Friday, August 25, 2017, 1 a.m.
As I write this, it is one in the morning. I am in my eighteenth hour of a train ride from Kansas City, Missouri, to New York, New York. During this time, I have experienced more than you could imagine. Most recently, I have seen death. She has curly blonde hair, and she stares through me.
Also, the door just opened and now she’s a burly man. But she still stares through me. I feel my soul exposed. Help.
Behind me sits a woman who has lupus, but not a voice (I assume she lost it in a regular fashion, not because of some lupus-induced side effect.) Her sons (to her left and right) have the same haircut, but the blonde one is cross-eyed. The younger brunette is just introverted, bless his heart.
My own mother is to my left. She is asleep (lucky girl). She demanded a window seat, and I capitulated. I have the aisle seat and am in uncomfortable misery. I wouldn’t mind misery, so long as it was a comfortable one. This one is not. My back is killing me.
My step-dad is in the aisle seat to my right, playing away on his tablet. He shares the seat with a strange man whose legs are too skinny and pale to be healthy.
The woman in front of me will not stop coughing and I’m half a second away from punching her in the throat (or offering her some of my Benadryl. Would that help?).
This is actually the second train ride of the day. The first was from KC to Chicago. This one is from Chicago to NYC. There were pigeons at the gate in the Chicago train station.
Mind you, this was an indoor gate. They didn’t bother anyone, really, but I could sense they lacked the ability to process fear. In a game of chicken, I imagine these pigeons would, every time, emerge victoriously. They know death. They embrace death. She’s an old friend with curly blonde hair.
On the first train ride, I discovered some trains have an “upstairs.” I marveled at the fact for a solid twenty seconds before taking my seat and dosing myself with Benadryl (a man’s got to sleep). To my right was a couple who had brought their own fruity beverages. It reminded me of my brother and the way he would drink that stuff by the liter (quite liter-ally. He wouldn’t even use a cup).
To compound the effect, a man (who may or may have not mooned me by mistake) passed by with three empty cans of Mountain Dew. I guess it’s true, white boys love that stuff. My brother, as well, was wont to do the Dew.
Personally, I am wont to worry about my mother constantly. I fear she may fall, spill, or otherwise bring harm to herself and her surroundings at any given moment. That she is sitting down and asleep at this time is a brief reprise from my constant fussing. “Be careful.” “Go slowly.” “Watch your step here, there is water dripping from the ceiling and I don’t want you to slip.”
Suddenly, a boy behind me has begun moaning, shouting, and coughing. I think he’s having some sort of nightmare/fit/attack. Perhaps it was the spirit of the burly man/woman. I think it’s time for me to try and sleep again. I dosed myself with Benadryl again just before beginning to write this. Updates to come at a future time (maybe).
P.S.: Sometimes the train squeaks and it sounds like a cooing baby/whining dog. It’s unpleasant.
Friday, August 25, 2017, 8 a.m.
I managed to survive the night. I was able to sleep for a few hours, but I distinctly remember having a conversation with my dad about which parts of this train ride were the H-E-L and L. Currently, everyone is awake, lupus lady is not in her seat, and a nice woman (or I assume she’s nice) pipes in over the intercom frequently to serve as our tour guide. West Virginia is riveting.
My mother’s snoring through the night was nearly intolerable. It reminded me of the nights I would spend with my father in Cape Girardeau. I would wake him up to tell him to stop snoring. It never really worked. The same can be said for my mother.
My step-dad hasn’t slept at all, and I’m a little worried for his sanity. This train ride may very well take him down. A man with an anxiety dog hopped onto the train an hour or two ago and I thought it might be the end for old Bob.
I listened to Taylor Swift’s new song. It’s pretty good, although the chorus could do with a solid remix. Here’s hoping some fire DJ gets their hands on it. In other news, I have yet to watch Katy Perry’s “Swish Swish.”
I made a call to the student center of NYU. I’m starting a new school club, and have yet to hear back about the status of my application. Fittingly, I got voice mail.
My excitement/anxiety in starting college is coming to a peak. With an obsessive personality like mine, you can imagine how I’ve been fixated on all things NYU for the past month. I constantly check the Facebook page for updates. I’ve stalked a few social media profiles. My body is ready.
Lupus lady is back. Say hi, Lupus lady.
My mother is presently entertaining herself by coming up with new lyrics to “Pretty Woman.” Of course, this is only in her head, so she appears to be laughing at nothing.
Lupus lady may not have teeth. Her mouth is a hard line and appears similar to the mouths of people I’ve known when they don’t have dentures in. Earlier in the night, she vomited a couple times into a bag. My mother is now typing the lyrics on her phone, referring to Lupus lady as “Puking Woman.”
These are all of my observations for now. Will update later (maybe).
P.P.S. I’m prepared for this freak train to derail at any given moment. My muscles are clenched.
Friday, August 25, 2017, 8:30 p.m.
We are a little more than an hour away from Penn station. Lupus lady has left with her two sons, as has most of the train’s passengers. An older woman with a fancy hat almost missed getting off the train in Philadelphia (she was waiting for help with her bags).
The train food is surprisingly not bad. I’ve had a hamburger and a pan pizza, and I can’t complain. We’ve filled the trash can nearly to the brim.
Are you allowed to poop on trains?
My mom is reading about ghosts instead of the professional essays by her board members. Can you blame her? My step-dad is telling us we missed a seven-story high bridge. Apparently, it was “cwazy.” He’s been on twitter a lot lately, which is concerning. He says that’s all the train wi-fi is good for.
I restarted my phone and got service back. Mom and I were able to listen to some tunes on Pandora while we ate dinner. Ahh, the beauty of a familial bond.
In D.C., we stopped to change engines. This one is a lot faster. A whole lot. With a fence around it. This increased speed has exacerbated the train’s shaking by a factor of at least twelve. The door in between compartments is open, and I can see the carriage in front of us tremble before my carriage does. There’s something awful about watching this hunk of metal attached to you twist and stagger.
Thirty-eight hours of train-riding is nearly at an end. Hallelujah, can I get uuuuuuuuuuh Amen?
My excitement for the destination has not dimmed. In fact, it has only been fostered by hands made of hundred-story buildings. I feel restless. Maybe I just need to use the restroom, or maybe my proximity to the home of my dreams has defibrillated my heart, causing it to beat nearly out of my chest.
Night has fallen once again. From the windows, I can only see blurs of street lights and car blinkers. Instead, I face forward, willing the train to move even faster.
I need to be there.
P.P.S.S I watched LWYMMD again. Still, haven’t watched “Swish Swish.” I can’t help it, I’m a Taylor fan.
I may update once more. Maybe.
Friday, August 25, 2017, 9:50 a.m.
Welcome to New York.
