The best thing about riding a train is the stories, and the longer the trip, the more there are to tell.
I watched the west Texas mountains roll by while listening to Mr. Drunk Guy bore the heck outta Mr. and Mrs. We Work in Australian Television. Of course, Mr. Drunk was loud and worthy of eye rolls before the couple divulged their line of work, but that tidbit got him going all the harder. Mr. Drunk'd been this way, on this train, a lot, you see, and to parts farther west, too. So he was tickled to share his vast knowledge ("Sure, you can walk across the Hoover Dam!") with the quiet and civil couple. I couldn't see their faces, but their hushed voices responding to his bullhorn chatter gave me the impression that the Mr. and Mrs. were doing a bang-up job of tolerating the ugly American.
Eventually they had to excuse themselves for a reserved spot in the Dinner Car.
I bet every train ride has its Drunk Guy. This one sat about 10 seats behind me, when he wasn't stumbling up and down the aisle. Good thing for us all he'd earlier made friends with Ms. French Accent In Polyester Jogsuit. She had a way about her that soothed the savage drunk. Not that he was a mean drunk. But when it came to lights-out time and his tongue was still waggin’, I heard her employ a sweet motherly tone to quiet him.
Long train trips are entertaining -- screenplays (or reality TV, depending on your generation) unfold before you. Especially with the advent of cell phones, one of which aided in unveiling the plight of Ms. Tearful Smoker. She boarded that night at my trip's midpoint.
Maybe 25 years old, Ms. Tearful was pretty darn angry at the train staff, who wouldn't allow her to disembark for a smoke at our quick shove-‘em-off-pick-‘em-up stops. Smokers get a raw deal on train trips. There's nary a car where it's legal now (yay), and you gotta sit tight til the bigger cities with the longer stops to get off and pollute your lungs. I wonder how many people choose trains over planes explicitly so they can get their nic fixes cross-country.
In what would've been a really fine drama to see, I knew from her phone calls that Ms. Tearful had been pushed to her limit at one too-brief stop.
"I begged them," she cried angrily into her phone later from the seat in front of me, "I mean, I told them what I'm going through, and all I want is a cigarette."
Soon enough, Ms. Tearful's White Knight, another passenger, appeared and asked about her emotional state. He had apparently been in on the excitement at the stop where she'd been so coldly denied her rights. As they spoke, I could make out her mournful tones and see his face full of concern when he asked, "Do you wanna go get a drink?" and motioned toward the Cafe Car.
Ms. Tearful declined. Good for her. Especially since I'd heard enough from her several phone calls to know of her existing relationship conundrum. It's not a pretty picture, Ms. Tearful's love life.
After things had settled to a melodious murmur and rhythmic clickity clack in the Coach Car, we stopped at a dark spot in New Mexico. There, a young woman with long, thick, red hair and a young girl with long, kinky, black hair boarded together. The little girl wept, "Where's Daddy? Where?" and the woman's singsong voice responded, "We'll see Daddy soon, sweetheart."
The girl, who appeared to be around 10, was inconsolable. Her mother shuffled their bags around and talked earnestly to the train staff about how to change trains in California.
"My mother has cancer," she offered up out of nowhere to the young man with the conductor’s hat. "We're going to see her." She turned to her still-crying daughter. "Sweetie, it will be just a minute more while I talk to this nice man and then we'll read the Bible." The man quietly told her that he understood from a personal standpoint, as his mother, too, had experienced cancer. "God bless you," the woman said emotionally.
After he walked away, I turned to her -- they sat across the aisle and one seat back -- and asked, "Where did we just stop? What's the name of where you got on?" The sky was nothing but black, and the only light was from the stars; I couldn't make out the terrain features.
"Oh, we're from the mountains." She expressed herself dramatically, as though she wanted to project a deeper story to anyone in hearing range. "That was Lordsburg, but we come from the mountains near Silver Creek." She searched my face with anticipation.
"Oh," I said, "I was just wondering where we are now." I went back to my reading.
I glanced back from time to time as the young woman catered to the girl's needs -- a blanket, a pillow, some food, a trip to the bathroom, an audible prayer to Jesus for protection on their trip. At some point while they nestled into their seats finally, I heard the girl ask her mom a question.
"Not everyone is friendly, honey, especially city people," the woman said, again with a cadence and volume to her voice that implied the comment was meant to be heard beyond her daughter's ears.
I leaned forward, turned in my seat, and saw the little girl smiling at me. I smiled back.
