The Train Ride

There is something about trains, especially seen through groggy, half-awake legging eyes at 5:37 AM. Massive ton engines thrusting through the air at about sixty-five miles per hour. Entrusting two discombobulated metal tracks with its own, and two hundred and fifty other human lives. Yet a train is more than a form of transportation; it is a common fair ground for the traveling. A-types and B-types alike ride this magical steam engine, all on a journey for their own destination. The tasks they complete, although utterly different, seem to have a common theme in finding themselves.

The young man to my left and up three rows, with a Sharpie, is scribbling something on an old napkin. My guess is it’s a song, because somewhere in recent history it has been said that a song scrawled on non-conventional paper, with words spewing out at all different directions, written in thick, black, all caps, makes for a hit. I bet its going to be a pretty trippy song, too, because no one that has sniffed that much Sharpie in the last half an hour can be in the right state of mind. His left that has been lingering on his cheek for the extent of my stare finally finds its way to the table. When his eyes move off the paper to stare blankly at the seat in front of him I see what he has been trying to hide. The birthmark starts at the tip of his prominent cheek bone and traces his jaw around his ear. His eyes then take a tour of the train, eventually landing on mine. His hand automatically covers his cheek once again as he resumes his writing.

I have been feeling the weight of someone’s eyes on me for about a minute when I decide to turn around to check. Sitting behind me in a ruby red dress is a little girl with better posture than the queen. She meets my glance for a quick second and smiles back with her aquarium blue eyes. Her bleach blond hair is spun tight in to a bun on the top of her head like it’s trying to mask her young age. She then looks down at her watch, taps it twice, and takes a deep breath. Out of instinct, I take a look at my own watch. Sixteen minutes left until we reach Seattle, Washington. Something didn’t add up. Little girl, big train, all alone; a recipe for disaster. I then hear the clomps of the hostesses rubber heels walking towards the girl. I see she has a small dry-erase board in her hands. The girl jumps when the hostess taps on her shoulder to get her attention. Taking out a pen she writes, ‘Would you like anything?’. The girl responds with shaking her head and signing thank you. The shock took a minute to set in. This little girl looks like she is about to take on the world with all the confidence anyone could have, despite the fact that she is Deaf.

The constant typing from the man to my right all of a sudden stops, bringing my thoughts to a standstill. His suit, although freshly ironed, doesn’t give off the professional look I’m sure he was going for this morning when he got dressed. It makes me think of John Mayer trying to be Donald Trump; even if you put him in a suit and clean up his image, those tired, lifeless eyes will never get the job done. As I continue to stare at this man, I realize he can’t be over the age of 25, and judging from the wet spot on his shoulder from scrubbing this morning, he has a family to support. Also, judging from the “Krispy Kreme” bakers hat in his brief case, he is either a doughnut fanatic, or this is going to be more than a 9 to 5 day for Mr. Mayer.

When we finally reach our destination, I turn to look out the window. When I try to focus my eyes on the sunrise all I can see is my reflection in the window staring coldly back at me. Designer boots biting at my ankles, with name brand jeans above those, topping it all off with my favorite pea coat. Even I would have trouble with finding myself in a crowd. With overwhelming force I come to the realization that this life, this world, is more than I am. The 563,374 people in this city all have their very own story of misfortune, highlighted within their face. The true color of a person however, is deeply rooted, hiding behind its outer shell, rarely seen on the outside. I look around one last time before I get off of the train. Each face so familiar, forever burned into my brain, yet the faces are blurred between a version of them governed by my socially acceptable brain washed mind and their true self. I wonder what they think about me.