There But Not There

On the train you’re alone but not alone. You’re still, but moving. Everyone’s faces are composed, neutral. But you’re surrounded by stories. That elderly couple that got on at the hospital, each wearing dazzlingly new white sneakers. Not a scuff on them, shoelaces still crisp. You imagine them shopping together, trying on different pairs. But somebody’s sick. One of them is dying. We make our faces masks but everything about us suggests a narrative. That girl has a limp she’s trying to hide; you noticed it when she got off. The world is full of injury, but why does she try to hide it? Each step a reminder of what? You watch her walk down the platform towards the parking lot and then your train picks up speed and she’s gone, or you are. You are. You pull up your hoodie and press your shades up the bridge of your nose. Nobody’s getting in today. You’re there but not there. You’re gone.

The Train is the Place to Be

Yes, it is true that we ride the trains because we want to get to certain places. But for some of us, the train is the place we want to be. Library, dance club, beauty salon. For her, the train is a daycare. “I can’t wait to get you home to your mothers!” she says to the three loudly jabbering girls around her. “Sit in your seats and be silent.”

They both hold the most recent edition of the St. Louis Post Dispatch in front of their faces so they can't see us, and we can't see them.

For him, the train is a mobile gym. He does pull ups on the bars that most of us use just to keep our balance. One, two, three...he could keep going forever if he wanted.

Image courtesy of Biz-Architect.com

In The Glass

Almost everyone has a destination. Work, school, shopping, friends. The game, the airport, another day on the job like the last day like the next day. The mall, the market, the bar, the base. The world slides by smooth on the Light Rail. The doors open and shut. At night you see
yourself vague in the glass. Everyone watches everyone. In the back of your mind are the things you left behind: your car in the lot, your apartment two bus rides away from the station, your babies, someone you love, someone who that day made you cry. Someone who will smile when you come home. A dark house. You travel smooth through the darkness, there and back, barely a ripple, some days so silently it's like you're invisible, like you don't even exist. Your there and back. Those small poles you revolve around.

You think about train tracks, the way one track can meet another. You think about what it would be like to get on someday and not get off. To ride a train to another train. To step from one to the next. To keep going out and out. To follow the tracks until there are no more tracks. How far could you go, how long? Where in the world would you be? Who would you be when you got off?

The Workmen

The workmen get on wherever they are. They're relaxed, laughing. They wear hardhats, sunglasses, toolbelts, workboots, sweatshirts. They chat with the off-conductor, flirt. They peer over the shoulder of the conductor. They're alert. They listen. They watch what you don't see out the window. They sway easily with the movement of the train. They joke about retirement, but you can tell the car feels like home. Midway between two stops, the train slows. Comes to a halt. They tap their hard hats, pull up their belts, make a joke, get off. The doors slide shut. They walk along a stretch of rail you'll never probably see up close, towards some sort of power box you'll never open. When they need a ride, they'll call somebody, get back on the train, ride up the line to the next thing that needs fixing.