Trainspotted

This town has been dissected by the railway since the beginning, but unlike the common colloquialism, there is no wrong side of the tracks in this place. 

I’ve been stuck here waiting on my next assignment  for the past three days. Even for a tiny town, I’ve gone largely unnoticed. The people I’ve seen and overheard are mostly of retirement age and, like most retirees, they are gleefully oblivious to the rest of the problems of the rest of the world. They speak of gardening and property lines and the “best damn general contractor in town.” They sit in front of the general store next to the railroad tracks. They sip coffee and tea and nibble on blueberry muffins they buy one-at-a-time from the store. 

The “town queer” rolls buy on his flamboyantly adorned bicycle, which is blasting doo-wop hits on this warming summer morning. Even with his lime green mini skirt, white knee-high platform boots, off-key sing-a-long, and the click-clacking of almost a dozen strings of Mardi Gras beads, they barely give notice and even less of a comment other than a whispered, “Here he comes.” One of the two older men smiles and subtly shakes his head at the absurdity, but that’s the extent of it. The skirt strolls on by and I feel a pang of envy at his freedom.

The incoming 9:28 Amtrak commuter pulling into the tiny unmanned station, however, gets all of their attention. The harsh metallic scrape of the brakes ends with a clank and the train’s power unit is now stopped parallel to our tables. Just 25 feet away, you can feel the rumble of the idling diesel engines in your chest. The retirees are all gazing and smiling in awe, ignoring the flies circling their muffins. One of the women waves to the conductor, who doesn’t break eye contact with the endless line of gleaming steel track ahead. She still smiles and waves. They are all locked in a gaze of child-like wonder, even as the train starts to inch forward, moving onward to the next little town, also filled with cute, wonder-filled seniors chatting away their lazy mornings before the early summer humidity takes hold.

I wish I was on that train, wherever it was headed, orders in hand for my next assignment. The sleepiness of this place is getting to me. A bucolic respite wears thin for me after just a few days. I’m recharged and ready for action. My edge will get quite dull if I’m stuck here much longer. Just the thought makes me anxious enough to gather my things and leave these people where they sit. I need a cold beer and a long walk.