Railed

I had unwittingly walked past the train station a number of times before. I never gave a thought to what that building was as it didn’t look like the type of place that I’d ever have any reason to enter. The pavement that comprised the parking lot looked as if it had gone at least a decade without repair.

When I walked into the station I was met by a crowd evenly split between AARP members and college students. I made my way to the ticket counter and recited the six character alphanumeric string to acquire my ticket. I took a seat across from a fifty-something couple and began reading one of the books I had brought along while we waited for our ride. The couple was making conversation about how much waiting is involved in riding the train and how the whole process is boring and tiring. I was amused by this line of thought, but I didn’t speak up. I was there to board the train- not rock the boat.

The train arrived about twenty minutes behind schedule. The man at the ticket counter instructed us to make our way outside to board the train but cautioned us to watch our step. It was darker outside than it was earlier, he said. “Funny how that works,” I quipped to the girl on the bench next to me as I gathered my things.

When the train pulled up a couple dozen people walked off. Some had reached their destination, others were just getting some fresh air. Others still were feeding their nicotine addiction.

The railway personnel informed us that our car was full and that we shouldn’t bother trying to sit alone. Occupied seats were indicated by tags hanging from the overhead shelf which also indicated that passenger’s destination. I made my way to a pair of empty seats with a tag with the letters “far” on it. I knew that it was an abbreviation for Fargo, but the tag was amusing nonetheless. The window seat was reclined while the aisle seat was upright. It was obvious that the window seat was taken but I sat in it anyway.

Soon after a twenty-something black man informed me that I had taken his seat. I apologized and asked if anybody was sitting in the aisle seat. I knew that nobody was, but I was gauging whether or not I would sit there by his answer. He said no and I moved to the aisle. I could tell he was irritated that I sat in the seat that was pretty obviously taken, but he wasn’t rude about it.

I started reading my book again while Window Seat made a phone call. To the best of my knowledge he was talking to his girlfriend, who he informed he had just left “Wiscosha or Minnowa or something”.

About a half hour after the train starts moving it makes a stop. There is no announcement made and it doesn’t seem like a planned stop. I don’t know all that much about trains so I don’t ask questions and about ten minutes later we’re back on our way.

At this time a very inconsiderate man towards the back of the car begins snoring. Heavily. Most of the people in my peripheral turn to look at the man as if that is going to have any effect on him. During a particularly obnoxious bout Window Seat and I share a laugh.

“Sounds like a bear found its way aboard.”

“Mu’ fucka is hibernatin’ fo’ real.”

I get back to reading and very little happens for a long time, which is more than fine with me.

When I finish my book I notice that we’re getting close to Minneapolis. I don’t recognize any of the surrounding per se, but I’m familiar with where the stretches of nothing begin and end between Winona and the cities.

Window seat asks me if the next stop is Minneapolis. I didn’t know where all the train stopped, but I told him that it was.

An announcement is made over the intercom that we will arrive in the Minneapolis/St. Paul station in thirty minutes and I put on my coat. Window Seat offers me some Skittles, but I decline.

“You heading to Fargo?”

“What?”

I point up at his seat marker and repeat myself:

“Are you heading to Fargo?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“My little brother goes to school out there.”
“NDSU?”
“No, he lives in Fargo, but he goes to Moorehead.”
“Oh, MSU?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a good school.”
“Yeah, he seems to like it.”

I text my father to let him know I’ll be at the station soon, but that I don’t understand why it will take so long given that I can see buildings that I can recognize as belonging to the Twin Cities. He replies with this:

That’s odd. I’ve always thought of trains as one of the 19^th century’s fastest forms of transportation. Go figure.

Touché.

A young child walks past my seat to find his older brothers in the row behind me.

“Fatwad and midget it’s time to go!”

“If anybody is the midget it’s you!”

“I’m big for my size!”

“…”

“It’s true! I mean… Age… not size.”

Window Seat calls his girlfriend again to let her know that he’s passing through Minneapolis and I make my way off the train and to my father’s car.

“Thanks for picking me up.”

“No problem. It’s going to be interesting navigating our way home. There’s some road construction around here.”
“Is there any food in the fridge?”

“Yeah. There’s some lemon chicken. I think you like that.”

“It’s a good bird.”