By Michael Glenn
Teen-age Dirtbag
“Chooooo chooooo.”
Not a lick of wind shielded the train whistle’s harsh start into the Lawrence Station on a pleasantly mild Sunday night. The conductor seemed to throw the brakes at the last second as the steel-on-steel screeched to a halt. The clock struck 10:58 p.m.
Two workers, one with a patterned blue tie, the other open-necked, shouted “ALL ABOARD” to the dozen or so people lined outside the sleepy superliner.
“La Junta and Los Angeles this way,” the tieless worker said. “All others, Dodge City, that way.”
I waddled over to the far side of the train—something that looked out of the Nixon administration—and showed the worker my ticket and last name.
“You’ll be sitting with someone else up there,” the worker said, “but I’ve got you a spot at seat 45.”
The staircase spiraling to the blue-lit coach car was so narrow it would’ve been impossible to fall over with the leather and duffle bags strapped to my shoulders. Not even by the time I turned the corner to find “45, 46” on the south side of the superliner did I hear a whistle—fainter this time—and feel the inertia pull me away from my seat.
I planted my feet and snuck over to my seat. The car was dead silent, minus a conversation made by two folks in the back who were trying to whisper but had no idea how.
My seat partner was someone who looked friendly but had noise-cancelling headphones on. We didn’t say a word.
Once the train excelled to 79 mph, I hopped out of my seat with a Sunday edition of The New York Times and waltzed on over to the lounge car, looking for a cup of coffee or a bit more room to lay out a broadsheet.
I read the arts and leisure section, one story about one Joe Haisashi going classical after making it as a minimalist, electronic Japanese composer, another about “Little House on the Prairie” getting a 21st-century remake on Netflix, respecting Indigenous and Black people’s roles in mid-19th century Kansas more than what previous editions have expressed.
The train bumped and squeaked all night, ruffling the newsprint like a gust of wind. The train lulled to a crawl when the tied worker came back again through the cart, saying “Topeka, Kansas.”
I figured I’d better make it back to my seat, as no coffee could be found anywhere, and I’d be due for a nap now.
Walking around the train, I found all types of people riding the rails between Chicago and Los Angeles. Some would peril the entire journey. Others, like myself, hopped off between three stops. Young and old, male and female, blondes and brunettes and everything in between found a home on the superliner.
I cozied the best I could in my chair, laid it back, and passed out immediately.
“Hutchinson,” I heard almost instantly after I put my head back, “you’re up in 30 minutes.”
I made eye contact with the tied worker again; I had to be in Newton, I thought to myself. I looked out the window, wiping my eyes to see a familiar station and multiple tracks through downtown. I was right.
I thought of trying to get around again, but I decided to “rest my eyes” and didn’t open them until “Hutchinson, eight minutes,” rolled through my eardrums by the same gentlemen.
“Woosh.”
I tried to come alive, throw my bags on my back, said “excuse me” a countless amount of times and waddled back down that spiral staircase of doom.
Sitting there with a few other people, all destined to jump out at 3rd Avenue and Main Street, I was ready to head back.
The doors shot open, and I could see the faint “HUTCHINSON” slapped onto the 1950s-style train station the Salt City has called home.
“I wish I could get some Mexican food right now,” I thought to myself. “If only this didn’t come in the middle of the night.”
The few people in front of me in the bottom car moseyed out onto the platform, and I followed shortly after. I gave the tieless worker, one of those who watched over us from Lawrence, a tired look but one I thought looked thankful.
“Choooo chooooo. All aboard. Anyone coming with us?”