| General Fiction posted September 26, 2023 | Chapters: |
...7 8 -9- 
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A journey through the lives around us.
A chapter in the book In Real Time
The Conductor
by estory
Most people start out as I did, looking out of the windows at the magnifiscent mountains, the grand canyons, the prairies, the dramatic shorelines with the vast, ancient ocean stretching out of sight beyond them, the snow covered peaks and the deserts, the wide, rolling rivers. But over the years, the trips up and down the Hudson, crossing the Mississippi, the views of the sun rising over the outer banks and setting behind the Rockies accumulate into a kind of faded backdrop to the action taking place on the stage. It's what we see the people on the stage doing that we end up remembering, for some reason. The people looking up, looking down, the people looking at you sideways. The man with the limp, the girl with the bruised shoulder, the people who sit there quietly and the people talking their head off. The old people trying to hold on to what they once were. The young people looking forward to something bigger, something better.
You see, I'm a train conductor. I work for Amtrak, on the long distance passenger trains. Some people might say that it sounds exciting, it sounds like a real adventure of an occupation. It's a chance to see the world. But I can tell you, it's the people I remember on those trains, not the prairies, the mountains and the rivers and the canyons.
Sure, on the Adirondak I got to see the mansions on the Hudson, Lage George and Lake Champlain. But what I ended up thinking about was the mysterious businessmen, the college kids, and the leaf peepers. The Silver Star took me passed the Washington monuments, the Civil War battlefields, Charleston and the Florida beaches. But it was the snowbirds and the spring breakers I can't seem to forget. The California Zephyr took me from Chicago to San Francisco, across the Mississippi and the great plains, the Rockies, passed the Grand Canyon and Yosemite. But every train seemed to be full of gamblers and people on their way out to Hollywood, dreaming of their big break, or retirees on their second honeymoon out to see the sights in the old west. The Coast Starlight takes you up the west coast, by the old Spanish missions and the Cascades. And on it I met the hippies, the yuppies and the Japanese tourists. On the Crescent you rub elbows with the Mardi Grasers, the hillbillies, and out in Texas the cowboys and the indians. You see the deserts. You stop at Palm Springs. You might be asked to take someone's picture, or you might get a movie star's autograph.
On the long stretches between stops what you notice is the space in this world, the empty space, the long patches of tumbleweed and sagebrush, the land and the sky that never seems to end. It seems you could never fill up a space like that. And then you pull into New York, and it seems all there is are people, people on top of people, up in skyscrapers and driving on parkways, or trying to push through the crowds on the sidewalk, so busy with what their doing that they would never have time to see all the space outside the city. It makes you wonder what we're doing with our time in this world, what we've done and we're we've come from, where we're going and where we want to go. With whom. You know?
When you're on one of those long stretches you start noticing the people on the train more and more, you start watching them and listening to what they're saying. You wonder who they are and where they're going and why. What it might be like to be travelling on with them, what you would tell them and what they might have to tell you. Once you've left the stations behind with the people who've gotten off, and the people who've gotten on have settled into their seats with their newspapers and magazines and books, you start looking at what they're reading. What they're doing. There's the women reading romance novels, the kids playing Mortal Combat on their phones, the men thumbing through the pictures in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue. There's the people in the bar car, kicking back beers and potato chips, as if they were trying to forget where they came from and what happened to them back there. There's the people laying back in their seats listening to music. People talking to people on the other side of the country on their cell phones. And then there's the people who just stare out of the windows, as if that was all they came for.
It never ceases to amaze me how many people you see travelling on those trains across the country, on any given day. Most days the trains are full. It seems like the whole country is on the move, going from New York to Cincinnati, from Chicago to St.Louis, from Atlanta to New Orleans and from Mobile to Phoenix. There's the college kids going away to school, hauling their stuff in duffel bags and suitcases, and then there's the college kids going home again, either drop outs or on break. There's the kids going to stay with grandparents. There's the grandparents on that bucket list trip to the Grand Canyon. There's the guy who just lost his job in Detroit, the one who just got one in Nashville. The lady going to meet some guy in Reno. The kid who got kicked out of his house, leaving Newark for Charlotte. The tourists taking pictures of everything. The evangelists trying to tell you the world is going to end, handing out bibles. The twenty something punks with needle marks in their arms, looking like they're closer to seventy. The woman with the baby. The Latino migrant workers.
You see them when they get on, you see them when you punch their ticket, you see them sitting there while the train takes them away on this journey, and you see them when they get off, shouldering that bag. You nod to them. You try to smile. You wish them well.
And you find yourself wondering, sometimes for years, what became of them. And you can't seem to recall much of the scenery at all.
Take for instance that kid from Florence, South Carolina, riding the Crescent from the east coast to the west. Some would say she was just another pretty face. Another girl from a small town, dreaming of an exciting life in Tinsel Town. Hoping to become a movie star or a model. Not wearing designer jeans, just something off of the rack at Walmart. An old back pack. A tired looking face, a worn kind of face. Too tired and too worn for somebody that young. You look at the ticket and it says Los Angeles. So you ask her, "Going all the way?"
"All the way," she says, looking up at you like she's surpised you said anything to her at all. Like she's not used to talking.
"Travelling by yourself?" I ask her.
"Yes sir," she says.
"Ever been out there before?"
"No sir."
"Well, it will be a good ride, a good three days."
"Really?"
"Oh yes. So you get comfortable. The seats lean back. So lean back and make yourself comfortable."
"OK," she says.
"Just sit back and enjoy the ride. You'll see the whole country, from out of that window."
So she looks out. That's when I notice the bruise on her arm, the frown that never seems to end.
"You get hungry, there's a snack car a couple of cars up that way," I tell her, pointing.
She looks a bit uncertain, looking at the door between the cars, but she nods.
"They make some decent hot dogs," I tell her, "some pretty good burgers. And they've got soda in case you get thirsty."
"OK," she says.
So I'd see her up there, early in the morning, when she had the whole car practically to herself, sitting at one of the tables with a bag of potato chips and a coke. Like that's all she could afford, and she didn't want anyone else to know. So I spot her a bagel and some cream cheese.
"Here you go," I say, "On the house."
She looks up at me, surprised. "Oh," she says, "I didn't know you did things like this on the train."
I leaned over. "We do for special customers," I whispered. "Don't tell anyone else."
She tries to smile. Then she looks back out the window at the passing farms and farmhouses, the run down towns that maybe remind her of home. It looked like she was looking for those landscapes to end, and for new ones to begin. Like she was looking for a glimpse of that big city up the line.
"Know anyone out there in L.A.?" I ask her.
"Sort of," she says. She takes a bite out of the bagel, avoiding eye contact.
"Well, it's a big city. It's nice if you've got a place to stay there."
She shrugs.
"Planning on getting a job out there?"
"Maybe."
"What did you do back home?"
"Just waiting on tables."
"Well, at least you could start with that. It might get you started out in that big city."
"I've always wanted to see it."
"Sure. Lots of people want to see it. I can understand that. The train's full every time I go out there."
She looked at me then for a moment like I was one of those wise men you hear about, who had crossed the desert with information you'd like to know.
"How many times have you been out there?"
"Lots of times. Once a week, out and back. I do that for a few months, until I get bored with it."
She tries to smile again. "I can't imagine being bored with L.A.," she says.
"Trust me," I tell her, "Every place can get boring after a while. If it's not home."
She nods. "So what do you do then?"
"I get another route, a different route. Maybe up the coast from San Diego to Seattle. Or maybe back east, to Chicago or New York."
"Must be nice," she says. She looks like she's daydreaming again. "I think I'd like that."
"Most people think that, you know. They think they'll be happier somewhere else. But then there's the baggage you bring along, you see, and the people you're leaving behind. And in the end, it's the people you find out in those fancy sounding cities that make all the difference. Sometimes you get homesick. And then it's nice to go home."
She frowns. She doesn't say anything.
When she got off, I helped her down the steps. "Good luck, kiddo," I said to her, or something like that. I think she smiled at me, like she wanted to say thanks for those bagels and cream cheese. I remember seeing her on the platform for a minute, shouldering her backpack, looking around like she was looking for someone who wasn't there, or wondering where to go. Another pretty face in the crowd.
And like so many people, I never saw her again. Whether she made it there, whether she went back home, whether she went somewhere else with somebody else, I'll never know.
But I still think about her sometimes. I say a prayer for her, sometimes. And going out to L.A. isn't the same anymore.
Sometimes you see people again and again. Mostly on the Northeast Corridor, between Boston and Washington. I was working the Acela, the high speed shuttle, on the New York-D.C. line, and there was this guy I remember, this older guy, with grey hair in a dark suit, tall, looking like he was head and shoulders above everybody else. He seemed to get on at Penn Station every Monday morning, with a copy of the New York Times and a cup of Starbucks coffee. Every Friday I'd see him going the other way, with a copy of the Washington Post. Well informed like; quiet, keeping to himself. Enough to make you think. The other conductors started whispering about him having something to do with those lobbyists, those people who bribe Senators and Congressmen on behalf of those big, Wall Street companies and their bosses. All winter it went on like that, every Monday going down, every Friday coming back up. All around him the faces changed, and it got so that he stuck out like a sore thumb. It's not my business or anything, but after a while I started looking for him on the Penn Station platform and there he was, with the paper stuck under his arm, trying to push through the crowd like they were just little people in his way, maybe. Like I said, it was enough to make me think.
"Ah, here you are again sir," I said to him one morning.
"Here I am again," he said, putting down his paper and looking up at me like he was wondering why I had recognized him, while he fished out his ticket.
"Washington again sir, is it?"
"Yes, Washington." And he's looking at me as if he's not sure he likes the idea that I remember where he gets off.
"It's getting so I think you know the line as well as I do."
"Yes. Maybe so."
"Well, we're glad you chose Amtrak as your means of travel. I mean, we know you have options."
"Probably faster than flying, if you count the time you waste in the airports," he says.
"Lots of people tell us that. And that's nice to hear. A little more relaxing, we hope."
"Yes it is. And I'd be the first one to tell you guys that."
"We find lots of business travellers on this train that seem to think so. Lots of people who work in government that feel that way."
He seemed a bit rattled. He picked up his paper and unfolded it over his face. "Yes, I imagine they do," he said.
"Well, if you need anything, let me know."
"I'll do that."
Sometimes I'd see him up in the snack car, talking to someone on a cell phone.
"I'll be in D.C. in a couple of hours," I heard him say once. "We can get it all settled this afternoon. I'm on top of it. I've got it all with me. No problem."
Another time I heard him saying: "Look, it's been taken care of. Don't I always take care of things? What would you do without me? I'm telling you, the wheels will come off the train pretty quick without me."
Then, just like that, come that fall, I stopped seeing him. The first Monday I didn't see him on the platform made me think he might be sick or something. Then, the following Monday, I wondered if he had quit, or been fired, maybe been transfered to some other job. If he had died, suddenly. I mean, there were just so many unanswered questions I had about him. What would happen without him? What would happen to that train, without him? What was it that he had been doing, behind the scenes, that was so important?
After a while, you meet enough people that you begin to feel that everyone's important, in one way or another. We all do things behind the scenes, we all keep the wheels on a train, somewhere. It makes you wonder about the holes we leave behind, when we move on to somewhere or something else. It makes you wonder about who is going to step into those shoes. And what's going to happen if nobody steps into them.
But then you move on to another line, and something or somewhere else. Like that incident we had on the Cardinal. The Cardinal goes back and forth between Chicago and Washington. This guy gets on at Cincinnati, a high strung kind of guy, a guy with an attitude. He didn't have any luggage. He stood out because he was always getting up to go to the bathroom, and every time I passed him in the aisle, he was always asking what the next stop was and when we would get there, and if we were on time or late. He was always frowning, always fidgeting. I know everybody's got a story, everybody has issues. Some people don't get along with other people, and that's that, for whatever reason. But it's my job to keep the peace. It's my job try and make everybody happy, come hell or high water.
This guy was sitting in a window seat, so every time he got up to go to the bathroom, the guy in the aisle seat had to get up to let him out. The guy in the aisle seat was reading a book. Keeping to himself. A guy in neat clothes, with glasses. A quiet, little guy. But he started to get a little annoyed, about the fourth or fifth time he had to get up to let this guy out.
"You want to sit in the aisle seat?" I heard the little guy say to this character.
"It's OK," he says curtly. "I like the window seat. I like to look out."
"Are you sure?" the little guy asks, pressing the point. He's frowning too, now.
Over the years, you meet all kinds on these trains. It makes you think. It makes you wonder what we fight over, sometimes.
The character looks back at him, narrowing his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure. What's it to you?"
"It's just that you get up a lot, that's all," the little guy answers back.
The character stares at him, his face hardening. "What's it to you? So I got to get up, once in a while."
So then I lean over. Trying to keep the peace, like I said.
"Easy guys," I say, as calmly as I can. "Take it easy. You guys not getting along? What's this all about?"
"He keeps getting up to go to the bathroom," the little guy says, still fuming. "I told him I don't mind letting him have the aisle seat. But that's a problem too."
The character's looking at the little guy like he wants to give him a shot in the face. "I like to look out of the windows. I told him I like to look out of the windows. And so what if I have to go to the bathroom once in a while? A guy can't go to the bathroom when he wants?'
The little guy's looking uncomfortable. He looks up at me with this pleading face. "I'd appreciate it if you could find me another seat," he asks me.
"Well, I wouldn't mind doing that," I tell him, "But I'm afraid the train is full right now. So I'd appreciate it if you two could just take it easy and grin and bear with each other, at least until we get to the next stop. If something opens up, I'd be glad to move you, sir. But we need a little patience, gentlemen. We need a little patience," I say to both of them.
The character huffs and puffs and looks out of the window, giving the little guy the cold shoulder. And the little guy goes back to his book, fuming. I mean, you could smell the smoke.
So I pull the assistant conductor aside in the space between the cars. "Better keep an eye on those two in the back of car 17," I tell him. "We don't need things to get out of hand there. I'm going to try and move one of them to another seat, but I need to get to the next stop."
"Easier said than done," says he, looking through the window in the door back at the those two.
"If worse comes to worse, come and get me and I'll put that little guy in the conductor's seat, in the back of 18," I say.
"But that means one of us will have to stand."
"Don't worry, I'll do it," I tell him. 'Anything to keep the peace."
"You're a saint, Jerry," he says.
"Sometimes you've got to do what you've got to do," I say.
But unfortunately, we don't quite make it with those two. About a half hour later I get a call from the assistant conductor to come back to car 17. It's the character and the little guy in the glasses. The little guy in the glasses said something when the character got up again, and the character punched him the face. Broke his glasses. Gave him a shiner, all right. The ladies were screaming. The kids were screaming, guys were standing up in their seats, ready to jump in. When I get back there, this big dude in a cowboy hat tells the character: "What did you punch him for? Why don't you pick on somebody you're own size?"
So I get in there, between everybody, holding everybody apart. I tell the character: "Sorry sir, but you'll have to come with us."
"I'm not going with anybody," the character says.
"I've already called the police, mister. They'll be waiting at the next stop."
"I'm not getting off at the next stop."
"I'm the conductor, and if I say you're getting off, you're getting off."
So he takes a swing at me. Lucky that big dude with the cowboy hat was there. He must have been some kind of wrestler, or something, because he slips his arms around the character and jerks him into a headlock. I had to call a couple of assistants. We had to wrestle him to the ground in the aisle, kicking and yelling, with all the people jumping out of their seats and trying to call the cops on their cell phones or trying to film the thing and put it on Youtube.That was some scene. At the same time, I had to have one of the girls from the snack car take the guy with the black eye up there to put some ice on his face and give him a drink and calm him down.
"I want that guy's name and address," he kept saying, "I'm going to sue the shit out of him. And I'm going to sue the shit out of this place too.You shouldn't be letting people like that on the train."
"I'll get you all the information you want," I says to the guy, trying to calm him down. "Sorry sir. We're very sorry that this happened on our train."
"People like that shouldn't be allowed on," the guy says again. "I'm making a complaint."
"I don't blame you, sir," I tell him, "If I were you, I'd probably do that too. But we're all doing our best here. We're trying to make the best of a bad situation. It really is a shame."
You know it took three officers, the big cowboy dude, and all three conductors and attendants on the train to drag the character off the train, kicking and screaming and cursing a blue streak, in front of everybody. It held up the train for almost an hour. Sometimes you ask yourself, what in the world? What in the world is it that brings people to that point? You forget all about the Appalachian Mountains and the New River Gorge, Chicago and Washington altogether, and just wonder where these guys came from, and where they're going to end up.
Then there was that lady on the Crescent, the southern lady who got on at Montgomery, going out to Austin. I knew there was something about her the way she smiled at me when she got on. The way she leaned into me with that tight little number she was wearing, cut real low to give you a view of all that cleavage. Powedered skin, hair dyed bronze, smelling of roses, too much lipstick. Sunglasses like the divas on TV wear. One of those forty year olds trying to look twenty five.
"Well hello there," she says in an overdone southern drawl. "How ya'll doin' today? Could you please give me a hand up?"
So I offer her my hand and she takes it quick, with a telling little squeeze. She rubs up against me as she steps into the car.
"I'm sorry," she says, with a playful little smile. "I'm clumsy today. But I've never been on a train before. Can you believe that?"
"Ah," I say, escorting her down the aisle. "Well, I hope you enjoy the trip."
"I'm going all the way out to Austin. To visit my sister. Have you ever been to Austin?"
"Just passing through, ma'am. But I can tell you it looks like a real up and coming place."
She laughs. "I like your manners! Most people don't have very good manners today. And I like up and coming. I'm up and coming myself."
So I sit her down and she takes off her sunglasses and she gives me a smouldering look. "I wonder," she says, like she's Scarlett O'Hara, "Could you tell me which way is the bar car?"
"The snack car," I correct her, "Is two cars up that way, ma'am. But I'm afraid it doesn't open for another hour. We'll make an announcement."
"Really? A whole hour? Well you can be sure to find me up there when you make that announcement."
And sure enough, when I'm passing through there to go up and have a word with the engineer, she's sitting there with a glass of something on the rocks sitting in front of her. And when she sees me she lights up and grabs my hand.
"Well hello there!"she says, "It's so nice to see you again. Do you want to hear what I think of your train?"
I try to smile. I try to gently pull my hand away. I've got a girlfriend in Phoenix. "Good things, I hope," I say.
"Oh I think it's so exciting. You see the country on this train, sir, just like they advertised. You go through small towns and you see people sitting on their porches. You go through the country and you see those handsome country boys on their tractors. Sometimes they're on their horses. I prefer horses. I sure hope there's a lot of cowboys out in Texas...I mean horses, of coure, sir."
"Oh I'm sure there's lots of both of them out there, ma'am," I make a move. She quickly leans forward, with all that cleavage again, batting her eyes.
"I was wondering sir, can you tell me when we're going to arrive in Austin?"
"We arrive in Austin tomorrow afternoon. Early tomorrow afternoon, as long as there's no delays."
"That means I'll have to spend the night on the train."
"Yes, but it's pretty comfortable. The seats recline. And I could get a pillow for you."
"Would you be able to do that for me?" she says. "Why, that's real kind of you. But it's not exactly the seats I'm concerned about..." and she drops her voice and leans over a bit more. "It's that older gentleman sitting next to me. You know who I mean? I mean he's an absolute stranger, and I've already caught him looking at me...well, you know what I mean. Do you know what I mean?"
"I'm sorry about that, ma'am. I'd like to find you another seat where you'd be more, ah, comfortable with the company. But I have to say, the train's pretty full at the moment."
"Well you know what I've been thinking? What about those sleeper cars?"
"You need a reservation in advance for those quarters, ma'am. They cost a bit extra."
"Oh I don't suppose you could do something for me after all," she says, leaning away and pouting, and fingering the collar on her blouse.
"I'm afraid not, ma'am. Like I say, you have to book those in advance."
So she gives me this sly, sideways look. "And where do you sleep on the train, sir? They must give you a place to sleep on the train."
"Well they do, ma'am, but it's in private quarters just for employees. I'm sorry about that, ma'am."
"Oh. I wouldn't want you to break the rules."
"Nor I."
"Can I tell you something?" she asks, and she leans over and cups her hand to her mouth, and whispers in my ear: "I'd make it worth you're while, if you could do something for me."
I straighten up and look down at her. She's looking up at me and winking. Leaning over with all that cleavage. Fiddling around with her collar.
But I've got a girlfriend in Phoenix. A nice girlfriend. Someone who really cares about me, and someone I care about. I mean, we look after each other. We've got plans.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, I really can't. I've got to go and talk to the engineer."
So later on I came back through the train and she's still sitting in the snack car, with a glass of something on the rocks in front of her. But wouldn't you know she's found this tall, handsome, movie star type, with a fancy haircut, in a sports jacket, to sit with. One of those high rollers you see in Las Vegas. And he's leaning back and looking at her like he's wondering what she'd look like naked. He had that kind of look on his face.
And she's saying to the guy: "Oh, that's so interesting. You live such an interesting life. I wish I could live an interesting life like that. Or live with somebody interesting like you. Right now, I live by myself. I broke up with my boyfriend, and I had to move because he kept coming to my apartment, trying to talk me into taking him back. Well, I'm done with him. So now I'm on my way to Austin. I'm thinking of making a new start out there. It's an up and coming place, I hear..."
Sometimes when I'm alone at the window, watching those mountains and prairies go by, those little towns and those big cities with their skyscrapers, I find myself wondering about all those people. I wonder how they came to be like the people I found on those trains, the other people in their lives, whether they ended up happy or disappointed, lost, found, or something in between. I wish I could have set some of them straight. I'd like to think I helped some of them out. Made the time pass with some levity to it. Gave them something to think about. And then you wonder what you could have or should have said. What you might have done a little better.
You wonder about all the people who come and go in and out of your life, on this journey we're on. You wonder where we'll end up someday.
Most people start out as I did, looking out of the windows at the magnifiscent mountains, the grand canyons, the prairies, the dramatic shorelines with the vast, ancient ocean stretching out of sight beyond them, the snow covered peaks and the deserts, the wide, rolling rivers. But over the years, the trips up and down the Hudson, crossing the Mississippi, the views of the sun rising over the outer banks and setting behind the Rockies accumulate into a kind of faded backdrop to the action taking place on the stage. It's what we see the people on the stage doing that we end up remembering, for some reason. The people looking up, looking down, the people looking at you sideways. The man with the limp, the girl with the bruised shoulder, the people who sit there quietly and the people talking their head off. The old people trying to hold on to what they once were. The young people looking forward to something bigger, something better.
You see, I'm a train conductor. I work for Amtrak, on the long distance passenger trains. Some people might say that it sounds exciting, it sounds like a real adventure of an occupation. It's a chance to see the world. But I can tell you, it's the people I remember on those trains, not the prairies, the mountains and the rivers and the canyons.
Sure, on the Adirondak I got to see the mansions on the Hudson, Lage George and Lake Champlain. But what I ended up thinking about was the mysterious businessmen, the college kids, and the leaf peepers. The Silver Star took me passed the Washington monuments, the Civil War battlefields, Charleston and the Florida beaches. But it was the snowbirds and the spring breakers I can't seem to forget. The California Zephyr took me from Chicago to San Francisco, across the Mississippi and the great plains, the Rockies, passed the Grand Canyon and Yosemite. But every train seemed to be full of gamblers and people on their way out to Hollywood, dreaming of their big break, or retirees on their second honeymoon out to see the sights in the old west. The Coast Starlight takes you up the west coast, by the old Spanish missions and the Cascades. And on it I met the hippies, the yuppies and the Japanese tourists. On the Crescent you rub elbows with the Mardi Grasers, the hillbillies, and out in Texas the cowboys and the indians. You see the deserts. You stop at Palm Springs. You might be asked to take someone's picture, or you might get a movie star's autograph.
On the long stretches between stops what you notice is the space in this world, the empty space, the long patches of tumbleweed and sagebrush, the land and the sky that never seems to end. It seems you could never fill up a space like that. And then you pull into New York, and it seems all there is are people, people on top of people, up in skyscrapers and driving on parkways, or trying to push through the crowds on the sidewalk, so busy with what their doing that they would never have time to see all the space outside the city. It makes you wonder what we're doing with our time in this world, what we've done and we're we've come from, where we're going and where we want to go. With whom. You know?
When you're on one of those long stretches you start noticing the people on the train more and more, you start watching them and listening to what they're saying. You wonder who they are and where they're going and why. What it might be like to be travelling on with them, what you would tell them and what they might have to tell you. Once you've left the stations behind with the people who've gotten off, and the people who've gotten on have settled into their seats with their newspapers and magazines and books, you start looking at what they're reading. What they're doing. There's the women reading romance novels, the kids playing Mortal Combat on their phones, the men thumbing through the pictures in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue. There's the people in the bar car, kicking back beers and potato chips, as if they were trying to forget where they came from and what happened to them back there. There's the people laying back in their seats listening to music. People talking to people on the other side of the country on their cell phones. And then there's the people who just stare out of the windows, as if that was all they came for.
It never ceases to amaze me how many people you see travelling on those trains across the country, on any given day. Most days the trains are full. It seems like the whole country is on the move, going from New York to Cincinnati, from Chicago to St.Louis, from Atlanta to New Orleans and from Mobile to Phoenix. There's the college kids going away to school, hauling their stuff in duffel bags and suitcases, and then there's the college kids going home again, either drop outs or on break. There's the kids going to stay with grandparents. There's the grandparents on that bucket list trip to the Grand Canyon. There's the guy who just lost his job in Detroit, the one who just got one in Nashville. The lady going to meet some guy in Reno. The kid who got kicked out of his house, leaving Newark for Charlotte. The tourists taking pictures of everything. The evangelists trying to tell you the world is going to end, handing out bibles. The twenty something punks with needle marks in their arms, looking like they're closer to seventy. The woman with the baby. The Latino migrant workers.
You see them when they get on, you see them when you punch their ticket, you see them sitting there while the train takes them away on this journey, and you see them when they get off, shouldering that bag. You nod to them. You try to smile. You wish them well.
And you find yourself wondering, sometimes for years, what became of them. And you can't seem to recall much of the scenery at all.
Take for instance that kid from Florence, South Carolina, riding the Crescent from the east coast to the west. Some would say she was just another pretty face. Another girl from a small town, dreaming of an exciting life in Tinsel Town. Hoping to become a movie star or a model. Not wearing designer jeans, just something off of the rack at Walmart. An old back pack. A tired looking face, a worn kind of face. Too tired and too worn for somebody that young. You look at the ticket and it says Los Angeles. So you ask her, "Going all the way?"
"All the way," she says, looking up at you like she's surpised you said anything to her at all. Like she's not used to talking.
"Travelling by yourself?" I ask her.
"Yes sir," she says.
"Ever been out there before?"
"No sir."
"Well, it will be a good ride, a good three days."
"Really?"
"Oh yes. So you get comfortable. The seats lean back. So lean back and make yourself comfortable."
"OK," she says.
"Just sit back and enjoy the ride. You'll see the whole country, from out of that window."
So she looks out. That's when I notice the bruise on her arm, the frown that never seems to end.
"You get hungry, there's a snack car a couple of cars up that way," I tell her, pointing.
She looks a bit uncertain, looking at the door between the cars, but she nods.
"They make some decent hot dogs," I tell her, "some pretty good burgers. And they've got soda in case you get thirsty."
"OK," she says.
So I'd see her up there, early in the morning, when she had the whole car practically to herself, sitting at one of the tables with a bag of potato chips and a coke. Like that's all she could afford, and she didn't want anyone else to know. So I spot her a bagel and some cream cheese.
"Here you go," I say, "On the house."
She looks up at me, surprised. "Oh," she says, "I didn't know you did things like this on the train."
I leaned over. "We do for special customers," I whispered. "Don't tell anyone else."
She tries to smile. Then she looks back out the window at the passing farms and farmhouses, the run down towns that maybe remind her of home. It looked like she was looking for those landscapes to end, and for new ones to begin. Like she was looking for a glimpse of that big city up the line.
"Know anyone out there in L.A.?" I ask her.
"Sort of," she says. She takes a bite out of the bagel, avoiding eye contact.
"Well, it's a big city. It's nice if you've got a place to stay there."
She shrugs.
"Planning on getting a job out there?"
"Maybe."
"What did you do back home?"
"Just waiting on tables."
"Well, at least you could start with that. It might get you started out in that big city."
"I've always wanted to see it."
"Sure. Lots of people want to see it. I can understand that. The train's full every time I go out there."
She looked at me then for a moment like I was one of those wise men you hear about, who had crossed the desert with information you'd like to know.
"How many times have you been out there?"
"Lots of times. Once a week, out and back. I do that for a few months, until I get bored with it."
She tries to smile again. "I can't imagine being bored with L.A.," she says.
"Trust me," I tell her, "Every place can get boring after a while. If it's not home."
She nods. "So what do you do then?"
"I get another route, a different route. Maybe up the coast from San Diego to Seattle. Or maybe back east, to Chicago or New York."
"Must be nice," she says. She looks like she's daydreaming again. "I think I'd like that."
"Most people think that, you know. They think they'll be happier somewhere else. But then there's the baggage you bring along, you see, and the people you're leaving behind. And in the end, it's the people you find out in those fancy sounding cities that make all the difference. Sometimes you get homesick. And then it's nice to go home."
She frowns. She doesn't say anything.
When she got off, I helped her down the steps. "Good luck, kiddo," I said to her, or something like that. I think she smiled at me, like she wanted to say thanks for those bagels and cream cheese. I remember seeing her on the platform for a minute, shouldering her backpack, looking around like she was looking for someone who wasn't there, or wondering where to go. Another pretty face in the crowd.
And like so many people, I never saw her again. Whether she made it there, whether she went back home, whether she went somewhere else with somebody else, I'll never know.
But I still think about her sometimes. I say a prayer for her, sometimes. And going out to L.A. isn't the same anymore.
Sometimes you see people again and again. Mostly on the Northeast Corridor, between Boston and Washington. I was working the Acela, the high speed shuttle, on the New York-D.C. line, and there was this guy I remember, this older guy, with grey hair in a dark suit, tall, looking like he was head and shoulders above everybody else. He seemed to get on at Penn Station every Monday morning, with a copy of the New York Times and a cup of Starbucks coffee. Every Friday I'd see him going the other way, with a copy of the Washington Post. Well informed like; quiet, keeping to himself. Enough to make you think. The other conductors started whispering about him having something to do with those lobbyists, those people who bribe Senators and Congressmen on behalf of those big, Wall Street companies and their bosses. All winter it went on like that, every Monday going down, every Friday coming back up. All around him the faces changed, and it got so that he stuck out like a sore thumb. It's not my business or anything, but after a while I started looking for him on the Penn Station platform and there he was, with the paper stuck under his arm, trying to push through the crowd like they were just little people in his way, maybe. Like I said, it was enough to make me think.
"Ah, here you are again sir," I said to him one morning.
"Here I am again," he said, putting down his paper and looking up at me like he was wondering why I had recognized him, while he fished out his ticket.
"Washington again sir, is it?"
"Yes, Washington." And he's looking at me as if he's not sure he likes the idea that I remember where he gets off.
"It's getting so I think you know the line as well as I do."
"Yes. Maybe so."
"Well, we're glad you chose Amtrak as your means of travel. I mean, we know you have options."
"Probably faster than flying, if you count the time you waste in the airports," he says.
"Lots of people tell us that. And that's nice to hear. A little more relaxing, we hope."
"Yes it is. And I'd be the first one to tell you guys that."
"We find lots of business travellers on this train that seem to think so. Lots of people who work in government that feel that way."
He seemed a bit rattled. He picked up his paper and unfolded it over his face. "Yes, I imagine they do," he said.
"Well, if you need anything, let me know."
"I'll do that."
Sometimes I'd see him up in the snack car, talking to someone on a cell phone.
"I'll be in D.C. in a couple of hours," I heard him say once. "We can get it all settled this afternoon. I'm on top of it. I've got it all with me. No problem."
Another time I heard him saying: "Look, it's been taken care of. Don't I always take care of things? What would you do without me? I'm telling you, the wheels will come off the train pretty quick without me."
Then, just like that, come that fall, I stopped seeing him. The first Monday I didn't see him on the platform made me think he might be sick or something. Then, the following Monday, I wondered if he had quit, or been fired, maybe been transfered to some other job. If he had died, suddenly. I mean, there were just so many unanswered questions I had about him. What would happen without him? What would happen to that train, without him? What was it that he had been doing, behind the scenes, that was so important?
After a while, you meet enough people that you begin to feel that everyone's important, in one way or another. We all do things behind the scenes, we all keep the wheels on a train, somewhere. It makes you wonder about the holes we leave behind, when we move on to somewhere or something else. It makes you wonder about who is going to step into those shoes. And what's going to happen if nobody steps into them.
But then you move on to another line, and something or somewhere else. Like that incident we had on the Cardinal. The Cardinal goes back and forth between Chicago and Washington. This guy gets on at Cincinnati, a high strung kind of guy, a guy with an attitude. He didn't have any luggage. He stood out because he was always getting up to go to the bathroom, and every time I passed him in the aisle, he was always asking what the next stop was and when we would get there, and if we were on time or late. He was always frowning, always fidgeting. I know everybody's got a story, everybody has issues. Some people don't get along with other people, and that's that, for whatever reason. But it's my job to keep the peace. It's my job try and make everybody happy, come hell or high water.
This guy was sitting in a window seat, so every time he got up to go to the bathroom, the guy in the aisle seat had to get up to let him out. The guy in the aisle seat was reading a book. Keeping to himself. A guy in neat clothes, with glasses. A quiet, little guy. But he started to get a little annoyed, about the fourth or fifth time he had to get up to let this guy out.
"You want to sit in the aisle seat?" I heard the little guy say to this character.
"It's OK," he says curtly. "I like the window seat. I like to look out."
"Are you sure?" the little guy asks, pressing the point. He's frowning too, now.
Over the years, you meet all kinds on these trains. It makes you think. It makes you wonder what we fight over, sometimes.
The character looks back at him, narrowing his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure. What's it to you?"
"It's just that you get up a lot, that's all," the little guy answers back.
The character stares at him, his face hardening. "What's it to you? So I got to get up, once in a while."
So then I lean over. Trying to keep the peace, like I said.
"Easy guys," I say, as calmly as I can. "Take it easy. You guys not getting along? What's this all about?"
"He keeps getting up to go to the bathroom," the little guy says, still fuming. "I told him I don't mind letting him have the aisle seat. But that's a problem too."
The character's looking at the little guy like he wants to give him a shot in the face. "I like to look out of the windows. I told him I like to look out of the windows. And so what if I have to go to the bathroom once in a while? A guy can't go to the bathroom when he wants?'
The little guy's looking uncomfortable. He looks up at me with this pleading face. "I'd appreciate it if you could find me another seat," he asks me.
"Well, I wouldn't mind doing that," I tell him, "But I'm afraid the train is full right now. So I'd appreciate it if you two could just take it easy and grin and bear with each other, at least until we get to the next stop. If something opens up, I'd be glad to move you, sir. But we need a little patience, gentlemen. We need a little patience," I say to both of them.
The character huffs and puffs and looks out of the window, giving the little guy the cold shoulder. And the little guy goes back to his book, fuming. I mean, you could smell the smoke.
So I pull the assistant conductor aside in the space between the cars. "Better keep an eye on those two in the back of car 17," I tell him. "We don't need things to get out of hand there. I'm going to try and move one of them to another seat, but I need to get to the next stop."
"Easier said than done," says he, looking through the window in the door back at the those two.
"If worse comes to worse, come and get me and I'll put that little guy in the conductor's seat, in the back of 18," I say.
"But that means one of us will have to stand."
"Don't worry, I'll do it," I tell him. 'Anything to keep the peace."
"You're a saint, Jerry," he says.
"Sometimes you've got to do what you've got to do," I say.
But unfortunately, we don't quite make it with those two. About a half hour later I get a call from the assistant conductor to come back to car 17. It's the character and the little guy in the glasses. The little guy in the glasses said something when the character got up again, and the character punched him the face. Broke his glasses. Gave him a shiner, all right. The ladies were screaming. The kids were screaming, guys were standing up in their seats, ready to jump in. When I get back there, this big dude in a cowboy hat tells the character: "What did you punch him for? Why don't you pick on somebody you're own size?"
So I get in there, between everybody, holding everybody apart. I tell the character: "Sorry sir, but you'll have to come with us."
"I'm not going with anybody," the character says.
"I've already called the police, mister. They'll be waiting at the next stop."
"I'm not getting off at the next stop."
"I'm the conductor, and if I say you're getting off, you're getting off."
So he takes a swing at me. Lucky that big dude with the cowboy hat was there. He must have been some kind of wrestler, or something, because he slips his arms around the character and jerks him into a headlock. I had to call a couple of assistants. We had to wrestle him to the ground in the aisle, kicking and yelling, with all the people jumping out of their seats and trying to call the cops on their cell phones or trying to film the thing and put it on Youtube.That was some scene. At the same time, I had to have one of the girls from the snack car take the guy with the black eye up there to put some ice on his face and give him a drink and calm him down.
"I want that guy's name and address," he kept saying, "I'm going to sue the shit out of him. And I'm going to sue the shit out of this place too.You shouldn't be letting people like that on the train."
"I'll get you all the information you want," I says to the guy, trying to calm him down. "Sorry sir. We're very sorry that this happened on our train."
"People like that shouldn't be allowed on," the guy says again. "I'm making a complaint."
"I don't blame you, sir," I tell him, "If I were you, I'd probably do that too. But we're all doing our best here. We're trying to make the best of a bad situation. It really is a shame."
You know it took three officers, the big cowboy dude, and all three conductors and attendants on the train to drag the character off the train, kicking and screaming and cursing a blue streak, in front of everybody. It held up the train for almost an hour. Sometimes you ask yourself, what in the world? What in the world is it that brings people to that point? You forget all about the Appalachian Mountains and the New River Gorge, Chicago and Washington altogether, and just wonder where these guys came from, and where they're going to end up.
Then there was that lady on the Crescent, the southern lady who got on at Montgomery, going out to Austin. I knew there was something about her the way she smiled at me when she got on. The way she leaned into me with that tight little number she was wearing, cut real low to give you a view of all that cleavage. Powedered skin, hair dyed bronze, smelling of roses, too much lipstick. Sunglasses like the divas on TV wear. One of those forty year olds trying to look twenty five.
"Well hello there," she says in an overdone southern drawl. "How ya'll doin' today? Could you please give me a hand up?"
So I offer her my hand and she takes it quick, with a telling little squeeze. She rubs up against me as she steps into the car.
"I'm sorry," she says, with a playful little smile. "I'm clumsy today. But I've never been on a train before. Can you believe that?"
"Ah," I say, escorting her down the aisle. "Well, I hope you enjoy the trip."
"I'm going all the way out to Austin. To visit my sister. Have you ever been to Austin?"
"Just passing through, ma'am. But I can tell you it looks like a real up and coming place."
She laughs. "I like your manners! Most people don't have very good manners today. And I like up and coming. I'm up and coming myself."
So I sit her down and she takes off her sunglasses and she gives me a smouldering look. "I wonder," she says, like she's Scarlett O'Hara, "Could you tell me which way is the bar car?"
"The snack car," I correct her, "Is two cars up that way, ma'am. But I'm afraid it doesn't open for another hour. We'll make an announcement."
"Really? A whole hour? Well you can be sure to find me up there when you make that announcement."
And sure enough, when I'm passing through there to go up and have a word with the engineer, she's sitting there with a glass of something on the rocks sitting in front of her. And when she sees me she lights up and grabs my hand.
"Well hello there!"she says, "It's so nice to see you again. Do you want to hear what I think of your train?"
I try to smile. I try to gently pull my hand away. I've got a girlfriend in Phoenix. "Good things, I hope," I say.
"Oh I think it's so exciting. You see the country on this train, sir, just like they advertised. You go through small towns and you see people sitting on their porches. You go through the country and you see those handsome country boys on their tractors. Sometimes they're on their horses. I prefer horses. I sure hope there's a lot of cowboys out in Texas...I mean horses, of coure, sir."
"Oh I'm sure there's lots of both of them out there, ma'am," I make a move. She quickly leans forward, with all that cleavage again, batting her eyes.
"I was wondering sir, can you tell me when we're going to arrive in Austin?"
"We arrive in Austin tomorrow afternoon. Early tomorrow afternoon, as long as there's no delays."
"That means I'll have to spend the night on the train."
"Yes, but it's pretty comfortable. The seats recline. And I could get a pillow for you."
"Would you be able to do that for me?" she says. "Why, that's real kind of you. But it's not exactly the seats I'm concerned about..." and she drops her voice and leans over a bit more. "It's that older gentleman sitting next to me. You know who I mean? I mean he's an absolute stranger, and I've already caught him looking at me...well, you know what I mean. Do you know what I mean?"
"I'm sorry about that, ma'am. I'd like to find you another seat where you'd be more, ah, comfortable with the company. But I have to say, the train's pretty full at the moment."
"Well you know what I've been thinking? What about those sleeper cars?"
"You need a reservation in advance for those quarters, ma'am. They cost a bit extra."
"Oh I don't suppose you could do something for me after all," she says, leaning away and pouting, and fingering the collar on her blouse.
"I'm afraid not, ma'am. Like I say, you have to book those in advance."
So she gives me this sly, sideways look. "And where do you sleep on the train, sir? They must give you a place to sleep on the train."
"Well they do, ma'am, but it's in private quarters just for employees. I'm sorry about that, ma'am."
"Oh. I wouldn't want you to break the rules."
"Nor I."
"Can I tell you something?" she asks, and she leans over and cups her hand to her mouth, and whispers in my ear: "I'd make it worth you're while, if you could do something for me."
I straighten up and look down at her. She's looking up at me and winking. Leaning over with all that cleavage. Fiddling around with her collar.
But I've got a girlfriend in Phoenix. A nice girlfriend. Someone who really cares about me, and someone I care about. I mean, we look after each other. We've got plans.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, I really can't. I've got to go and talk to the engineer."
So later on I came back through the train and she's still sitting in the snack car, with a glass of something on the rocks in front of her. But wouldn't you know she's found this tall, handsome, movie star type, with a fancy haircut, in a sports jacket, to sit with. One of those high rollers you see in Las Vegas. And he's leaning back and looking at her like he's wondering what she'd look like naked. He had that kind of look on his face.
And she's saying to the guy: "Oh, that's so interesting. You live such an interesting life. I wish I could live an interesting life like that. Or live with somebody interesting like you. Right now, I live by myself. I broke up with my boyfriend, and I had to move because he kept coming to my apartment, trying to talk me into taking him back. Well, I'm done with him. So now I'm on my way to Austin. I'm thinking of making a new start out there. It's an up and coming place, I hear..."
Sometimes when I'm alone at the window, watching those mountains and prairies go by, those little towns and those big cities with their skyscrapers, I find myself wondering about all those people. I wonder how they came to be like the people I found on those trains, the other people in their lives, whether they ended up happy or disappointed, lost, found, or something in between. I wish I could have set some of them straight. I'd like to think I helped some of them out. Made the time pass with some levity to it. Gave them something to think about. And then you wonder what you could have or should have said. What you might have done a little better.
You wonder about all the people who come and go in and out of your life, on this journey we're on. You wonder where we'll end up someday.
This is another one of those quirky little stories I like to write about people and places we might brush up against on any given day, but don't really think about too closely. On more intimate inspection, you see that as we speed through on this train of life, there are all kinds of little stories sitting right next to us, tugging at our emotions, making up the various flavors of the world we live in. Maybe as a writer I notice these little scenes, and imagine whole lives out of a couple of dropped sentences. I can say that I had some fun with this peace, writing the dialogue and creating these odd little characters; the girl from the small town dreaming of a new life somewhere else, the mysterious man with the mysterious mission you can only guess at, the troubled people who can't get along with other people for whatever reason, the woman who always seems to be on the look out for a better deal. And the odd conductor of the train, who finds himself wondering about them all. Who can't seem to forget them. It also marks the end of a collection I plan on calling In Real Time, to be compiled at the end of the year. So I will be moving on to a new book of poetry called Ruins, and a new collection of short stories called Dreams, which I will give you all a heads up on in the near future. I await your comments, as always. estory
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