Train Ride, Part 4

by Donna Schoenkopf

Morning.

Coffee with Carolyn. She’s the same woman who served us a week ago on my trip to Los Angeles.

She doesn’t remember me when I hand her my thermos and my lid. But she only charges me a dollar for the coffee and the apple I’ve asked for. (Shhhhhh. Don’t tell anyone.)

I take my delicious coffee and my sweet and crunchy apple to the observation car and start reading Jitterbug Perfume. Son John wants me to read it. It’s a wonderful read and I read a bit, look out those marvelous windows a while, and read a bit more.

We stop somewhere, I don’t know where. The Border Patrol, all smiles, enters the car. He chats me up. He’s followed by his cohort, a woman, who doesn’t smile. He asks each one of us what country we’re from. A heavyset guy, about twenty or so, says, “Los Angeles.” The Border Patrol says, “The United States, right?” The guy is embarrassed and says, “Yes.”

It’s afternoon.

Time for lunch. Think I’ll eat in the dining room today. I make a reservation for me alone, as Tina already has expressed her hatred of the dining car. And the hostess. And the price. And the lousy food. To each his own.

When the time comes I sit down at a table with Jim, a guy my age, white balding, friendly; Dawn, Latina, friendly; and a woman whose name I’ve forgotten, forties, red hair, loud voice, smoker. We know this because she tells us. She tells us everything about her life. The military. The daughter. The grandchild to be born shortly. She tells it loudly without taking a breath. (Is this what I sound like? Maybe. There is something about her that reminds me of me.)

Jim and I talk about digestion. He eats slowly, he says, for his acid reflux. Eventually he tells us that his wife of forty years died three months ago. She has left a huge hole in his heart. I see that he would like to be married again. I see that he finds Dawn interesting, the red-haired woman repugnant, and me a possibility. He has been a policeman, an insurance guy, and is now retired. He and his wife have been lifelong Republicans. He is on his way to a Rotarian convention.

Lunch is over. Good-byes all around.

Train rides are about people. And landscapes.

Back to my seat and Tina.

Two men sit behind me. One of them has a booming voice. He asks the other man a million questions about this and that. I find their conversation interesting and revealing. Then Booming Voice Guy starts in about how horrible public schools are and how worthless public teachers are.

I am incensed. I have made a pact with myself to always speak up when I think somebody is spreading hatred and/or lies.

So I stand up and see that Booming Voice Guy is a big man, my age. The other fellow is in his thirties and worn out from the endless patter of his seatmate.

I am standing in the aisle, across from angry mom and cute li’l tyke. And I say, “I am a public school teacher and teachers are the glue that holds our civilization together, buddy.” Or words to that effect.

Both men are taken by surprise. At my words and at the nerve of me.

A long discussion proceeds. Etc., etc., etc.

During the discussion the subject of whipping/spanking/corporal punishment of one sort or another, comes up.

Without realizing it before I speak, I say, “Students learn better when they’re not stressed or scared. My mom always said, ‘You get more flies with honey than with vinegar.’”

Halfway through my little speech I see Tina nodding in agreement and I realize that Angry Mom is listening but I can’t do anything but finish my sentence. She must realize I find her constant criticism of the little boy to be the wrong thing to do. I am embarrassed about my self-righteousness.

We continue our discussion with “teaching to the test,” then on to Booming Voice Guy’s sixth grade teacher (his favorite), who wore her hair piled on her head and played the piano every day.

The guys and I disengage. Whew. We’re all drained. I think, “They must be thinking ‘Where did that come from?’”

And on the train moves. I go up to the observation car. It’s always friendly in the observation car. Sunlight does that to you. And it’s beautifully, perfectly temperature controlled.

(One thing about riding a train—the air is very clean and cool. Much different that the gassy, fetid air of planes and buses. AND the restrooms, of which there are many, are always clean, always, although they are old and showing wear. Some are efficiency toilets—toilet, small sink, mirror—some are large spaces with mirrors and chairs to sit on and space to change, with the toilet tucked in an adjoining room. Someone has the job of keeping them shipshape. I’m thinking it’s the woman who vacuums the dining room between meals. She has a little battery operated vacuum cleaner, which I know something about. It seems more powerful than mine was. But I digress. Back to the observation car.)

As I read and watch the landscape slip away, someone comes up and stands next to me and says hello. It’s Jim, my lunch companion, the man with the hole in his heart. He smiles and we have a little back and forth and then he invites me to dinner. I am ambivalent. As usual. I tell him I’ve already eaten and then he hands me something and says good-bye and walks on through the car.

I look down at what he’s given me. It’s like a bookmark. On the front is a picture of his wife. She has a big, friendly smile, a perfectly coifed hairdo, round gold-rimmed glasses (a lot like mine!), a gold chain around her neck. On the back is a poem she wanted read at her funeral. It’s titled Miss Me But Let Me Go.

I am honored by his gift. And deeply touched. And guilty for not taking him up on his invitation.

The train moves on. Smoothly, smoothly through the desert. Dry washes and mesquite, dusty dirt roads, old river beds. Endless vistas. On and on.

Big.

And then, out of nowhere a telephone pole. Decorated. I fall in love with it. We whiz past.

The Angry Mother has now relaxed and is (I’m supposing) trying to live up to my proclamation that kindness is better than harshness. Her conversation with her son has become sweeter, more patient. He is adorable and precocious. They are getting along.

And then, across the aisle, she begins to tell me her story. This is her adopted nephew. Her sister, his mother, is a meth addict. He was born addicted. He is “off the wall” a lot. She has had a real time just trying to keep him under control. I tell her I think she is doing a really, really fabulous job and that he’s wonderful and that she can be thanked for his great personality. She smiles. She is relieved that I don’t think she’s a monster. I am hugely relieved that I haven’t crushed her by my self-righteousness.

Pecos River Bridge

There have been no stops for a long, long time. We cross the Pecos River on the tallest bridge in the United States. Ho hum. The desert is so very much bigger. That li’l ole bridge seems like a pipsqueak next to the desert it’s in. Hawks. A deer. Vastness.

I listen to the talk in the car. Two young guys, both from the military, laugh about PTSD and suppressing memories. I can see the laughter is how they handle things like this. I do it myself.

A pretty young blonde woman comes into the car and the two young men sit down on either side of her. Eventually her part of their conversation turns to her personality disorder and her mom. The young men don’t seem quite so entranced with her anymore.

Del Rio, Texas arrives. More folks get on. A nice looking man, in his forties, sits next to me. More conversation. He tells me that he’s got a family with two sons, is a mechanical engineer, doesn’t particularly like it, and is a part time pastor, which he does like very, very much, but doesn’t want to do it for money. He just wants to do it for God and people who are suffering. He’s on his way home after taking care of a family in trouble. He thinks people have a choice about good behavior and bad. I disagree. I tell him I gave up free will a long time ago. I can see he is shocked by my ungodly opinion. I also see that he is a very good man.

It’s getting late. I go back to my seat and Tina. She’s trying to sleep. She’s got my sweatshirt over her legs. I sit next to her, covering myself with my soft, white blanket. And feel huge guilt.

It’s time for the long, long layover in San Antonio. The electricity goes off in the train because they have to unhook and rehook cars. I am smothering. No air! I furiously jump up and say loudly into the dark car of sleeping (?) people, “I can’t breathe! This is ridiculous!” Out I go to the air cooled waiting room of the station and sort of fall asleep.

Eventually I get back on the train. The electricity is on. It’s cool and fresh inside. We start off again.

And the train moves over the land, patient, smooth, zen-like. I fall into a fabulous sleep.

The next day we come to Fort Worth. Tina and I will part ways here. She will continue on to Arkansas, I will board the Heartland Flyer to Oklahoma City.

I fold the soft, white blanket, the blanket of my dreams, and hand it to her. She smiles her big smile. She’ll be warm for the rest of her long journey.

Good-bye! Good-bye ...

The Heartland Flyer carries us north to Oklahoma and greenness beyond green, so lush and lovely that my heart sings. A voice (imagine Sam Elliot) comes over the intercom through the train. His deep, slow. western twang fills me with love for Oklahoma. I actually feel like I’m going home. It’s taken almost four years of living in this state, and twelve days away, to make me realize this.

Into the night we ride.

We pass Pauls Valley and Purcell and Norman, whose station is all lit up, some sort of meeting going on, flowers on the tables, people happy and smart-looking.

We draw closer to Oklahoma City. It appears sophisticated through the train windows, sparkling lights everywhere.

The train slows and slows and then stops.

We gather our things, climb down out of our iron horse, walk through the concrete bunker and into the parking lot.

There’s Cole! Waiting for me with my car and my ride home. He helps me with my suitcase, hands me the keys, and we drive off into the night.

Comments

Comments closed.