The Craziness of People (Train pt 6)

When I told people I would be traveling across the country by train the most prevalent bit of information I consistently heard was that people who take the train tend to be a little friendlier than most.  Having spent two weeks of my life traveling by rail thus far, I would most definitely agree.  Had I at any time during this trip been in a more chatty mood, I have a feeling I would have found very few lulls in conversation. 

Just as it should be with everyday life, I realized that this trip should be about meeting people and immersing myself into the world around me.  With this perspective in mind, I decided a few miles outside of Chicago to make a change in my approach.  Rather than sitting quietly in my own little world giving off what one could only assume was a negative energy, I worked to channel my inner extrovert in hopes that I could expand my horizons.

Now I am not sure if it is the sheer size of Union station, with its track upon track and seemingly endless gates causing logistical nightmares for anyone other than the obsessively prepared, or just the fact that I decided to open up a bit, but the eccentric people I met upon arriving in Chicago were a definite shift from the solitude of my own mind. 

Stepping off the train into cold that threatened to freeze me through, I hurried my steps towards the station weaving in and out of the families and individuals making the same long walk to warmth.  Taking into account the sheer size of the building in front of me, I was a bit worried about getting lost and missing my connection once I stepped inside.  Thankfully, my time in various airports braced me for the mass chaos and confusion I saw before me.  

People of all walks of life spread out before me.  From businessmen in tailored suits and polished shoes to people in clothing so tattered I wondered how they survived the winter, the social display that weaved past me was almost overwhelming.  There are very few places in the world where you can witness the unassuming black and white clothing of the Amish contrast endlessly with the brightly colored hoodies and hats of inner city youths.  Union Station is a mecca for people watching.

Deciding that finding a departure board was more important than engaging in the psychological profiling game currently bombarding my mind, I set to following the traffic of bodies making their way towards the waiting rooms to find what track my train was to depart from.  A couple of minutes later I walked into a sea of seated people and scanned around the crowds for an empty seat.  Ambling around I finally found a set of three and settled into the middle one.  To my left sat a scruffy older man whose demeanor and movements made me believe that he was holding on a little too tightly to his military days.  Paying me little mind save to ask if I was on his train so he would have someone to follow, he quickly faded into the backdrop of plentiful and incessant conversations.  Glancing to my right I quickly discerned that I was about to experience karma for my purposeful avoidance of people over the last two days.

Decked out in a velour track suit so dark navy it almost looked purple, something about this guy struck me as odd from the moment I sat down.  Perhaps it was his flavor saver and pimp ‘stache or the tan fedora on his head, but everything about him spoke to a man either struggling to fit in or one so comfortable with himself that he just didn’t care.  Two minutes into the conversation, I was amused to know it was the latter.    

Leaning over to ask me about a train, the stories started to flow.  In the span of 20 minutes I learned more about this guys’ life than I knew about some of the girls I have dated.  Starting in with his childhood, I was told a gruesome tale about how his grandfather one day stopped his truck at a small intersection in Kalamazoo and showed the 11 year old version of this man the dead guy frying on high-tension wires.   It turns out that his grandfather knew the smell of burning flesh from about 5 blocks away… 

Something of this story must have sparked a theme because we were soon talking about a guy he used to hang with who got a little too close to 440v transformer while high as a kite.  It seems trying to steal scrap from a live transformer is not the wisest of decisions but it is a good way to gain the nickname Stumpy.  

That is the marvel about that much voltage, rather than locking you in and frying you slowly from the inside out, it instead creates a scene straight out of a low budget comedy and blows a body back at least 20 feet.  Stumpy woke up from a medically induced coma two months later much more worse for wear.  Missing both arms, amputated due to gangrene, he had third degree burns over 70% of his body and his lips no longer provided any semblance of a smile.  Think Fire Marshall Bill but black. 

Now Stumpy it turns out is a resilient dude, and a bit of a crack fiend.  Lacking arms, but not the fierce independence of his less crispy days, he had no desire to become a shut in.  The only real problem was that, though he had money, his hooks made it damn near impossible to get it out of his pockets.  Thankfully Stumpy had friends (or, perhaps more accurately, guys that were too afraid to say no) and I was soon listening to stories of men being bludgeoned by hooks for thievery and a set of scorched buns hanging free in a failed attempt at self reliance.  There is a silver lining to being scorched via transformer, if you have a congenital heart issue, the voltage will clear it right up.  Perhaps feeling invincible, Stumpy now trades his abundance of pain meds for crack.

From here the logical transition was to the world falling apart and how the Ukraine reminded him of his 20s and the times he spent worshipping in mosques and witnessing the senseless anger and hypocrisy between the ethnic groups praying there.  Soon the conversation headed towards the world being turned into a parking lot.  I guess the transition makes sense, especially if you consider people who pray together still can't get along.  The remainder of the conversation was filled with stories so varied I can’t even put them into words. 

When it was time to board I was torn, on one hand I was happy to be getting on my way, but part of me was infinitely curious as to what else this man could possibly cover in conversation.  Standing up I wished him luck in getting home and headed off towards my gate, my mind flip flopping between disbelief, shock and a sense of laughter so strong I wanted to pee myself.   

Climbing onto the train lost in thought I somehow failed to notice that this single level train was considerably smaller than the last one.  Walking past row and row of seats that resembled those of an airplane, I grabbed the foremost seat and sat down to contemplate my decision to be more extroverted.  

Being that 60% of the nation’s population lives East of the Mississippi, it turns out that I was guaranteed to have another seat mate.  I prayed for someone as a touch less exciting.  As the train began to fill I watched sadly as the coed headed my way chose to sit next to a guy near her own age instead of middle aged me.  As the ebb of people began to settle down I thought I had scored a minor victory in the form of the only empty seat next to me.  I was elatedly settling in when I overheard an elderly lady behind me talking with a single mother of two and offering up her seat.  Even though this mother politely refused, saying that she was going to share the two seats with her little children, this mirror image of my mother moved in.  I fear this could be a long 9 hours.

Already nestled into a seat that felt half the size of my previous one, I was remiss to see that she had with her two giant pieces of luggage.  Turns out she was a talker as well.  

As we chatted forth more than back I learned that this woman was infinitely proud of her family.  With four “overachieving” kids working jobs as varied as firefighter to VP of securities, this woman's beaming face told of her infinite affection for her children.  Though I could see none of these jobs as standing out as particular sources of pride, maybe it was the extraneous activities of her kids that did it for her.  From bagpipe expertise, rock band aspirations or volunteer firefighter work to follow in dad's footsteps, this was one proud mother. 

Noting that she was traveling alone I inquired about her husband and was saddened to learn that he had died in a freak boating accident.  Asked why she never remarried her answer of “Why would I date if I already had the perfect guy?” was both romantic and full of excuse.

As much as I can’t argue with her logic I say excuse because it seemed more likely that she chose to throw herself into her growing family instead of attempting to again build something that would never reach the perfection she already experienced.  I can’t say that I blame her.  Any of us can only hope to find someone that makes us feel as whole as her husband obviously made her feel. 

Hearing her gush about her grandkids, it sounds as though her entire family was a model of love and affection.  I can’t say I have heard the word “cosmopolitan” used often in describing kids, but you could tell that she believed that each and every one of them was going to set the world on fire.  One grandson was destined to become a biologist as his love of cheetahs and Peregrine falcons separates him from his peers, another is sure to become a renowned scientist as his acceptance to a prestigious science high school surely means future fame.  Yet another will become a renowned engineer, his love of Legos showcasing his talents.  It seems drumming runs in the family as another is following in the footsteps of his drummer father, drumming since the age of 2 and is currently the youngest participant in Ohio’s version of the Highland games.  Not to be left behind, the youngest, at three, is already a whiz at the iPhone.  Ah the joys of being a grandparent.

Maybe it was me listening patiently as she regaled the glory of her family, or maybe is was the help with her nook or her sleep apnea contraption but, as we disembarked, she told me for the sixth time to thank my mother for raising me right.  Thanking her I wandered off to kill time in the Cincinnati terminal waiting for Ben.  The bright side, at least now that I was off the train, was that my wait had been halved as multiple delays lengthened the trip.