lengths of track, he stopped, checking them out, comparing

one to another.

Nabler chose not to bother him, at least not yet. Didn’t want to chase the man away by being pushy. Let the goods speak for

themselves.

The man kept coming back to one set that had caught his fancy. It came with two boxcars that said santa fe on the side, a tank car, one flatcar with a small helicopter attached, and a second one whose load was a mini-submarine.

There was even a red caboose. The most important item was a black metal steam engine and matching tender with pennsylvania emblazoned on the side.

The man held the box in his hands, contemplating. Nabler wasn’t sure whether the man had even noticed he was there, so he discreetly cleared his throat.

The man turned, smiled. “Oh, hey. You the owner?”

“Mr. Choo at your service,” he said, touching the brim of his engineer cap in a mini-salute.

“Mr. Choo?”

Edwin smiled. “My nom de plume, as it were. But you may call me Edwin.”

“This is a nice train set.”

“It’s one of our biggest sellers,” Nabler said, coming out from behind the counter. “And we sell all manner of accessories

to go along with it.” He waved a hand at his shelves. “Buildings and trees and crossing signals. Everything you could want

to make your own miniature empire.” He paused. “Thinking of something for a little boy or girl?”

The man looked sheepish. “I’m thinking of getting it for myself.”

“Why not? We all need a hobby, don’t we? And, to be honest, we’re all still kids on the inside. We never outgrow the toys

we had as children. I still have my Slinky.”

“Oh God, I had one of those. What was the jingle?”

Edwin sang a couple of lines: “ Everyone knows it’s Slinky, everyone knows it’s Slinky. ”

“Thing is, I always wanted a train set when I was a kid but my folks didn’t have money for something like that. I had a friend,

he had a super Lionel setup, and I would go over to his house and play with it. I was so envious.”

“It’s never too late,” Nabler said.

“Can we open this up so I can get a better look at it?”

“Of course.”

Nabler took the set from his hands and placed it on the counter by the register. He carefully opened the end flaps of the box and was starting to slide out the entire Styrofoam tray that held all the pieces securely when the man said, “That’s far enough. I just wanted a peek at the engine.”

“Have a gander. I’ve told you my name. What’s yours?”

The man extended a hand. “Wendell Comstock.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Comstock.”

“Wendell.”

“Of course, Wendell. Married, are you?” He had been looking at the gold band on the man’s finger.

“Yup. Can’t imagine what the wife’ll think if I bring this home. She doesn’t usually get into things I’m interested in.” The

man’s face briefly fell.

Nabler, who would be the first to admit he was not particularly skilled in the areas of marital intimacy, decided to put on

a happy face. “You might be surprised. She might take to it. Like a duck to water, as they say.”

Wendell ran the tips of his fingers over the engine’s surface. “You can actually feel the rivets. That’s some nice detailing.

And there’s a little engineer in the cab and everything.” He took his fingers away briefly, then delicately touched them to

the engine again. “That’s weird,” he said.

“Yes?’

“I get... I get a little buzzing in my fingers when I touch it.”

“I wouldn’t think that’s possible. It’s not on a length of powered track.”

“But I feel... something.”

Nabler nodded with a sudden understanding. “I know what you’re feeling. That’s what we model train aficionados call the tingle

of excitement.”