Gary Beck

Train Ride

As soon as we pulled out of the station I set out to explore the train, eager for adventure. I wanted to spend as little time with the family as possible, so I needed hideouts. The cars of most interest were the dining car, where I planned to gorge on steak and hamburgers, the lounge car and the observation car. Then there was the bar car, where I intended to become a regular patron, if I could avoid Mother. I introduced myself to the bartender by presenting a five-dollar bill, which I hoped would assure appropriate service throughout the trip, and he cooperated fully. The train sped through swirling holiday snow falling so heavily that I couldn’t see out the window. Time was already altering as the world contracted to the narrow confines of the gently rocking train. Events in other places receded and the eerie reality of the traveler in transit was all that mattered. War, crime, politics and culture ceased as we moved across Connecticut, heading west, loaded with more gifts and luggage than the caravan of the Magi. Our fussy boarding that morning had disappeared, and the warm, delicious beach near my cousins’ house in San Francisco didn’t yet exist.

It didn’t take long to discover that the passengers were either real old, or young couples too preoccupied with love to be interested in a teenager. By the second day, the novelty of the dining car had worn off. Mother had caught me drinking in the bar and furiously demanded the train personnel watch me carefully at all times. She threatened dire consequences. I felt confined, and despite frequent excursions up and down the train I became restless. I read condensed Reader’s Digest novels for a few hours in the lounge car, but when Mother joined me for literary discussions, I fled to an empty coach car, where I didn’t think anyone would look for me, and I sat there all night long, staring at stars, falling into a trance, swept away by the rhythm of the wheels rolling us westward. When I woke up we were in the Midwest. The landscape was flat and drab and the towns were small and dreary. I slept a lot more until we were way past Chicago, and nothing got better until New Mexico, where the landscape -- deserts, mesas, a butte right out of a John Ford movie -- made up for a lot. The 7th Cavalry might ride over the rise any minute. New Mexico and Arizona were the highlight of the trip. We finally reached San Francisco, and it was an enormous relief to leave the train, but it was a shock to discover that San Francisco wasn’t warm at all. So much for the beach.

Gary Beck’s recent fiction has appeared in 3AM Magazine, EWG Presents, Nuvein Magazine, Babel, Vincent Brothers Review, L’Intrigue Magazine, The Journal, Short Stories Bimonthly and Bibliophilos. His poetry has appeared in dozens of literary magazines. His plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes, and Sophocles have been produced Off-Broadway, and he is a writer/director of award-winning social issue video documentaries.