Waiting to take me away. I stand there at the station, waiting for something to happen. I check my watch every second until I resign myself to sitting on the worn wooden seats, staring at the big clock hands. I hope they aren't five minutes off. What if they're five minutes off? I look at my own watch. No, they're not five minutes off. What if my watch is five minutes off? Could my watch and their clock both be five minutes off? What if the train already came and left? I'll ask a guard. Did the train already come and go? Yes. It did twenty minutes ago. When is the next? In half an hour.
How did I miss that train? I was sitting right here. Wasn't I? Maybe I got up for a few minutes. Yes. That's it. I got up. When did I get up? Maybe I dozed off? Yes, that is much more likely.
They all got on the train and left me here. Because I dozed off. I was tired. I can't keep up with all of them and all of their pushing. I want to do things my way. I don't know what my way is, though.
A train pulls up, finally. What train is this? I don't know. It will take you South, though. South? Yes, I want to go South. South sounds right. I get on my train.
The hum of the train is so loud it turns into white noise, drowning out every impulse to talk to anyone. I put on my earbuds, even if I can't hear the music playing. Ignoring everyone is better than having nothing to say.
They're going places. Where am I going? I don't know. I'm returning to familiarity, but that doesn't mean I'm going anywhere. All of the telephone poles following each other, one after the next, like a line of thin, tall elephants, holding on to each other's tails with their long, thin noses, like something out of Disney. They move at an incredible speed.
We're stopping. An announcer announces that we're stopping. That's how I know. Everything lurches a little, even though we've slowed down so much that I can hear my music again.
Why am I listening to Gilbert and Sullivan? Isn't there something better to listen to than music that is a century and a half old? It seems odd that I should be listening to it on something that is just a few months old. I should be listening to it through a gramophone in a parlor with a beau who has been walking me home from church for the past month, not alone on a train.
I would have been wonderful dating material then, you know. I can cook. I'm plump. Surely, my curves would have screamed sexy then. Not like the emaciated plastic surgery blondes of today. No, my brown eyes and dark hair would be exotic. I would be the height of sexy. I can knit. I'm sorry, I can't sew. But I can learn. My dad would have been a farmer then.
I'd be a good farmer's wife, I know it. I'd have been getting up at 4 AM to milk the cows since I was nine or ten. I'd know how to make my man a good breakfast and we would have at least four boys. I'm good and sturdy. I could survive. I know it. But I wouldn't listen to Gilbert and Sullivan if I was on a farm. That's city music.
You know, if I got off right here, I would be some place I'd never been before. How wonderful would that be? It's sunny here. Maybe I'd meet someone. Who knows who. Maybe someone old and who would tell me a story of when they were my age and they just moved here. Los Angeles would have been so much smaller. Maybe someone young who would smile at me. We could be friends. They might have a place for me to stay for the night. For the rest of my young life. Maybe I could get a job here. Why, I'd have to. I don't have any money and a person needs money to eat and to breathe.
A person doesn't need money when they know that someone else will give it to them. That's why I'm living at home. That's why I can say all the things I can say about Social Security. I know my hand isn't out, but if I got off here, my hand would be out. Well, I've missed my opportunity. The train tugs forward.
I'm so depressed. This train isn't going where I want to be. Maybe if I jumped off the train. They don't let you do that anymore, I know. There's no place for me to jump off on these new trains. I say new, but I've never been in a moving old train, where someone could jump off of it while it was moving. I should jump off. I'd make the evening news. Woman Jumps Off Moving Train. I don't know what would happen if I jumped off of a moving train. It could be like the movies, where the action star jumps out of the train but rolls when he hits the ground and he's alright, like nothing happened. He doesn't even have a scratch on his face or a broken ankle or wrist.
With my luck, I'd end up like the bad guy who jumps off just at the wrong moment and gets caught on barbed wire or something and dies and the screen pans out on my dead body. I guess bad guy bodies don't deserve close ups, unless it's a horror movie. And then it's just so they can scare you one last time. But when they're really dead, it's always panning out. Or a switch over to the good guys saying their last lines or hopping on a horse to ride away into the sunset or into a car to drive away. They don't spend much time on that bad guy. He's dead. I guess they figure they gave enough time to him as he was cruelly laughing at the plight of the good guy.
They don't focus on his wife who's crying because her husband didn't come home. He said he'd be gone a few days. He's not back. She doesn't know until the Sheriff comes by with his hat and gun and tells her what a bad sort of man he was. Well, I guess that didn't happen too often anyway.
Anyway, my dead body would be all over the newspapers and people who didn't even know me would pile up flowers and teddy bears where I died. All the flowers would die after a few months and the candles would stay there and collect rain and the teddy bears would fade or be taken away by dogs. But something would still stay there and collect dust and everyone who flew past in that train for months, maybe years, would go I wonder who died there?
Someone died in a motorcycle accident outside my house on the last day of High School. I'd just had my last class ever and was coming home. I missed the accident, but his leg... I'll always remember when the ambulance came. He wasn't dead yet, but they were trying so hard to keep him alive. I can't remember if they took off his helmet. I guess they must have, but they were covering his body with blankets to keep him warm. That's what you're supposed to do when someone is in shock.When the ambulance came, they threw off that blanket that someone had lovingly put there as if it was an annoyance. Who dared cover this dying man? We have a job to do!
They moved him onto a stretcher. That's when I saw it. His leg flopped sideways and his foot moved at an impossible angle, like his leg was made of rubber. That's when I knew he wasn't going to live. His parents come by the house and place flowers and a candle where he died. They sit there for a long time and just stare, as if remembering. I'll bet they come there every year for the rest of their lives. I'll never ride a motorcycle as long as I live.
So I guess I'll just ride this train, that is taking me back to familiarity. I'm beginning to hate familiarity. It is as much freedom as it is a jail. Rather, it is a jail with all the illusion of freedom. It's a cage. A beautiful cage. It has everything a bird can need. It has water. It has bird seed. It even has a little mirror so that I'll never get lonely, right? Who can get lonely with the reflection of one's self as one's companion? Surely this won't drive a person insane. There's nothing beyond this cage. Just a window. Just a window where there's blue sky and telephone poles like elephants.
Who would want to leave this cage? There might be cats out there. Big, scary cats that would just as soon eat you up as look at you. There will be storms. Lightening and thunder and you have no home, little bird. You don't even know how to make one, little bird. You don't know where to look for food. You've grown up in a cage all your life; I'm not even sure you know how to fly, little bird. No, you can stay here and sing for us. You can stay here and eat all the food you want and get nice and fat. You're a beautiful little bird.
I do want to stay here. It's warm. It's beautiful. I can't fly very well, anyway. I've never been very good at flying. I can sort of flap about and make a racket and maybe copy a few words people say to me, but I'll never be like that bird that can sing the Star Spangled Banner or even the Andy Griffith Theme song. I won't be like that eagle that soars down and catches a fish in midair as it was jumping over the waterfall on its way upstream.
The train lurches to a stop again. Again and again. And I'm falling asleep, again. That loud Big Brother voice keeps announcing where we are and where we will be next. I hope I miss my stop.
How did I miss that train? I was sitting right here. Wasn't I? Maybe I got up for a few minutes. Yes. That's it. I got up. When did I get up? Maybe I dozed off? Yes, that is much more likely.
They all got on the train and left me here. Because I dozed off. I was tired. I can't keep up with all of them and all of their pushing. I want to do things my way. I don't know what my way is, though.
A train pulls up, finally. What train is this? I don't know. It will take you South, though. South? Yes, I want to go South. South sounds right. I get on my train.
The hum of the train is so loud it turns into white noise, drowning out every impulse to talk to anyone. I put on my earbuds, even if I can't hear the music playing. Ignoring everyone is better than having nothing to say.
They're going places. Where am I going? I don't know. I'm returning to familiarity, but that doesn't mean I'm going anywhere. All of the telephone poles following each other, one after the next, like a line of thin, tall elephants, holding on to each other's tails with their long, thin noses, like something out of Disney. They move at an incredible speed.
We're stopping. An announcer announces that we're stopping. That's how I know. Everything lurches a little, even though we've slowed down so much that I can hear my music again.
Why am I listening to Gilbert and Sullivan? Isn't there something better to listen to than music that is a century and a half old? It seems odd that I should be listening to it on something that is just a few months old. I should be listening to it through a gramophone in a parlor with a beau who has been walking me home from church for the past month, not alone on a train.
I would have been wonderful dating material then, you know. I can cook. I'm plump. Surely, my curves would have screamed sexy then. Not like the emaciated plastic surgery blondes of today. No, my brown eyes and dark hair would be exotic. I would be the height of sexy. I can knit. I'm sorry, I can't sew. But I can learn. My dad would have been a farmer then.
I'd be a good farmer's wife, I know it. I'd have been getting up at 4 AM to milk the cows since I was nine or ten. I'd know how to make my man a good breakfast and we would have at least four boys. I'm good and sturdy. I could survive. I know it. But I wouldn't listen to Gilbert and Sullivan if I was on a farm. That's city music.
You know, if I got off right here, I would be some place I'd never been before. How wonderful would that be? It's sunny here. Maybe I'd meet someone. Who knows who. Maybe someone old and who would tell me a story of when they were my age and they just moved here. Los Angeles would have been so much smaller. Maybe someone young who would smile at me. We could be friends. They might have a place for me to stay for the night. For the rest of my young life. Maybe I could get a job here. Why, I'd have to. I don't have any money and a person needs money to eat and to breathe.
A person doesn't need money when they know that someone else will give it to them. That's why I'm living at home. That's why I can say all the things I can say about Social Security. I know my hand isn't out, but if I got off here, my hand would be out. Well, I've missed my opportunity. The train tugs forward.
I'm so depressed. This train isn't going where I want to be. Maybe if I jumped off the train. They don't let you do that anymore, I know. There's no place for me to jump off on these new trains. I say new, but I've never been in a moving old train, where someone could jump off of it while it was moving. I should jump off. I'd make the evening news. Woman Jumps Off Moving Train. I don't know what would happen if I jumped off of a moving train. It could be like the movies, where the action star jumps out of the train but rolls when he hits the ground and he's alright, like nothing happened. He doesn't even have a scratch on his face or a broken ankle or wrist.
With my luck, I'd end up like the bad guy who jumps off just at the wrong moment and gets caught on barbed wire or something and dies and the screen pans out on my dead body. I guess bad guy bodies don't deserve close ups, unless it's a horror movie. And then it's just so they can scare you one last time. But when they're really dead, it's always panning out. Or a switch over to the good guys saying their last lines or hopping on a horse to ride away into the sunset or into a car to drive away. They don't spend much time on that bad guy. He's dead. I guess they figure they gave enough time to him as he was cruelly laughing at the plight of the good guy.
They don't focus on his wife who's crying because her husband didn't come home. He said he'd be gone a few days. He's not back. She doesn't know until the Sheriff comes by with his hat and gun and tells her what a bad sort of man he was. Well, I guess that didn't happen too often anyway.
Anyway, my dead body would be all over the newspapers and people who didn't even know me would pile up flowers and teddy bears where I died. All the flowers would die after a few months and the candles would stay there and collect rain and the teddy bears would fade or be taken away by dogs. But something would still stay there and collect dust and everyone who flew past in that train for months, maybe years, would go I wonder who died there?
Someone died in a motorcycle accident outside my house on the last day of High School. I'd just had my last class ever and was coming home. I missed the accident, but his leg... I'll always remember when the ambulance came. He wasn't dead yet, but they were trying so hard to keep him alive. I can't remember if they took off his helmet. I guess they must have, but they were covering his body with blankets to keep him warm. That's what you're supposed to do when someone is in shock.When the ambulance came, they threw off that blanket that someone had lovingly put there as if it was an annoyance. Who dared cover this dying man? We have a job to do!
They moved him onto a stretcher. That's when I saw it. His leg flopped sideways and his foot moved at an impossible angle, like his leg was made of rubber. That's when I knew he wasn't going to live. His parents come by the house and place flowers and a candle where he died. They sit there for a long time and just stare, as if remembering. I'll bet they come there every year for the rest of their lives. I'll never ride a motorcycle as long as I live.
So I guess I'll just ride this train, that is taking me back to familiarity. I'm beginning to hate familiarity. It is as much freedom as it is a jail. Rather, it is a jail with all the illusion of freedom. It's a cage. A beautiful cage. It has everything a bird can need. It has water. It has bird seed. It even has a little mirror so that I'll never get lonely, right? Who can get lonely with the reflection of one's self as one's companion? Surely this won't drive a person insane. There's nothing beyond this cage. Just a window. Just a window where there's blue sky and telephone poles like elephants.
Who would want to leave this cage? There might be cats out there. Big, scary cats that would just as soon eat you up as look at you. There will be storms. Lightening and thunder and you have no home, little bird. You don't even know how to make one, little bird. You don't know where to look for food. You've grown up in a cage all your life; I'm not even sure you know how to fly, little bird. No, you can stay here and sing for us. You can stay here and eat all the food you want and get nice and fat. You're a beautiful little bird.
I do want to stay here. It's warm. It's beautiful. I can't fly very well, anyway. I've never been very good at flying. I can sort of flap about and make a racket and maybe copy a few words people say to me, but I'll never be like that bird that can sing the Star Spangled Banner or even the Andy Griffith Theme song. I won't be like that eagle that soars down and catches a fish in midair as it was jumping over the waterfall on its way upstream.
The train lurches to a stop again. Again and again. And I'm falling asleep, again. That loud Big Brother voice keeps announcing where we are and where we will be next. I hope I miss my stop.
1 comment:
you need to write a book
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