(A short story)
For three days now we have been living and sleeping in a “Superliner roomette”. My husband calls it our “closette” which more accurately describes the spatial dimensions of our tiny compartment. We are traveling cross country on the “Empire Builder”, a fading Amtrak passenger train, once known as the ultra-sheik of the great Northern railroad that shuttled the super-rich from Chicago to Glacier National Park and beyond. By all appearances, the great steel icon has desperately fallen from grace.
From the window of our “roomette”, I eagerly gaze out over expansive fields of golden hay and corn, the northern Midwest – Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, North Dakota, and our final destination, Montana. Mesmerized by the ever-changing topography, I watch the grassy hills of North Dakota gradually morph into flat, golden fields under a big Montana sky.
Initially, we struggle to set up our space or lack thereof. All arms and legs, we awkwardly reach, climb and squeeze past each other attempting to locate the single outlet that will allow us to plug in our cell phones and tablets discovering, quite by accident, a tiny space beneath the seats where our shoes fit perfectly. Life’s little surprises.
With a critical eye, I quickly scan the space. Wastebasket, hooks for jackets, two clean towels and washcloths, a tiny reading lamp by each seat, table tray that pulls out, two bottled waters, and a narrow bed that descends from the ceiling as the seats below pull together ( barely) to form a second bed. It is actually a very efficient use of space. Oh, and I almost forgot - a blue pleated curtain Velcro’s shut across the windowed door of our tiny compartment for privacy. “Thank God!” I hear myself say.
Then I recall yesterday’s headline news. The Iraqi people attempting to flee their homeland are trapped by militants on a mountaintop. And here we are sitting in luxury by comparison, and even in comparison to the passengers seated in coach who for some will have no privacy for several days with no room to even lie down. Some are single mothers with sick or nursing infants. I am immediately humbled. Until dinner time.
The soggy green beans and defrosted veggie lasagna leave much to be desired, however, the interesting company more than make up for our limp, overcooked meal. We have been seated in the dining car next to John and Georgia, an older retired couple from rural Illinois. John does most of the talking while Georgia simply nods and looks out the window.
John, a retired banker turned organic farmer, says he is learning how to grow his own apple orchard which generally takes 3-4 years to produce a decent crop of apples, a venture in delayed gratification not unlike banking I would imagine where one makes investments and wait for them to come to fruition (no pun intended). John’s son, an environmental engineer, and his archaeologist daughter- in- law, recently took up organic farming then persuaded John and Georgia to join them. At ripening time, Georgia prepares jars of apple butter to sell at market or distribute among family members - all of them, good hardworking Midwesterners as one would expect. We enjoy quite a lively conversation until it’s time to give up our table to another couple waiting to be seated.
After dinner, back in our roomette, I continue to stare out the window while my husband reads. This time a bright, full moon stares back at me. The size of the moon appears exaggerated and if my arms were only a wee bit longer, I magically tell myself, I could reach out and touch it. I watch as the last trace of fading sky disappears into the black night like someone has slowly turned down the dimmer switch. And with the disappearance of my outdoor movie theater, I decide to retire for the night.
As I change into PJ’s, across the narrow hall in the roomette opposite us, we overhear a couple's conversation. Considering our close proximity, it is not surprising. We might as well pull back the stiff pleated curtain that separates us and join in. The couple is going back and forth whether or not to use the train’s shower. My husband and I smile at each other as we eavesdrop, whispering between us that we will pass on the shower tonight.
Soon after boarding the train, Bobby, our all too eager- to- please “bellman” gave us a mini tour of the adjacent area, pointing out the bathroom, shower, and a small compartment turned magazine, candy shop. Magazines, the type seen in office waiting rooms – “Better Homes and Gardens”, “People”, “Cooking Light” - lay nicely splayed across the flattened seats for effect. An empty popcorn bucket turned money collector is positioned among assorted snicker bars and peanut brittle with a taped sign reading, “Place Money Here”. I assume we have a trusting clientele.
I offer to take the top bunk since it is smaller by comparison to the makeshift bed below. Soon, I regret my gracious offer. Throughout the night I roll back and forth across my mattress/slab of concrete while the train rumbles and screeches on its track, hoping the rhythmic motion will lull me to sleep. But no such luck. To make matters worse, within seconds of my husband’s head hitting the pillow, he is snoring loudly. Just like home.
Well into the pre-dawn hours of the next day as I lay wide awake exhausted from the blaring sounds and motion of the train, wondering whether I will ever fall asleep, there rises an urgent need to use the bathroom. However, climbing down from the upper bunk poses a bit of a threat. I recall a “step” below that doubles as an armrest by day. Locating it, I carefully feel my way in the dark, trying (halfheartedly) not to step on my snoring husband. I land securely without much difficulty, making my way out into the hall towards the restroom.
The restroom is a tight fit with one miniature sink and toilet. Basically standing room only. And in my foggy state of mind, I forget to lock the door. But who's up at this hour anyway? I soon find out. Stooped over with my pajama bottoms down around my ankles, the door suddenly opens. Standing there is a vaguely familiar gray hair man (possibly the one in the room opposite us) who mutters profuse apologies as he slams the door shut. I am mortified.
Next morning in the dining car, I avoid all eye contact, keeping my fingers crossed that we won’t be seated next to my pre-dawn mystery man. My wish is granted. We are seated next to Lennie and Olivia, a retired couple in their late eighties, impressively fit and mentally clear for their age. We learn Lennie is of Finnish descent and he and his wife are headed home to Spokane after spending three days at the annual Finnish Festival in Minnesota they attend each year.
Our favorite waitress Noelina is on duty this morning. Noelina has bright painted lips and black hair pulled back off her face and secured with a clip in the shape of a floral arrangement. As usual, Noelina glides down the aisle of the dining car with flair, cheerily offering suggestions on how to doctor up the drab, routine selections on the menu.
For the chocolate lava cake, she always suggests a mini-shot of half & half with instructions to pour its contents into the center of the heated cake. “Just give it a minute to soak in!” she sings as she glides over to the next customer, this time offering a slice of fresh lemon to the thawed cheesecake drizzled with strawberry syrup. “Just squeeze it”, she says, “Trust me; it makes all the difference in the world!” It’s hard to imagine the dry, pale cheesecake springing to life from a single spurt of lemon.
As you have probably surmised by now, days on the train are punctuated by breakfast, lunch, and dinner. In between meals, the train makes short, infrequent stops which allow us to stretch our legs and breath a little fresh air. Otherwise, we remain huddled in the cozy compartment we’ve come to call home, reading, talking, napping, waiting for the next meal bell to ring as we take bets on what the days “meal special” will be.
For our final meal on board we are seated next to Ray and Jan, enthusiastic Cubs fans from Chicago. Ray wears a Cub’s jersey and baseball cap. Jan speaks with a distinct Midwestern twang. Interesting how only since living in the south am I able to recognize the accent I grew up with in Michigan. Ray says he is looking forward to retirement this year when he and Jan will take a long, much-anticipated road trip. He then proceeds to recite their full itinerary as follows: First destination Seattle to visit Ray’s brother, then LA to visit a friend of Jan's, on to Phoenix (distant cousins), Denver and Houston (friends from high school), and finally on to their condo in Fort Meyers where friends from Chicago will visit. I’m exhausted for them already.
When it’s our turn to talk, I say that my husband wrestles with the decision to retire. After all, when you’ve spent nearly half a lifetime acquiring an education (college, medical school, residency, fellowship), it’s not so easily given up. My husband’s lengthy education took us to Dallas, Chapel Hill, and then to Roanoke where we finally settled. By the time he finished we were in our early thirties and I was pregnant with our first child.
Our conversation continues to wind through dinner, dessert, and coffee while the great Empire Builder at long last screeches through the Montana countryside. The wild wild west. I am distracted by passing scenery as I admire the tall reed canary grass and sagebrush out the window. My husband’s voice trails off into a discussion of various gastrointestinal disturbances with our new friends who appear a bit bewildered. Sometimes my husband innocently assumes the things he takes for granted are usual topics of dinner conversation.
For a moment my mood turns reflective as I attempt to recall what brought us on our long journey by train to this untamed land with no apparent end in sight. I think that perhaps it was nothing more than a healthy dose of curiosity, a desire to explore the practicalities of traveling cross country by train not unlike our predecessors long ago, those brave souls who followed an irresistible urge for new lands with ever-widening vistas not knowing what they’d find . . .
Suddenly, a loud overhead speaker breaks my train of thought announcing we are yet three hours from our final destination, East Glacier National Park. Why in pioneer time we are practically there I tell myself. We are scheduled to arrive by midnight the announcer adds (six hours later than anticipated). Heck, we've practically lost track of time anyway busily exploring new territory, staking claim to new ground. Who knows what might happen before midnight, or what might appear around the next bend! I think I’ll take my chances.
The following are some of my favorite lines from Brenda Ueland’s
beautiful and inspiring classic, “If You Want to Write”.
