Ripples and Repercussions

Saturday evening I was heading north on the Silver Star, a passenger train crammed with a mishmash of adventurous souls traveling over the Mother’s Day Weekend. It was surprising to me how crowded the train was. I assumed that half the passengers were suffering from aviophobia, while the rest were either eager train enthusiasts visiting the Tampa station to celebrate their 100-year anniversary, (which I totally enjoyed) or those whose budgets couldn’t handle the price of airfare. For me it was a combination of two: plus the thrill of being lost in a tangle of strangers, experiencing a certain freedom reserved only for the anonymous.

The train car rattled over the tracks, beating out a rickety rhythm, rocking me to sleep, next to my hushed seatmate, who just that afternoon was still a complete stranger to me—a face with no story, just an extra in my life-movie. But after being sequestered together to a space no larger than a coat closet for fifteen hours, a sort of forced intimacy occurred, bonding this writer to a retired New York City cop with a prickly persona and a heart the size of humanity.

I’m a people watcher; I get my cues and clues watching how people speak to, and about, one another. My defenses rise like steely porcupine needles when I see things that I don’t like: negativity, prejudice, hatefulness, pettiness; all these traits cause me to withdraw into my silent shell—protecting all my soft spots.

Warren was easy for me to read. Initially I could tell that, like myself, he had already withdrawn into his shell; although due to sheer necessity his vulnerable neck and head were poking out, looking around for his seat. His voice was set to “gruff” warning others not to screw with him, stashing his fleshy heart, warm with blood and kindness, safely away within his own shell.

Perhaps it was fate that had decided that Warren and I should meet, although I did kind of initiate things. At first he was behind me looking a bit confused over the seat numbers, but then I invited him to sit beside me, figuring he looked harmless enough. It’s a crapshoot on the train, and the last thing I wanted was to be seated next to Mr. Stinky or Mrs. Crabapple.

We sat politely side by side, both of us taking turns sharing our stories. Two chatterboxes who also happened to be good listeners, creating a give and take as rewarding as an exchange between a kid and an ice cream truck on a blistering August afternoon.

The more we chatted the more I liked him. He spoke with a disarming honesty about himself, and the lessons and rewards he had gleaned from life’s experiences. He expressed immense gratitude for his family—his incredible wife who loved and understood him, and a treasured daughter, smart and beautiful, as he stated, “his best contribution to society.”

We decided to have dinner in the dining car. I guess on trains space is pretty limited because we found ourselves sitting across from an austere looking couple, straight-laced diners, possessing a no-nonsense air about them—Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself. Of course at this point Warren and I had sped beyond common niceties and splashed headlong into puddles of silliness. We were like a couple of slap stick comedians sitting at a properly set table, stuffing our nervous giggles beneath our linen napkins, desperately searching for our adult faces—and our table manners.

Watching Warren adjust himself to this couple was like watching the destruction of the Hoover Dam—first the cracks (wine was involved in this stage) then the leaks (humor) and then the flood. No filter “be yourself and screw them” Warren was in full form, and I, being a proper lady, followed his lead until Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself morphed into Mr. & Mrs. Life Can Be Fun, and the four of us sat laughing and talking until the waiter poured our drinks into “to go” cups, and shooed us out of the dining car for closing.

We said goodbye to our new friends, who now sported “yes” faces for the entire world to admire, and then we found our seats.

We sat and talked about how alike we were and how much pleasure we found in cracking up Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself. We theorized that fate had accidentally thrown the two of us together, causing a rift in the time continuum, thus allowing us to see beyond the cosmic curtain for a brief moment. We saw that we were secret agents from the other side, strategically placed on earth as crust busters for those who take themselves, and life, way too seriously. We had the same life-tasks and the two of us together were—well, pretty efficient, but perhaps a bit much for one small train.

Eventually we nodded off, our heads silently bobbing in sync with the bumps, as we passed the dimly lit hubs of sleepy unknown towns, their soft yellow lights glowing on yesterdays fashions, mom and pop eateries, and neighborhood thrift stores.

My reasons for traveling north were as varied as my thoughts, a little business—a bit of pleasure, but mostly because I felt an unction drawing me northward. I had to go and find out what life had to say to me.

I had never met Warren before, but by the time my trip was over I felt we had become sure friends, and that our meeting was a sort of divine appointment, the repercussions of which will ripple to the corners of the world touching unknown hearts—forever.

It’s an exciting thing to follow your heart—opening yourself up to an innumerable amount of unknown possibilities, and betting on yourself to find what it is that you need. This trip has provided for me a sparkling opportunity, thus wiping my slate clean in order to write something fresh—creating for myself a new chapter as a woman, author—and friend to Warren.

I’ll keep you posted on my discoveries as I walk, with eyes wide open, into the vivid blue of each Tarheel day. Life is good. Tough. But good.

Guinea Pig Torments

When we were kids my sister and I had to share a bed. Space was limited so doubling up was essential. Sharing never bothered us because we were about the same age. We would climb into bed at night and make up stories to help us fall asleep.

Huddled under a tent of blankets we would create our nonsensical tales, with twists and turns that were totally ridiculous, leaving us in a fit of uncontrollable laughter until our bladders nearly exploded. These episodes usually ended abruptly when Ma hollered from the kitchen for us to be quiet and go to sleep; after which a long pause of dark buzzing silence would ensue until the sounds from the rest of the house found our ears again. A cigarette ad on Ma’s TV, “I’d rather fight than switch”, the radiator knocking out heat in random rhythms, the refrigerator humming like a happy worker trying to keep our food cold.

It was easy to tell when someone was in the fridge because our Guinea pig, “Snoopy,” squeaked loud enough to be heard three houses down every time that somebody opened the refrigerator door. This was his way of lobbying for a snack. If you were quick enough you could sneak into the fridge, toss him a treat, and get back out before he sounded his high pitched alarm. I swear I was conditioned to his squeals like a Pavlovian dog because whenever I heard them the hunger pains commenced.

My parents didn’t allow eating after bedtime. Money was scarce and meals were planned, so there usually wasn’t much extra stuff in the refrigerator to munch on. I can still see the meager provisions in there; a carton of milk, various condiments, some basic veggies, a few eggs, and sometimes large blocks of surplus cheese. The cabinets were pretty bare as well with a slim assortment of spices, a box of unsweetened cereal (for breakfast only,) peanut butter, sugar, and some random canned goods. If we had peanut butter, we were out of bread, or if there was cereal, there was no milk.

Choices were slim but I was resourceful. I acquired a taste for simple cuisine and was a master at making “poor man” sandwiches. Mustard on white without the crust, which I could vary with mayo or ketchup, and then there was the occasional margarine and sugar sandwich, which doubled as a meal or dessert. The condiment jars were glass and heavy, not like the plastic squirt bottles advertising low fat, or heart healthy choices that we have today. These were thick utilitarian glass jars with metal lids, and if you were unfortunate enough to drop one of them on your foot you were guaranteed a trip to the local ER.

Although we were not allowed to eat after bedtime, this never seemed to stop me. When my growling belly called I had to tame it with food or it would keep me awake all night. I recall one time lying in bed doing a mental inventory of available menu choices for a midnight snack before planning my usual assault. I had decided on a crunchy carrot with some vinegar for dipping and was impatiently listening for the noises in the house to die down, signaling the “all clear.”

Eventually the voices from my parent’s TV became muffled, which meant their bedroom door had finally been closed; this was my cue to tip-toe out into the kitchen and snag a quick snack. Carefully I slid out of bed then sock walked over to my bedroom door and cracked it open. Peeking out into the kitchen I could see the light from the moon shining through the kitchen curtains casting eerie shadows that looked like bears and giants standing guard in the darkness.

“Tic click tic click,” it was my dog “Chips” with her long toenails clicking on the linoleum floor like a secretary at the keyboard. Her head was low, her tail wagging, she knew the routine and was hoping for a handout. I brushed past my dog to collect a small bowl for the vinegar, leaving the cabinet door opened, and then made my way to the refrigerator, grabbing the solid metal handle and pulling it downward like a giant slot machine. I could feel the resistance, like suction, but as I applied more muscle the door quietly opened and a great slice of yellow light washed over me.

I snagged the small jar of vinegar at the back of the fridge and was aiming for the carrots in the produce drawer when I heard Snoopy stirring in his cage. I fumbled, trying to be quick, but I wasn’t quick enough. SQUEAK, SQUEAK, SQUEAK! Snoopy’s squeals pierced through the evening silence like a screaming police siren. Ma’s bedroom door flew open and I froze in the refrigerator’s light, holding firmly onto my carrot like a panic stricken rabbit being spotted by poachers.

Knowing Ma’s temper, Chips slunk away and cleverly found refuge under the kitchen table. I stood in terror. Ma marched headlong toward me, snatched away my midnight snack, and hissed at me through clenched teeth,”I thought I told you to go to bed?” Frantically searching for the right words to evoke sympathy I stuttered out a lame, “I was hungry.” But Ma wasn’t moved. She gave me a good stiff smack off the back of my head, tossed my carrot in with Snoopy, and then sent me back to bed.

It wasn’t the slap in the head that hurt (her smacks were more for show,) or knowing that Ma was mad at me, it was watching Ma toss my carrot to Snoopy that really ticked me off. Stupid Guinea Pig!!

Waiting in Line for Life

I recently went to a nearby fast food joint for a quick lunch of chili and a diet soda, tenaciously avoiding the delectable, but deadly, cheeseburger and fries. While I was in line waiting to order my skinny girl feast I noticed a man in front of me who looked to be about my age but with a little more wear. His hair was salt and sunshine blond, loosely pulled back into a ponytail, allowing a crop of stray hairs to halo his tanned face. His eyes were friendly, and when he smiled the wrinkles around his eyes joined in, giving him a good natured weathered look, like he could have been the wise captain of a great ship.
We chatted as people do when they are stuck in a line together. He spoke about the headaches of cell phones. His had fallen into his swimming pool and he ended up paying a king's ransom to replace it. He showed me his new phone like an adoring father sharing photos of his first born.
Gathering my food, I found an empty booth by the window and settled in. Soon the captain was at my table asking if I minded if he joined me. Not vibing any “stranger danger” I welcomed his offer. We chatted on about a thousand little random things at once. There was anticipation in his voice when he spoke, and I could tell he enjoyed telling his story, and perhaps hadn't had the opportunity to do so in a very long time. We took turns bantering back and forth in a charged ping pongy sort of way.
After nearly an hour of verbal purging a comfortable silence replaced our electrified chatter. We had both vented and now it was time to move on. It was nice to meet the captain (We never did exchange names) and find out about his world. I knew I would only be with him for this one hour and then he would be gone forever. This created a sense of satisfaction for me. I could enjoy this stranger’s company without any strings attached. I would never have to get to know what his issues were, or give him time to piss me off. I would be oblivious to the date of his birthday or what foods he was allergic too. I was free to explore who he was at that moment and then let him go. However, when I watched him walk away I felt a pinch of sadness too, because in that short hour we had formed a bond. It wasn’t a strong bond, like between best friends, it was more of a common bond between two sojourners on a journey; two souls making there way through a crowded world in search of a listening ear and perhaps a dash of understanding. It was just an ordinary moment that had somehow enriched my life, and I’m so glad that I took the time to enjoy it. Yup.