Train I Ride

by Paul Mosier

  I move my lips silently as my fingers count under the table. “Proletariat.”

  “Where do you learn these words?” The tip of his pencil taps on the spaces. “That works.” He writes it in. Dot smiles and shakes her head.

  My mom used to read me her old college texts because there was never money for children’s books. So I heard The Communist Manifesto at an early age. Then there wasn’t money for her drug habit so she sold the college texts, and there weren’t any books at all.

  “Next clue: beige adventurers.” Carlos smiles, holding the sharp pencil poised.

  Dot cranes her neck and looks at the paper. “What?”

  Carlos nods over my shoulder, and I turn to see four wilderness scouts sitting two tables behind me. My eyes go back to the crossword, but from the quick look I see they’re all boys of about my age, wearing beige scout uniforms in various states of disarray. One of them is very cute.

  “That isn’t really a clue,” Carlos says. “I just wanted Rider to understand that there are some insufficiently supervised rogue youth conducting reconnaissance on her.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask. But I’ve got a pretty good idea.

  “It means they’re checking you out, honey,” Dot says.

  I roll my eyes. “Probably making fun of my hair.”

  Carlos and Dot look at each other.

  “Ah, youth,” Carlos says. I know what ah means and I know what youth means, but I have no idea what he means in saying Ah, youth.

  We finish the crossword and I head back toward my seat. I push the panel to exit the observation car, and in the vestibule between cars stands one of the scout boys. He has sandy-colored hair swept across his forehead, a crooked smile, and he’s holding a small guitar. He’s more or less standing in my way.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Excuse me,” I say, trying to get past him.

  He doesn’t budge. “You like playing blackjack?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never played.”

  “We’re having a little game later on. Before ‘Taps.’ Playing for a little money to make it interesting.”

  Money does sound interesting. But I don’t have any.

  “I didn’t bring my money,” I say.

  “That’s okay. I can loan you a couple dollars.” I flinch as he pushes my hair out of my eyes. “I’ll win them back from you anyway.”

  I scoff. “Where and when?”

  “Observation lounge, after sundown. Let’s say nine o’clock.”

  “Don’t touch my hair without my permission.”

  “See you then,” he says, and saunters off.

  I plow through the next door to my coach. I fall into my seat, exasperated. Then I stand and fetch my hearts-and-flowers bag from the rack, and get out my cherry ChapStick. I put some on and stare at the back of the seat in front of me.

  If I want to win some money from him I’ll have to figure out how to play blackjack.

  5

  I GO BACK through the lounge and down to the snack counter. Neal is back and open for business.

  I don’t mean to look at the snacks but I do.

  “Hello, Rider. What news from above?”

  “Hi, Nick,” I say.

  “It’s Neal,” he says, smiling.

  “Sorry. Neal. I’m playing blackjack later and I’ve never played before, so I was hoping for some pointers.”

  “Ah, let me guess. If my recollections of childhood are any indication, I’d guess you’re playing cards with the boys in beige?”

  “Yep.”

  He shakes his head. “Well, it’s not really my thing, but I do know that generally speaking, you’ll want to stay when you’re at sixteen or greater.”

  “What does that mean?”

  So he explains all he knows about the game, how everyone gets two cards to start, one up and one down, and how you want to get to twenty-one or as close as possible without going over, and how an ace can be worth one or eleven, and how you should stop asking for more cards when you are at sixteen or more. It’s confusing, but he writes the important bits on a scrap of register paper.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Good luck,” he says. “And remember, don’t let yourself feel lucky. Just stick to the formula.”

  “Don’t feel lucky. Stick to the formula. Got it.”

  I sit at my seat looking out the window at the sea of pale yellow grass, thinking about the blackjack rules, wondering whether it’s something dads teach to their daughters. If I had a dad maybe I’d have already known how to play blackjack and poker and other card games besides bingo. Bingo is obviously a game grammas teach you.

  I’m imagining myself sticking to the formula and beating the scouts at their stupid card game. But my thoughts drift, and soon I’m thinking of a conversation about boys the last time I sat in Dr. Lola’s office in Palm Springs. It was the second-to-last week of school, but the very last day for me.

  We were in our usual arrangement, with me sitting on the middle cushion of the couch in her dimly lit therapy room, and her across from me in a high-backed chair.

  “How do you feel?” she asked. Shrinks mainly try to get you to talk and say things you’d rather not say.

  “Amazing,” I said.

  She didn’t smile. “I’m going to miss you.”

  I folded my arms. “I’m sure there’re lots of other crazy kids to keep you company.”

  “How are you feeling about your grandmother?”

  “Where’s your yellow pad?” I asked. “How will anyone know we met without your yellow pad?”

  She sighed. “I can make notes later. But I’d like to know how you’re feeling about—”

  “She hated you. She didn’t like me seeing you.”

  Dr. Lola sat up straight and smoothed her skirt. She was pretty, and always composed. “Why do you think that was?”

  “She said your name sounded more like a floozy than a doctor.”

  She smiled. “I’ve heard that before. But presuming I am an actual psychologist, why do you think she didn’t like for you to see me?”

  “Because it made her look bad that she had a crazy granddaughter.”

  “Did she say that?”

  I scoffed. “Look at me. I’m not the kind of granddaughter she could brag about. I’m not an honor student. I’m not good at sports. I’m not beautiful. I’m green-haired and mopey and I don’t have any friends.”

  She leaned forward. “Okay, let’s look at those statements one at a time. It’s true that you’re not an honor student. But why is that?”

  “Because I’m not.”

  “Would you like to be?”

  I bit a thumbnail. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Do you think you could be if you worked at it?”

  She gave me a moment to respond but I didn’t.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Now the sports. Do you dream of carrying the team to victory?”

  “No. I don’t get why people like sports. Or the idea of being on a team.”

  “I get that. But you’re athletic. You ride a skateboard well.”

  “Until it got stolen. But I only did it to get around.”

  “And boxing.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I can’t believe you just joked about that. I don’t even believe in boxing.”

  She sat back and crossed her legs. “Of course I can’t condone violence. But my distaste for it in that particular instance is mitigated by the odds. There were four of them and one of you. They initiated the hostilities. And I was glad you loved yourself enough to fight back.” She smiled. “That’s how I described it in your file.”

  I felt pressure behind my eyes. “Thank you for that.”

  “Regarding the idea that you’re not beautiful, I don’t think I’ve ever met a twelve-year-old who felt beautiful, so I’ll give you a free pass on that one. It’s true that you’re green-haired, but unless I am mistaken, that is not by genetics but rather a choice.”

  “Correct.”


  “And a choice made in order to?”

  “Get back at my mom. And piss off my gramma. But she didn’t see well enough to notice.”

  “And in spite of how bright your green hair is and how well it sets off your light skin and freckles, I do suppose you are a bit mopey. But you are, after all, twelve, and you’ve been through more difficult situations than most people my own age.”

  “That didn’t matter to Gramma.”

  “But does it matter to you? Do you think you can forgive yourself for not having a spring in your step and a song in your heart?”

  I fought back a smile. “You’re really letting it all hang out on our last day together, aren’t you?”

  She smiled and leaned forward. “And while you may see yourself as not having any friends, it doesn’t mean that you’re unworthy as a friend. And speaking for myself, not as a psychologist but as a human being, getting to know you has enriched my life.” She took off her glasses and wiped her eyes. “Believe me, that’s not something I’d say to every student that passes through my office.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Luckily I was saved by the three o’clock bell.

  She leaned back and said, “Before you go, let me say one thing about boys.”

  “Idiots.”

  “Well, perhaps. But there may come a time in the not-too-distant future when you meet a boy, or any kind of person, whose affection for you, or apparent affection for you, and praise, makes you feel everything you’ve ever wanted to feel.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Loved, attractive, special, important. Don’t trust that feeling.”

  “It does sound terrible.”

  She stood and moved toward me. “Beware of that feeling. Find it from yourself first. Love yourself.” She reached out her hand to pull me up from the couch. “Work at becoming the person you want to be. And love yourself. Only then can you really trust your feelings and the intentions of others.”

  I couldn’t look her in the eyes. And she wouldn’t let go of my hand. She put her arm around my shoulders.

  “You aren’t supposed to hug me.” It was true. I read it in the Patient/Doctor Relationship pamphlet.

  I pulled myself away, slunk from her office, and left that school forever.

  The voice on the speaker says the first wave of people with reservations for lunch are welcome in the dining car. My stomach growls in response.

  I’m excited about the prospect of winning money from the scouts later, but that doesn’t do me any good right now. I’m starving.

  I walk to the observation lounge. Everywhere people are snacking, and the smell of real food drifts in from the dining car.

  I want it to look like there was a reason for me to come to the lounge, so I grab a timetable from the display rack. It shows the route of the train and when it gets to different places. I open it up and look at it. Then I grab all of them.

  I make my way from the lounge car and into the coaches. I walk down the aisle waiting for courage. A middle-aged woman looks up at me and smiles.

  “Would you like a timetable? They’re fifty cents.”

  She looks surprised, then confused. Then she fishes a dollar from her purse.

  “I don’t have change,” I say.

  “You can keep it.”

  I do a little bow. “Thank you, and please let me know if you have any difficulty understanding the timetable.”

  “Okay.”

  “For instance, you might need to be reminded that when you are looking at the schedule in one direction you read it top to bottom, and the other direction you read it bottom to top.”

  “Got it.”

  “And there are time zone changes. But remember that in Arizona they don’t go on daylight savings time.”

  She’s starting to look annoyed, so I walk away, heart racing. I keep moving down the aisle, waiting for eye contact. The next eyes belong to a man with dark hair.

  “Hello. Would you care for a timetable? They’re fifty cents.”

  “Que?”

  I hold it up. “A timetable.”

  “Oh.”

  I notice his accent. He’s a Spanish speaker. He reaches for the timetable.

  “Gracias. Thank you.”

  I smile and wait. He doesn’t notice I’m still standing there.

  “It’s fifty cents.”

  “Que?”

  “Fifty cents. Please.”

  “Honey, you can’t be borrowin’ money from other passengers.”

  Dorothea has appeared.

  “I’m not borrowing it. I’m selling him the timetable . . .” As soon as I say it I realize she’ll probably object.

  “Honey, you can’t take free timetables from Amtrak and sell them to passengers.”

  “But I’m also offering invaluable assistance interpreting the timetables. Which are a little confusing.”

  Dorothea stands with her hands on her hips. She doesn’t look happy. And she can block your escape with her body if she wants to. She’s hard to slip past.

  I change directions. “Why does ‘invaluable’ mean valuable? ’Cause it sounds like it means not valuable.”

  “Honey, you need to give him his money back.”

  “He didn’t give me any yet. I was closing the deal when you showed up.”

  She says something to him in Spanish. He shakes his head. She looks back to me.

  “Did you take any money from anyone else?”

  I hang my head. “Just one.”

  Dorothea follows me to the woman who bought a timetable and watches while I return the dollar. The woman gives me a faint smile.

  Dorothea isn’t finished. “Say you’re sorry.”

  “You’re not my mother.” I feel bad as soon as it comes out. ’Cause she’s pretty much all the mother I’ve got at this point. But she looks sad for me instead of mad at me for saying it. “Sorry,” I mumble.

  My mother would probably have asked me to say I was sorry too. If she had been around.

  A little later I am stalking the observation lounge, hungry. It’s impossible to make any money with Dorothea now watching my every move, and I’m getting desperate. Walking past one of the tall cardboard garbage boxes I see part of a soft pretzel, sort of resting on top of a paper plate.

  My heart speeds up. I go downstairs and get two mustard packs, five mayonnaise packs, and a handful of napkins. Back upstairs I crumple one of the napkins and reach into the garbage to drop it in, then grab the pretzel as my hand exits.

  I feel like everyone in the observation lounge is watching me. It isn’t the first time in my life I’ve done this. When Mom worked at a chicken and waffles place when I was six, sometimes she’d just have me hang around while she worked because she couldn’t get a sitter. And I sometimes took food off of people’s plates after they left. Even though it was kind of like used food, it looked too good to resist.

  I hurry back to my seat.

  It’s less than half of a soft pretzel. There are a lot of different mouths on the train, so I decide to tell myself it was someone with nice clean teeth, like Carlos, who was eating it, but I break off the very end with the teeth marks anyway.

  My hands tremble as I squeeze on the mayonnaise and mustard. The pretzel isn’t very soft, and the mustard makes me cough ’cause I put too much on.

  It’s the worst meal of my life. I crowd out the taste with the prayer I was taught in preschool. God is great, God is good, and we thank him for our food.

  I eat it as quickly as possible so I can begin forgetting it. Maybe my next meal will be better.

  6

  I’M BACK SITTING in the observation lounge as the sun gets lower. It’s been a full day since this train left Los Angeles, and maybe an hour since the half-eaten soft pretzel. The faint taste of mustard lingers in my mouth, nauseating me.

  A man who works for Amtrak as a tour guide is speaking into a microphone, talking about the things we pass, like the dim-witted longhorns. We go through the town of Lamy, New Mexico, which
is tiny and looks like the kind of place that Billy the Kid would have hidden in the old days.

  The tour guide says that in 1880 the people who lived in Lamy saw a hot-air balloon shaped like a fish float over the town, with the people riding in it laughing and singing and shouting in another language. Then the people riding in the balloon dropped a rose tied to a letter and a strange cup. The letter was written in characters of some Asian language.

  The tour guide keeps talking and moves on to other topics, but I’m stuck thinking about the fish-shaped balloon, wondering if it had floated all the way from China, and wondering where the people on it were going, and what they were laughing about. If I flew on a balloon all the way from China in 1880 and I was looking down on cowboys in a tiny town with dirt roads, I’d probably be laughing too.

  I think about what the letter would say. Somebody supposedly bought the letter and the cup and took it away so nobody ever knew what it said, but if they did I imagine it would translate something like

  Dear people below—

  We don’t mean to be rude laughing at your dusty little town, but we have just flown across the Pacific Ocean in a balloon shaped like a fish. We are eating noodle soup and drinking tea out of cups just like the one attached to this note. Best wishes, and don’t forget to wash behind your ears.

  Sincerely,

  Your friends in the flying fish

  I think about how strange it would have been to be traveling all the way from Asia in a balloon shaped like a fish, and I think about how strange it would be to be standing below in Lamy, New Mexico, watching it floating by. I think about writing these thoughts in my journal and then remember I’m not writing in my journal anymore.

  Carlos does, though. He’s got his journal out, across the table from me.

  “What are you writing?”

  He looks up. “Journaling, taking notes. I write poems.”

  “Really?”

  He sets his pen down. “Yeah. Do you like poetry?”

  “I feel like I don’t always understand it.”

  “Sort of like modern paintings?”

  I think about it. “Yeah.”

  He takes a sip of coffee and grimaces.

  “Bad?”

  “Too cold. Anyway, modern paintings. They can be sort of indirect, right?”