This is Amtrak

The second of three short stories I wrote for my nonfiction class.

Eh hem.

Laraway Road is a stretch of straight blacktop that seems to go on and on lulling you with a mindless drive. It doesn't help that there isn't much to look at, deserving your attention; no landmarks, no traffic, no hills to force you to apply the gas a little bit harder, not even that many traffic lights to give yourself pause. It also doesn't help that it's night out. The surrounding landscape melts into the darkness with little dim stationary lights blemishing the black. With insipid sights as these, it’s not hard to imagine yourself, or myself, for that matter, falling asleep at the wheel, but, luckily enough, my dad is driving;

I have an Amtrak train to catch.

“It's time to go, Kenn,” my dad told me as I awaited by the front door. He has such a way with the obvious. “Can't miss the train. I can't drive you down to Bloomington,” he droned on. Wouldn't that be a chore, I thought.

Regardless, we eventually made it to the car where, now, I have the pleasure to listen to his predictable stories and corny jokes. “An atheist and a priest walk into a bar...” he starts, but I can't pay attention. My phone appears to be more entertaining, so, I randomly swipe and touch its screen despite not having the faintest clue on what I'm fiddling around with it for. I open and close Facebook, the NHL app, and Reddit, but I'm interrupted and jerked forward to test my seat-belt’s fortitude. An SUV had the bright idea to cut us off from a side street. Its rear red lights quickly distance themselves from us, taunting us with two bright-red fleeting middle fingers. “What an a*****e! Couldn't wait for us to pass? It's not like there's any traffic,” I say, but my dad calmly states, “Could be in a hurry. Maybe he's got an emergency.”

We pass Laraway's one noticeable landmark, Jewel-Osco, and its crowded parking lot of after-work shoppers. My eyes travel to the car’s digital clock, 6:41. Only have twenty minutes to get there, I think. It appears that my dad has the same revelation. He says, “We better hurry, ourselves.” However, Amtrak trains are infamously late. So, on my phone, I check my train's status.

We have an extra ten minutes.

We navigate Joliet, and the traffic is fickle. Sometimes slow, and, sometimes, well, about the speed limit. The lanes appear to be filled with large SUVs which somehow constantly find themselves to be only in our way. Yet, its streets are just as frustrating. There's a plethora of one way roads populated with impatient drivers who force you to adopt their hurried habits, which is all too reminiscent of driving in Chicago. It's not like many suburbs whose roads are long and relaxed where you can take your car out for a casual ride. Nope, it's a serious business here. There's a chaotic and predatory rush within the traffic's rhythm; one that I don't quite understand, one that intimidates me, that’s always changing to leave me guessing, one that keeps me anxious, making me want to withdraw and collapse myself into a black hole because out there are rabid, halogen eyes which glare and hunt, and rush to and from, in front or back, and my mind's overloaded with circular thoughts of which I don't recall how they began nor know how they'll end, but only, routinely, repeat again, and again, and again, and again.

I need some water.

I'm an outsider here; a sheep in wolf skin. Actually, no. It's more like swimming in a current full of sharks. There's more of a flow there, and they can sense weakness too. Pause too long at a light, you'll be attacked with an unrelenting BEEEEEEP; go too slow, and everyone races past and cuts you off; don't cut anyone off yourself, you won't get in the correct lane.

You won't get to where you want to go unless it's at someone else's expense.

There's an attitude here, one with unspoken, yet strict guidelines to maintain a swift, accelerated pace between traffic lights which apparently only f*****g turn red when we are approaching. Come on!

I need some water.

I've apprehensively, but, successfully boarded my Amtrak car in Joliet hopefully bound for Bloomington-Normal. I tried to find a vacant seat, but, to my dismay, I had to settle and share with another. I've sat next to a man who looks like he might be named Dale and smells like it too. A thin, middle-aged, homely man, he wears a red and white flannel, or at least that's what I infer to be its original colors.

It has clearly been worn for years.

His jeans are faded, stained and dirty, and his tan leather boots are crusted in what I hope to be mud. And I wonder just how far south Amtrak runs. He doesn't seem to be one for words. Out of capability or preference, I do not know. When I had asked if the seat was available, he merely turned his head and nodded once. That was fine, though. I don't feel like talking. We haven't begun to depart, yet. Some passengers are still waddling around with their luggage in search of secluded seats, though.

O', how innocent the hopeful faces of those soon to be defeated.

I flip open my laptop and press the power button. The screen turns on to display the white “Lenovo” name as I notice a menu for the cafe car sticking out from the seat in front of me as I wonder at the possibilities of its contents. I decide to open it. It denotes regular items, (bagels with cream cheese, your standard sandwiches, various soft drinks) but also proudly advertises brand names, who through thorough consideration must've decided it'd be a good idea to be associated with the dining cars of Amtrak.

Sara Lee and DiGiorno clearly have upped their game.

Much sooner than I'd like to admit, though, I find myself forgetting that I am inside an Amtrak train and actually consider these assorted words as prospective meals. However, to my stomach's, and hypothetical decision's, avail, I find that the menu rather arrogantly accosts White Castle Cheeseburgers for $4.50. My stomach groans for all the wrong reasons as my eyes scour the train car to locate its restroom. Meanwhile, two hyperactive five year-olds sitting behind me bounce around and yell indiscernible words or shrieks, I can’t decide and don’t want to know. I excuse myself from Dale's fine company with a faint smile and casually, but briskly, make my way to the restroom.

Sometimes I just need a break; a brief respite with four comfortable walls and only my eyes to clear my mind.

The sliding door welcomes me back to the train and its noises, and its passengers are obstacles in-between me and my seat; obstacles I have little to no motivation to get around or hurdle because Dale, and his apathy towards dignity and hygiene is the prized destination. I wonder if the ride might be better endured in the restroom.

Of course, I can't stay in here, though. I meander back to Dale.

“Sorry. Excuse me. Pardon,” I say to get around the other passengers but, as crowded spaces are prone, I bump into someone. An elderly lady says, “Sorry, have a nice day.”

I'm back with Dale and “Have a nice day” echoes around my mind as something specific and quite familiar. I finally remember, and open Youtube, and plug in my headphones.

“If anyone feels like perspiring, I'd invite you to go ahead because I'm sure going to...” it begins. I don't as much listen to this intently, but more like how people put on music, and randomly sing along when their favorite parts come up. I also don't listen to it to learn of its philosophy, or lesson, but to be reminded of it. My negativity, my anxiety, my taking my dad for granted, and my default setting of me being the absolute center of the universe and that “everyone else is just in my way.”

“The thing is, of course, there are totally different ways to think about these kinds of situations,” Wallace reminds me and I sing along.

“...this is exactly where the work of choosing is gonna come in. Because the traffic jams and crowded aisles and long checkout lines give me time to think, and if I don't make a conscious decision about how to think and what to pay attention to, I'm gonna be pissed and miserable every time I have to shop.”

I look to Dale and see that he's a normal person unaffected by my internal monologue of negative assumptions. He has a tale and I'm not part of it. He could be a farmer, a carpenter, a construction worker, an engineer, or a modal actor. Or perhaps he’s just a father working multiple jobs sixty-plus hours a week helping his kids go through college.

Now, here I am on an Amtrak car traveling back down to normal reminding myself, “over and over, this is water, this is water.”

Author's Note

Again, this the second of three stories I wrote for my nonfiction class. I am happy for the most part with it. The last quart seems to come off as a bit messy because I wrote it in more haste than the previous part. However, I think that that feature might compliment it. Well, regardless, any comments are quite welcome! Thanks!

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

Pretty good. I'd say. I like the last quarter better than the beginning, so maybe there is something positive to be said about haste.

[Kibbles and Quips]

Thanks, Delmar! The newest version I have of this has the last line say, "This is Amtrak, this is water." So, that's a tiny change, but, I think, a good one.

[Kibbles and Quips]

And, thanks for reading! I am glad you enjoyed it! If you're not familiar, this piece is based on David Foster Wallace's commencement speech "This is Water." It's about mindfulness, mainly.

[Delmar Cooper]

Never heard of David Foster Wallace or his speech. So that wasn't a consideration.