How many different train stations have I sat in over the years? It has to be many since my love affair with trains began in junior high school. My dad was a brakeman on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad so I could ride for free and ride I did every chance I got. I would ride from Keyser, WV to Cumberland, MD and back again just for the heck of it and once to Baltimore, MD to pick out a dress for my senior prom.
The train remained my favorite mode of travel through college, and jobs, a couple of marriages and two much loved daughters. My favorite fantasy never happened but I’ve had a few notable adventures. The fantasy involved a dark haired mysterious man with an attaché case handcuffed to his wrist. He walks down the aisle and stops by my seat. “Is that seat taken?” he asks and before I can answer, he folds himself into the seat and begins to tell me of his mission. The bottom line is he saves the world with my help and we part without ever knowing each other’s name but we have a strong connection that will last. Ah, romance.
Today, sitting in the Martinsburg, WV station, the fantasy was not on my mind. I was on my way to visit my daughter in Pittsburgh and wanted nothing more than a nice dinner (train fare had improved over the years), a glass of wine and some kind of sinful dessert while I watched the countryside flash by outside my window.
After boarding the train, I settled into the familiar seat with a footrest and waited for the conductor to take my ticket. As usual, he was a white, slightly overweight middle-aged man with a kind face and a cheerful disposition. I briefly tried to remember if I’d ever seen a thin disgruntled conductor and couldn’t recall one. Perhaps their job satisfaction is higher than the average worker.
“Where are you going, little lady?” he asked. “Just to Pittsburgh this time and I’d like to have dinner,” I said. “Well shucks” he said with a smile, “you’ll just have time to eat and digest it and you’ll be there, but you better go make a reservation as we’re a bit crowded tonight. Must be gasoline prices bringing folks back to the rails,” he began. I could tell he had a whole spiel but I was still looking forward to my dinner so I politely made my way around him and headed for the dining car on my shaky train legs. Like riding a bike, once you’ve mastered train legs they quickly come back to you.
After making my way through four cars, I was met with the disappointing news that there were no seats available and my only option was the club car. So back I trudged for an overpriced soggy sandwich and a small bottle of wine. The only upside was the unchanging character of a passenger train club car. In the past, no matter where I was going or in what class I was riding, I always made at least one trip to the club car and oh what people and situations I’ve experienced.
I remember two very different college professors. The first one was a woman on the way to Washington D.C. to present a paper on the newly discovered black holes in space. I had no clue about her education or expertise when I met her. All I saw was a woman probably in her 50’s with short grey hair and a high stack of papers in front of her. “Would you like to join me?” she asked with a slight English accent. “Yes I would,” I said. “After I grab a drink I’ll be right back.” When I settled into a seat across from her she explained the papers in front of her.
“These are papers I’ve always been curious about but never had the nerve to purchase,” she said as she revealed the National Enquirer, Star, Expose and apparently every other rag that was in the news stand.
We had a marvelous time going through the papers and picking out articles about two-headed calves or spacemen our government was hiding from us and, of course, celebrity’s secret lives. We poured over the papers until the club car closed and then made our way back to our respective sleeping rooms. We said good night and I never saw her again but I did read about her several months later. The Chicago Tribune had an article about her with her picture. She was apparently one of the recognized experts on black holes and their effects on the universe.
The other professor I met was an elderly, grey haired man with bifocals that kept sliding down his nose. In that case, it was the only open seat in the car. I understood why no one had taken that seat as he looked totally absorbed in the manuscript he was reading. After I purchased my drink, I politely asked if I could join him. He smiled and said of course. His smile changed everything and I guessed that he wasn’t so aloof, just shy.
After introducing ourselves, I learned he was a physics professor at Northwestern University and that was my intro to picking his brain about Einstein’s theory of relativity. With a twinkle in his eye, he told me I was using the right mode of travel to understand the theory because that’s what he used in his class. If two trains leave the station at the same time and one of them is going very, very, very, very fast and the other is traveling at a normal rate of speed, eventually time will bend for the super fast train, he explained. I, of course, could not wrap my mind around that concept.
“Well,” he admitted to me, “there are really only about a dozen people in the world who really understand Einstein’s theory. I’m not really one of those people but my wife not only understood it but could explain it so much better than I ever could. She was really something. She was a research physicist but only worked part time after our children were born.” As he warmed to his subject, I just sat back and listened.
“She was a beautiful woman and so smart and kind. She took care of all of us and still managed to stay abreast of current research. I had many scholarly papers published and for most of them she was responsible for at least fifty percent of the research and writing. When I wanted to put her name on an article, she’d smile and tell me how much she enjoyed being a ghost writer. I was so lucky to have her in my life for over forty years. There must have been hard times but darned if I can remember them. She was really something.”
He paused then and took out his well worn wallet and asked me if I’d like to see her picture. I would love to see it I told him.
He carefully removed a small black and white picture and handed it to me. At first glance it showed a rather plain looking woman holding a child’s hand. The little girl was showing lots of teeth as children do when they’re told to smile. When I looked closer at the woman’s face, I saw she was looking at her daughter with such tenderness that you forgot her features and saw only the sweetness of her face. The other thing the picture showed was the wheelchair in which she was seated.
As I fumbled for something to say, the professor smiled. “I’m sorry I forgot the wheelchair,” he said. “She had polio as a child and never could walk but she was able to stand for a while and could even put her wheelchair in and out of her car alone. She never let it slow her down. Once when I came home, I found her in the bathtub. ‘Help, she said, I’m as wrinkled as an old prune and can’t get out of here.’ In trying to position her wheelchair, she had inadvertently pushed it out of the room. ‘The darned thing just took off without me’ she said ‘and then I sprained my arm trying to get out of the tub.’ I picked her up and helped her dry herself and get into her nightgown. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you,’ I asked. ‘ Yes she said, go kick my wheelchair for me.’ So I did and hurt my toe and we both laughed ourselves silly.”
The professor and I talked a while longer then said good night and made our way back to our sleepers. That night in bed with the sound of the wheels beneath me, I examined my feelings about the story of the professor’s wife and realized what I felt was a deep longing to have someone remember me like that. At the time I was divorced and wondered if anyone ever would.
At the other end of the spectrum was the man I met when I was with my daughters, who were five and seven at the time.
We had just finished dinner and were in the club car for some hot chocolate. While I was getting our drinks, my younger daughter, Valerie, selected our seats. Apparently she thought the rather seedy looking man sitting by himself might be lonely. As I carried our cocoa back from the counter I heard her say “Hey mister do you want us to sit with you?” Sure he said. I nudged my shy older, Lori, into her seat and seated myself.
“I’ve been riding trains for years and this is the first time I ever had a ticket,” the man declared to Lori and Valerie who were obviously intrigued. “I’m a panhandler,” he said rather proudly. “I hop a freight train to Florida for the winter then return to Chicago for the summer.”
How come you have a ticket now, Lori wanted to know.
“Well my ma’s sick so my sister sent me a ticket. She didn’t send money cause she was afraid I’d buy booze with it. I might have but I don’t think I would since I really want to see my ma.”
He continued telling us about the joys of panhandling–no responsibilities, only work occasionally at an odd job, if you feel like it and never file income tax.
My children thought it sounded like a great life and even I was beginning to be a bit envious of that free and easy lifestyle.
I never hear Roger Miller’s song King of the Road without remembering our panhandler. But even more than that I can see two little girls with sweet faces and big eyes learning about another way of life.
On this my current visit to the club car, I sat down with a young man who looked to be in his early twenties. He had a ruddy complexion and an eager open expression and smiled often. His teeth were large and made his smile look even wider than it was. He was a bit overweight as though his baby fat was in transition. His attention was focused on the older woman sitting catty cornered from us.
She looked to be in her fifties but seemed to be trying desperately to hold onto her youth. Her long dark hair framed a hard looking face and was expertly made up. The tight jeans she was wearing were tucked into knee high boots. At the moment she was talking to the man across from her. “I really only like good wine but this will do,” she said, referring to her small bottle of chardonnay. “I am interested in the Samuel Adams Beer you have. Do you really like it?”
“Yeah, the young man answered, want a taste?” Then the ritual began. She sampling his beer and he trying to politely discourage her. He was a good looking thirty something man with an athletic body, short brown hair and bright brown eyes with a twinkle. We learned he was a bicyclist and had hauled his bike to Cumberland, MD, and then rode it back to Washington D.C. He was on the train to Cumberland to retrieve his pick up truck. We all commented on his ability and asked a few questions. The woman across from him stated that while bicycles sounded interesting she preferred a Harley. “You’d love it,” she said pointedly, but the cyclist’s attention was focused on the good looking brunette sitting across from me.
This really pretty brunette had short hair and a shy smile. She was seated with a woman who looked like an older version of herself. The descriptive word that came to mind was classy. She was polite but seemed more interested in conversing with her seatmate than responding to the nice looking young man. As I observed the dynamics around me I wondered how any two people ever got together.
It was probably boredom or remembering past experiences on the train that made me speak up.
You know guys, I began, we’re probably never going to see each other again, so let’s open up and share our deepest darkest secrets with each other.
The bicyclist spoke up first. “Sure,” he said, “I’ll go first. I’m having an affair with a married woman.” The young man at my table responded by saying he was a Christian and did not approve of that behavior but he wasn’t going to judge. I asked if the thrill might come from sneaking around rather than any real feelings. “She does the sneaking,” the cyclist said. “I’m just there when she shows up. I know the affair won’t go anywhere and I’m still available,” he said while looking pointedly at the attractive woman across from me.
At this point, the woman in the tight jeans who was trying to regain the cyclist’s attention broke in to say she was having a platonic affair with an older man. “He wants a physical relationship with me but I’m just not attracted to him in that way,” she said. “He is very nice to me and buys me wonderful presents but I prefer more athletic men.”
The young man at my table said earnestly that she shouldn’t have sex with anyone until she could make a commitment and she should wait for the right man to come along. He went on to say his secret just happened a few days ago. He had cornered a mouse and beat it to death with a broom and rather enjoyed the experience.
“Hey man,” the cyclist said, “you’re really creeping me out. You don’t have bodies at home in your freezer, do you?”
The young man laughed heartily saying his mom had told him not to tell anyone he enjoyed killing the mouse. I ventured that that was probably good advice.
At this point the conductor announced that we would be pulling into Cumberland and the cyclist started picking up his bottles from the table.
I was surprised when the attractive young woman across from me said “I don’t want to tell everyone my secret but I’ll tell you.” With that she leaned down and whispered in my ear that she was HIV positive.
Then she and the lady she was with exited the club car and I got up to follow. As I left I heard the young man ask the older woman if he could buy her a drink.
On my way back to my seat, I saw the young woman and the woman who turned out to be her mother seated in the car right before mine. I stopped by their seat and told her about my friend’s son who had been HIV positive for twenty years and who led a very full and productive life. We talked for a while and her mother told me they were just returning from Hopkins where they were regulating her meds.
I went back to my seat and read for a while and was getting my things ready to detrain when the young woman came by my seat and said she thought there was a reason we had met. She had been feeling a little down and hearing about my friend’s son had given her a lift. She would get off at the stop after mine so she walked with me to the place where we would get off the train.
“One thing I’ve learned,” she said as the train came to a stop, “is that everyone seems to have secrets and perhaps mine is not so horrible. By the way, she said, we never heard your secret.”
“No, I guess you didn’t,” I said, as I smiled at her and stepped off the train.
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