An Amtrak Vignette

"Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares."

(Hebrews 13:2)

Abstract from Amtrak's public timetable effective May 15, 1975

For a brief time in late 1975 my Saturdays had become "Amtrak" days. An Amtrak Day to Seattle was long; four and a half hours of train travel to get there, seven hours there and almost five hours to return. Travelling alone and spending a rainy day in Seattle was depressing. 

Daily I'd been praying to God, and begging for a change in the circumstances in my life, so that doing crazy things like going to Seattle only to send and receive mail wouldn't be necessary, but nothing changed. Some days I felt the louder my heart shouted toward heaven, the more God seemed to ignore me.

Nonetheless in Seattle again, where raining again, and with more than four hours remaining until returning train time, I chose to spend those hours sheltering in King Street station to write another letter to her and mail it off. I knew where the nearest mailbox was.

As I was writing, I heard someone shuffling around on the far side of the cavernous yet almost deserted, drab waiting area, so I looked up. A panhandler was pausing at each garbage bin and rummaging through it. I returned to my letter in progress, but eventually the panhandler arrived and stopped in front of me. I willed myself not look up from what I was doing, figuring he'd get the message and move on. 

“Do you have any money you can part with?” he asked.

That was the strangest way I'd ever heard from anyone asking for money, because all money is money that can be parted with in one way or another, whether rich or poor, or by choice or by force.

Words Jesus spoke that I'd read in my Bible came to mind, so I reached into my pocket, looked up, handed him a few dollar bills, and said, "Here." 

“Thank you.” he acknowledged, and sounded surprised.

I was hoping he'd go his way, but instead of wandering off, the vagrant sat on the opposite end of the bench and began talking, “I haven’t always lived like this.”

Wearing a long tan trench coat in need of washing, frayed jeans and worn-looking sneakers, he looked much younger than most vagrants I'd encountered in the past. Perhaps his fairly short dark hair and not looking in need of a shave made him appear that way. Anyway, I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say to him. I didn't want to have to say anything to him.

 Even though I'd remained silent, he persisted, "Where are you from?” 

“Canada.” answering to be polite, but still hoping to avoid a conversation.

“What are you doing down here?” 

My unfinished letter could wait, so I chose to fold it and tuck it into my small shoulder pack before answering, "Just visiting from Canada.” 

“I’m from Mississippi.” 

Aware that Seattle was many miles distant from anywhere in Mississippi, I asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t take it any more.” and now he sounded somewhat agitated.

“Take what?” 

“All the nonsense, all the lies, all the crap. I had to get out so I quit university...” beginning his rant.  

He was spewing out stuff he thought I should've already known about him. Of course everything he was detailing meant nothing to me, but I didn't want to interrupt and ask for more details. I really didn't want or need to know more.

After a pause, he added, “I’ve been drifting around and trying to find a purpose in life.”

I was unable comment upon hearing that.

He changed his subject to inform me that his father owned a resort in Kenora, Ontario, and began telling me all about the place there and how good the hunting and fishing are...  but then he abruptly stopped mid speech to ask, “Have you ever heard of Kenora?”

“Yes, it’s near the Ontario-Manitoba border. CP Rail’s trains roll through there.” 

“Yeah, you know it.” He confirmed, and seemed pleased. 

He reached into his pocket, handed me a folded slip of paper with the name and address of a resort in Kenora, and while pointing at the paper, said, “If you ever visit Kenora, go to this place and ask for my father. Just tell him I was the one who told you to ask for him.”

He never told me his name but wished me well, and then got up and wandered away. After he disappeared, I wondered why he'd stopped to talk, but soon I realized maybe we weren't all that much different from each other, and both alone and on our own here in soggy Seattle. Once more I read the name and address on the paper, and thought, “Why would I ever go to Kenora?”

The familiarity of his comment about quitting university and finding a purpose in life stirred me though, and compelled me question again why I was coming here to Seattle every Saturday. Desperation was my reason. But what was my purpose?

From the internet: Amtrak's Pacific International circa 1976

A few hours later I was comfortable again, and aboard Amtrak’s Pacific International, a four-car train outfitted with worn-out, hand-me-down passenger cars from Union Pacific and Great Northern. A dome-observation car on the tail end gave the train an air of importance, because not every passenger train included a dome car. Unlike CP Rail’s Canadian, which offered coach seating in their dome cars, Amtrak had turned the dome into a dining area and served snacks and decent meals upstairs. 

During much of the return trip however, I sat in the rear of the dome car because smoking was permitted in the lounge area there. Through the curved rear windows I watched the track racing away as the train coursed along the edge of Puget Sound until darkness fell, when all I saw was my distorted reflection instead. The passenger count was light that evening, so I puffed away on my pipe because the lounge area was deserted. I felt weary, and as I stared at the vacant seats across from me, my mind began to wander...

After making a cursory inspection of the immediate area, Holmes pointed out, "Watson, a smoldering, partially-smoked cigarette has been left in the ash tray.” 

“Is this a clue?” his trusted sidekick asked.

“No.” the famed detective already having dismissed the cigarette as irrelevant.

“What makes you so certain?” Watson challenged nonetheless.

“Left by a woman, and as you you will observe here," Holmes now pointing with the stem of his pipe, "smudges of lipstick on the end.”

“Ah yes... but what if our quarry isn't alone?” 

“I can assure you the young lady who left this here was quite alone.”

“How do you know that?” 

“We passed her in the forward coach only moments ago but most likely you looked at her rather than observe her."

"She was quite attractive."

"Seeing attractiveness is distraction, and much less than observation my dear fellow... but nonetheless she was wearing the same shade of pink lipstick and slightly smudged as if made by…” 

“A cigarette against the lips.” Watson interjected.

“Exactly.” Holmes stated, now sounding like a teacher who'd been explaining the solution of a simple problem to a dense student.

A loud yell came from the galley.

Startled, and without thought, right away I questioned, “What? Another murder?” 

“No. Cook just fried some fingers on the griddle.” the Amtrak steward quipped, having heard my silly question. 

For those few prior seconds I must've drifted off to dreamland, nonetheless a barely-smoked cigarette resting in the ash tray on the empty adjacent table was still smouldering, and sure enough, traces of pink lipstick were visible, but I couldn’t recall who may have been sitting there moments earlier.

After 43 days without mail the strike ended, and on December 2nd, Canada’s postal services restarted. Two weeks later I made my final trip to Seattle to close the mailbox and hopefully, to find a letter or two from her waiting for me... but in spite of my desperate denials, somewhere in the back of my mind was that unthinkable truth, she was slowly slipping away from me.

My Amtrak days were over... and so too were a few slowly dying dreams.

The Oddblock Station Agent