Rail Ride to NYC

In the period since Macon’s last train trip, something wonderful had happened to the railroad station. A skylight in shades of watery blue arched gently overhead. Pale globe lamps hung from brass hooks. Macon stood bewildered at the brand-new, gleaming ticket window. He went toward his gate and sat down on a bench. A southbound train was announced and half the crowd went off to catch it, followed by the inevitable breathless, disheveled woman galloping through some time later with far too many bags and parcels. Arriving passengers began to straggle up the stairs. They wore the dazed expressions of people who had been elsewhere till just that instant.

Now his own train was called, so he picked up his bag and went to the platform. At the bottom of the stairs a gust of cold, fresh air hit him. Wind always seemed to be howling down these platforms, no matter what the weather elsewhere.

Most of the cars were full, it turned out. Macon gave up trying to find a completely empty seat and settled next to a plump young man with a briefcase.

The train lurched forward and then changed its mind and then lurched forward again and took off. Macon imagined he could feel little scabs of rust on the tracks; it wasn’t a very smooth ride. He watched the sights of home rush toward him and disappear – a tumble of row houses, faded vacant lots, laundry hanging rigid in the cold.

“Gum?” his seatmate asked.

Macon said,”No, thanks,” and quickly opened his book. When they had been traveling an hour or so, he felt his lids grow heavy. He let his head fall back. He thought he was only resting his eyes, but he must have gone to sleep. The next thing he knew, the conductor was announcing Philadelphia. Macon jerked and sat up straight and caught his book just before it slid off his lap.

Just before they arrived, he used the restroom at the rear of the car – not ideal, but more homely than anything he would find in New York. He went to his seat and packed his book. “Going to be cold there”, his seatmate told him.

“I imagine so,” Macon said.

“Weather report says cold and windy.”

Macon did not answer.

In New York passengers scattered instantly. Macon thought of a seed pod bursting open. He refused to be rushed and made his way methodically through the crowd. Macon took a firm grip on his bag and pushed trough the door to the street, where car horns blasted intensely and the air smelled gray and sharp. New York was a foreign city. He was forever taken aback by its pervasive atmosphere of purposefulness – the tight focus of its drivers, the brisk intensity of its pedestrians drilling their way through all obstacles without a glance to either side.

He hailed a cab, slid across the worn, slippery seat, and gave the address of his hotel.