I hesitated about this ride a long time ago. I do like talking to strangers, but only the ones I’m interested in. Had some nice conversations. Got picked up by loads of strangers. Learned about the Gold Rush, the influx of immigrants into the dry and seemingly uninhabitable inland. The Italian neighborhood and the church where the woman sitting next to me got baptized and married.
‘Are you Catholic?’
‘Yes, I am.’
Then I paused, with loads of thoughts rambling in my mind about religious conservatives, but I chose to stay silent. 24 hours passed. There was a group of Anabaptists from Iowa. Loud. Extremely loud. I wondered about the different-colored kapps they wore. They reminded me of stories I read about Boy Scours as a kid, especially with the badges on their chests indicating their brother and sisterhood. Once again, I returned to the Catholic women who taught me about mesas and sumacs. She thought the Anabaptists were German. I told her they were not, and, in her disbelief, I confirmed that I had talked to them. Our conversation then switched to Mormons, whom she referred to as a ‘business association’, deliberately lowering here voice between the two of us.
This extremely slow train is like a once-in-a-lifetime cruise for these townspeople, while I could not relate to their marvel at the landscapes. But that’s alright. The good thing about this ride is that there’s no signal in most places, so you have time to think to yourself. Plenty of time. 然后是流浪汉的故事
The drunk guy
Merely a quarter bottle of vodka mixed with some spirit had laid him down, and he could barely support himself. He stumbled his way across the cart, trying to talk (or imo just rant) with someone. I put on the most formidable look I could, and several times he tried to cross over the woman sitting between us to drag me into the conversation but gave up when I was as unresponsive as possible.
When the woman between us finally got fed up with his behavior, I was out of luck. Actually, he first turned to the Vietnamese mother and daughter on his left, asking where they were from. “What do you mean?” The knitting woman was clearly offended. I silently smirked in the dark. “We’re from California.” The drunk guy was relentless, though, taking his harassment to another level. I mean, where are you originally from?” And there Vietnam was spilled out.
I was still chilling, shamelessly eavesdropping. Then he turned to me. “You look cute.” I was disgusted. He continued, “Listen, don’t look at me that way, I’m not a douchebag.” Maybe he wasn’t that drunk, I thought. Or maybe he was. So I said, “But you look like one.” I made it clear that I just wanted to enjoy my time basking in the last bit of sunset, but he kept insisting in disbelief, and I got fed up.
Then I remembered some of the rants he’d made to other, vaguely: “Life sucks. I’m done with this.” There’s no point in taking a drunk man’s words seriously, but staring out into the endless, lifeless plateau, I decided to give in to the last bit of mercy in me. “We are just two different kinds of people. When my life sucks, I think it over, not drink it over.”
When I finished and turned toward him, he was already fast asleep, curled up across two chairs. For some reason, I tilted my head, subconsciously curious, observed him for a bit, and then turned back to the setting sun. The two-story train slid into Reno, meeting with the tall walls of the station, setting the platform up as a stage for observation to the benefit of the upper-story passengers.
I, and the Catholic women, were both part of the audience. We positioned ourselves as if we were in the theatre balcony, ready to judge with non-existent tightly clutched theatre glasses.
“That’s the woman I told you about earlier. She went to attend a wedding in Pennsylvania, and they are getting off at Emeryville.”
I couldn’t recall the woman, so I made a defensive move. “Here daughters are cute. ” The Catholic woman didn’t say anything, but I held there was more in her silence that she held back.
And here, the lead was on stage. The drunk guy.
Both of us knew we were expecting him in this scene. He was getting off at Reno and had made this announcement to almost the entire train. He went straight to a woman leaning against the wall, asking for a cigarette light. Nearly tripped himself off during that few-steps of journey. “He’s still high” I said. “Poor man” The Catholic woman then went on excusing herself for having escaped him earlier. “His life could get better, it depends on his choices. he needs self-medication.” I agreed, feeling self-assured.
Now he was facing away from us. “Look a his suitcase – just that makes me sad,” the Catholic woman pointed to me how the bottom part of the man;s suitcase was fallen apart. We were back to silence, watching the man walking away, towards the end of this endless platform, to the end of our sight, to the off-stage of the never ending stage, fighting with his baggy pants and suitcase along the way.
I’m never interested in people’s past lives, whether miserable or full of rosaries. And sometimes my nonchalant attitude offend people. However, at this point, when the drunk guy gradually disappeared at the vanishing point – the convergence of all orthogonals – I started to wonder about his future.
Before the train arrived in Reno, we had been talking about the homeless along the way. I told the Catholic woman about the newest SCOTUS decision allowing state governors to clean out homeless camps. “Where are they going to send them?” She asked. People are becoming cargo. “What could they do to us?”
紧锣密鼓地走过几个城市，效率日益低下等想把回忆书于纸上时能回想起的不过寥寥。
运不开笔