The Scenic Route

Before I made my train trip to Austin, I heard many conflicting comments about what I should expect. A friend of my mom’s was very excited for me, telling me of a journey she’d made when she was in her twenties. She spoke of beautiful scenery and friendly people across a country of which she is still proud. My father said my luggage would, no doubt, be lost or stolen, my compartment should be checked upon entrance for vicious killers and any beverages should be guarded closely to keep nefarious drugs from being introduced. I just looked forward to the time alone before the crush.

My mom dropped me off at the train station. She can handle my pre-journey state of edgy babbling quite well. She nods and smiles at the appropriate times while keeping a calm about her that is, fortunately, contagious. Once I’m on whatever vehicle is transporting me, I’m fine. The trip down was unremarkable. Nonetheless, I will remark that when I wasn’t in a heat and train swaying induced coma, I found the beautiful scenery to be fleeting. Most of the country I saw was riddled with mounds of trash, abandoned cars and colonies of the homeless living beneath overpasses. In sharp contrast, the big cities showed like new pennies. A few miles out of the station and their facades were proved false. I also noted that the same stores and restaurants existed in every town, in every state. The country had uniformity belied by its image as a place peopled with individualists, I thought. Suddenly, one difference struck me. It was the appearance of bail bond/pawn shops dotting the streets. I was in Texas now. All I need say of Austin in the context of this monologue is, keep Austin weird. This was true Americana; true country. And it was clean. I could picture my dad taking up residence in The Broken Spoke and my mom’s buried twang would be revived upon hours of her arrival. The people of this fair city handled the influx of oddity that is Bouchercon with rare grace. When the train ride home loomed before me, I looked forward to another long coma before home. This was not to be.

Minutes after settling into my sleeping arena, I heard my name over the p.a. with a request to present myself in the dining car. It was Barb D’ Amato and Adele Holton, whom I’d met on the ride down. We dined, once again, upon badly reheated food served by sassy waiters. When my tummy was full, my eyes glazed over and both women admonished me to get some sleep. I took their advice.

I awoke to a bad, pungent smell and the sounds of loud pounding punctuated with a ragged yell of “Wake up!” When I opened my eyes, I saw my whole compartment was filled with smoke. I jumped down from my bunk, slid into my shoes and was in the hall in seconds. People stood in their doorways, mouths agape, as the porter related the news that the train was on fire. I ran in the direction he pointed and passed others heading back to their rooms to gather their belongings. “There’s no time for that,” he has screaming, “the train is on fire!” I couldn’t think of one thing I’d ever owned that I would have gone back for. The final evacuation point was the a coach car. I was dismayed to find out we weren’t headed outside, but when I looked outside I could see we were poised on an embankment. “Look,” a woman said. When I looked up and over to where she’d indicated with a nod of her chin, I could see the fire. It was the second engine, a third engulfed, flames licking up three to five feet. Thick, black smoke billowed out over the countryside, marring an otherwise beautiful sunrise. It was my turn to stand with my mouth agape.

People slowly started streaming into the car behind me and we all sat down, quietly, as everything sunk in. Then it began. “We’d better be getting a refund!” “This is the first vacation I’ve taken in years. They’d better fly me the rest of the way to New York!” There was a lot of bitterness. I sat and watched the fire dissipate slowly under a barrage of water and extinguishers. None of us knew this, but this event was to herald a series of mechanical mishaps that had us hooked up to a total of five engines before we would make it to Chicago. The original event left us without electricity and water for five hours. This was a problem compounded by serving the last of the heated coffee to the restless passengers. As we headed in waves to the toilets we discovered, to our individual dismay, that one had to do ones business in near pitch black and flushing was strictly forbidden. That odor soon rivaled that of the burning engine.

Almost.

I sat with Fidelis Morgan in the “lounge” car. This consisted of stiff brown seats with backs set at a forty-five degree angle. They did swivel, though, so I was amused. Fidelis sat looking at her cell phone in disgust. No signal. We spoke quietly but our conversation was quickly overwhelmed by that of a very loud, very lived woman regaling us with stories of her misspent childhood, youth, and adulthood. She was joined by a man in severe nicotine withdrawal. He badgered train employees and protested to the gods, with arms shaking, as he proclaimed for all to hear, “I need a f***ing cigarette!” I was ready to yank the emergency handle on the window, pull off the seal and toss this young ass outside with dearest wishes of his inhaling every noxious fume between our car and the engine. A look on the face of the serene Fidelis quelled the urge.

When we were allowed to return to our sleepers, my friend, self-preservation, was still there to keep my company. As I passed the porters station, I grabbed “complimentary” bottles of water and bags of chips. And when I finally made it into my compartment, I knew I’d have to sleep then because I wouldn’t be able to later. There was no heat so I grabbed a blanket, curled up in a fetal position, thrust my butt into a patch of sun and slept.

When I awoke later it was to a bellow of “If you want to eat, follow me now.” I followed. I was seated with Fidelis and we were treated to a meal of tepid catfish (me) and mushed potatoes accented with cold vegetables (Fidelis). As she and I related to each other our thoughts on American technology, the garbage-strewn countryside and the wonders of European cheese and rail travel, one of our dining companions switched tables. The other looked about nervously and grinned tightly. I had yet to learn that not everyone believes, as H. G. Wells, that "Our true nationality is mankind."

We were hurriedly parceled off to the “lounge” car, once again, as other weary travelers entered. The conversation that followed kept my synapses firing rapidly, supplied for me the name of a book (Patricia Highsmith’s The Tremor of Forgery) I will dive into upon it’s arrival and gave me hope that the whole world is not taking a one-way journey down a philosophical commode. I headed pack to my sleeper, not to sleep, but perchance to think.

By the time we hit Chicago, I was exhausted. Upon exiting, I was asked my destination (Milwaukee), given a number and told to head to customer service. I dragged my six tons of luggage over and had the singular pleasure of speaking to one of the snottiest people I have ever met. He took my ticket, gave me a green slip of paper and terse instructions that would land me at the greyhound station, then home, at five in the morning. Within a millisecond of this encounter, I forgot everything he said. But, I remembered the snarl. I’d lived in Chicago so I figured, get a cab, get to the bus station and be done with it. When I got there, I found out the paper he’d given me was utterly useless. The ticket would have earned me a ride, the green paper earned me confusion and pity. I decided to call dear brother Jon to relate my plight. He’d gone to the train station three times to pick me up to be told, as they were closing for the night, that it had been canceled due to mechanical problems. As he tells me this, I’m working on my tough chick game face. Chicago had taught me to prepare to be polite one second and to kick someone’s teeth in the next. I remembered the snarl. He then relates that the reason no one had been home early when I’d called was because everyone was at my grandma’s wake. My uncle had found her on the floor of her kitchen last Thursday. The funeral was the next morning. This decimated my game face. I was now an over-tired, teary-eyed mess of a little girl, standing in a bus station full of very awake human sharks. I begged him to come get me. He and Ruth were out the door in minutes. I’d have a two-hour wait. I decided to practice the game face a bit more.

I dragged my now eight tons of luggage over to the most masochistic bench I have ever experienced. It was all menacing black wire netted together in a manor clearly not meant for a long stay. I parked myself and grabbed a book out my bag. The Dalai Lama. Completely ridiculous. I read on. For one and a half of the two hours, a hungry baby cried until she was hoarse. A man in a natty royal blue suit, shiny black shoes and gold teeth had an opportunity for the down and out me that I re-directed toward security. The man next to me moved phlegm up and down his throat with loud, melodious skill and time did not move. I was propositioned, provoked and pet and time did not move. The Dalai Lama told me that suffering is just a misconception of reality, the baby woke up and screamed and time did not move. Finally, I heard the door open and Ruth was there, arms wide. I was done. I was going home. We threw my ten tons of luggage into the back of the truck and we headed north. Ruth held my hand, Jon promised food and a shower and everything was suddenly beautiful.

Jennifer Jordan