An Autotrain Story Part III

     Jim managed to turn off the handheld shower with a wrench.  His shirt was soaked.  Steve sat on the toilet with a towel around his waist.  It was the only place he'd been able to get out of the spray.  "All set now," Jim said, turning to leave the compartment.  "Hope none of yur stuff got wet when I opened the door.  See ya at breakfast.  OK, Marge, you kin go in now."  Marge reappeared from the corridor outside.
     Around six-thirty, Marge and Steve dragged themselves into the dining car for coffee, bagels, and juice.  This time they sought the booth with Jim and Ann.
     "Sit, sit," Jim said.
     "We really appreciate the help you gave both of us," Steve began.
     "No problem.  We're used to it."
     "I imagine you've got some wild stories riding back and forth."
     "Damn right 'bout that," Jim said, slurping the milk in his cereal.
     "So where do you live, riding the rails for Amtrak?"
     "Close to Lorton.  Fact, our family's comin' to git us.  Maybe you could meet 'em."
     "Well, thanks, but we'll have to get going once we get our car."
     "Yeah, guess so.  Too bad.  Our son's on his way back to UVA after he drops us home."
     "UVA?  That's where I went," Steve said.  "Marge, too."
     "Yeah?  He just pledged a frat there, Sigma Nu.  We're real proud of him.  I learnt the secret handshake."
     "Sigma Nu?  No way!  That was mine, too.  I'd love to meet him!  Give me the shake, bro'."
     Elbows bent, arms twisted around each other, two palms grasped in a handshake.  "Fact is," Jim said, untwisting his forearm, "there's a couple other Sugma Nu's from UVA on this trip.  See the guy in the yellow shirt?  And the guy 'cross from him?  We's all from Lorton.  Come on, I'll introduce ya.  They's 'bout your age."  Jim led Steve down the aisle behind them.
     "Steve?  Steve Thomas?  Damn, it's you!  How the hell are you?"
     "John Baines?  My old roomie?  This is unbelievable!"  John had jumped into the aisle and was bearhugging Steve.
     "This is Jack Ryan, another Sigma Nu."
     "Please, if you've finished breakfast, others are waiting for your seats," the attendant said.
     "We've got to catch up," Steve said.  "Let's meet in the terminal and figure out where we can grab a cup of coffee.  Maybe your family can join us, Jim."
     Two by two the group swiveled with arms around each other and retreated down the aisle.  "Woo, woo, woo, Sigma Nu," trailed off behind them.

An Autotrain Story Part II

     Marge and Steve slid onto the two remaining Naugahyde seats in the dining car.  Across from them sat the tattooed man and his very large wife.
     "Howdy!  I'm Jim and this here's Ann," Jim said, extending his hand.
     "I'm Steve and this is Marge," Steve said, as handshakes were exchanged over the table.  "What have we got to eat?"
     A waiter sidled up.  "There's beef, chicken, salmon, or lasagna.  The menu's on the table.  I've got red and white wine, or beer." 
     Marge opted for white wine without raising her eyes from the menu.  "Where you from?" Jim asked, as the waiter poured from pitchers.
     "We're heading back to Connecticut," Steve answered.  "Should be a five hour drive from Lorton.  How 'bout you?"  The women remained silent.
     Marge raised her wine glass for a taste.  Just as the liquid rolled off her tongue, something warm and furry brushed against her ankle.  Her scream became a rasping choke.  Steve gave her a few whacks on the back that would have dislodged a side of beef.   "You OK?"
     "Get me out," she yelled, pushing Steve into the aisle.  "There's a rat under the table!"
     "That ain't no rat," Jim said, laughing.  "That's Ann's cat. She won't go nowhere without Whiskers."
     "I think I'll have dinner in the compartment," Marge said.  "Beef will be fine."  She turned and started down the aisle.
     "Sorry, folks," Steve said to Jim and Ann.  "Guess she got a good scare."  He paused and placed an order for two beef dinners for compartment #216.
     Their sofa had transformed into two bunk beds, the lower one six inches wider than the upper.  "Can you sit on the bed and eat?" Steve asked.  "I'll sit in the chair."
     "I can't even get in the room, let alone sit on the bed," Marge said, still red in the face.  Her thick shin was wedged between the lower bunk and the sink cabinet. 
     "Just a minute," Steve said from out in the corridor.  With a twist and simultaneous shove, the leg dislodged and Marge fell onto the bunk. 
     "Ow!  Thanks a lot," she said with undisguised sarcasm.
     "My pleasure," Steve said with reciprocated sarcasm.
     "I don't know how I'm going to get up this ladder," Marge said, pointing next to her.  "Besides, I'll bump my head on the ceiling if I try to go to the bathroom."
     "I'll sleep up there," Steve said.  Their meals arrived and they ate in silence.
     During the night, Steve swung his feet over the top bunk, forgetting that webbing hung from the ceiling.  The more he tried to disentangle them, the more his size thirteens became engaged.  "Shit!" he said, waking Marge.
     "What happened?"
     "I'm caught and I can't get out."
     Marge climbed out of her warm nest and positioned one foot on the ladder.  "You need to come a little higher so you can reach my feet," Steve said.
     By the glow of the night light Marge lifted her other foot but it missed the next rung.  She slipped backward onto the floor.  "You OK?" Steve asked.
     "I think I wrenched my neck," Marge said, climbing onto her knees.  Steve hit the porter's button.
     Leonard arrived in less than a minute.  "I'll call for a nurse we have on board," he said, disengaging Steve's two feet from the webbing.  Marge had pulled herself into the  chair.
     Ten minutes later, there was a knock on their steel door.  "I'm the nurse you called for," a woman said, peeking in.  "Oh, it's you two.  I'm Ann  - remember?  What's the problem?"
     Ann flopped from the outer corridor onto the bottom bunk like a beached whale.  Marge crawled from the chair and sat on the floor next to her.  As Ann massaged, Marge's neck relaxed.  "Can you make it down on your own, Steve?" Marge asked.
     "Yeah.  Thanks, Ann."
     In the morning, Steve attempted to shower from a sitting position on the toilet.  It was the only way his six-foot frame could fit in the cubicle.  When he'd finished, he turned the shower knob to "Off."  The water refused.
     "Marge, I can't turn this thing off," he yelled through the bathroom door.
     "Well, I can't open the door without flooding the floor.  I'll call the porter."
     "Good morning," said Leonard, feigning cheerfulness.  "How may I help you?"
     "My husband can't turn off the shower in there."
     "I'll call a plumber we have on board."
     In ten minutes there was a knock on the steel door.  "I'm the plumber - oh, it's you two.  I'm Jim - remember?  Amtrak hires my wife and me for this route.  Marge, you'd better git outside 'less you want to git wet.  Steve, you got a towel on in there?"
     

An Autotrain Story Part I

     Unable to see out the rear window because the SUV was piled with golf clubs, file crates, boxes,

and suitcases, Marge and Steve crawled for four hours from their Florida residence to the Amtrak depot in Sanford, Florida. They arrived just before the check-in deadline.
     "Pull your vehicle all the way forward," the loudspeaker said.  Each line of cars moved forward at an impressive pace.
     Marge and Steve had Hollywood visions of the trip from "The Orient Express" movie:  a private compartment with 100-thread/square-inch bed linens, a white-gloved porter, a dining car laden with silver and crystal.
     An attendant moved next to Steve's door.  "Please take all personal belongings you'll need overnight," he said to them.  "The car will be locked and inaccessible.  May I have your paperwork, please?"
     Steve got out and handed over the documents and keys.  He reached into the back seat for his blue blazer and shrugged it on over his striped button-down.  Marge got their Louis Vitton overnight bag with her matching tote out of the trunk.
     "Please proceed to the waiting room and check in at the counter," the attendant said.
     Inside was a room that held the former occupants of four hundred cars.  All waited to board the three-quarter-mile train.
     Steve handed the Amtrak clerk his ID and paperwork.  "Welcome, Mr. Thomas!  I see you have a private sleeping compartment.   I'm afraid the 7:00 dinner seating is filled, so would you prefer the 5 p.m. or 9 p.m. seating?"
     "The early one, please," Marge said.
      "You'll hear an announcement in just a few minutes to proceed to the numbered car that's marked on this boarding pass.  Yours is #89.  There will be a porter outside the car to take your suitcase and lead you to the proper compartment."
     "OK.  Is there a bar car?" Steve said.
     "Oh, yes.  The porter will show you, if you ask.  Have a pleasant journey."
     "Thanks so much."
     Steve took off his blue blazer and slung it over his shoulder.  There were too many people in one room to lower the temperature to his liking.  Behind him he pulled their suitcase, while Marge carried matching tote and purse.
     They dodged dogs on reprieve from their cages, coolers spilling bottles of water and soda, college knapsacks, and military duffel bags, but were unable to find two seats.  A cat perched in a woman's lap.  Because of the enormity of the woman's stomach, the cat actually perched on her knees.  The husband's tee revealed his midriff and tattoos rippled across his biceps.  Bulging beneath one sleeve was a square box.
     "Better smoke one of them things now.  It'll be your last chance outside for a while," the woman said, as Steve and Marge maneuvered around the cat's carrying case, heading for two remaining seats outside the toilets.
     "Quite an assortment of people," Marge said to the back of Steve's head.
     Within minutes they heard the announcement to proceed to numbered cars.  As promised, a porter met them outside car #89. No white gloves, but he led them up the steps of the train and up again an interior spiral stair, holding their overnight bag so there'd be no scuffs.  Marge and Steve followed down a long, skinny corridor to compartment #216. 
     "Well, there'll be plenty of beer and wine at dinner, no limits," the porter said, placing their suitcase inside.  "I'll make the bunks up while you're eating, if that's OK.  You have the early seating?  The late one usually gets rowdy.  If there's anything else you need, just let me know.  Towels and kleenex are right here, and an overnight kit, too," he said, pointing beneath the sink.  "Glasses are up top.  The bathroom light goes on automatically, once you lock that door."
     The train pulled out right on schedule.  After they'd put everything away and took a glance out the windows, Marge and Steve heard the announcement for the 5:00 seating.
     "I guess we won't have time for a drink in the bar," Steve said.  They moved along the thin corridor in the opposite direction from where they'd climbed up, bumping against the long windows and  sides of compartments.  Between cars Steve hit the big red button to slide the steel doors open, trying to maintain his balance as the train weaved and jerked.
     Five cars later, they found the dining room.  Glasses from a restaurant supply store sat on linen tablecloths.  Stainless steel forks, knives, spoons edged the plates that would go directly into a commercial dishwasher.  No fine china in sight.

.....TO BE CONTINUED

Role Models for Twenty-Somethings: Grandpa and Grandma



Pam's parents, Ev and Walt, who are the subjects of her book, A Survival Guide for Children with Elderly Parents (Who Still Have Their Marbles)

Mireille Silcoff wrote a piece in the NY Times Magazine on April 28, 2013, about a rage called "Advanced Style."  The rage was created by  31-year-old Ari Cohen in his coffee table book featuring photos of women, mostly, who are too old to care what the latest style is.  By not caring, the women create a style of their own.  It's called "dressing for yourself instead of other people."

So, if you're over seventy, don't throw out your old stuff.  The twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings want to get their hands on it.  Put it on E-bay.

Which led me to wonder about the twenty-somethings:
-don't they know the shirts are stained with tobacco drool from grandpa's pipe?
-don't they know the pants have holes in not-so-appropriate places?
-don't they know the orthodic shoes are misshapen from the bunions that grew inside?
-don't they know the sweat stains in grandpa's baseball caps will never disappear?
-don't they know that tea cozies are dust collectors?
-don't they know that grandma's handknit afghans smells of moth balls?
-don't they know the thick socks with nonskid rubber underneath are from hospital overnights?
-don't they know that platinum highlights will come naturally?
-don't they know that herb-scented enlightenment is a reward after fifty years of working overtime?
-don't they know that retirement's freedom was paid for with a social security system
     that is broken, a pension that was tithed, and a savings account that started
     the minute grandma and grandpa married?

I guess the appeal of the twilight years is their authenticity.  You can eat when you want, fart when you want, sleep when you want, make love when you want, stay up all night on the computer if you want, wear what you want, follow the dream you want, go where you want. 

That's assuming you can still walk and see and digest and hear and have money to get there.  "Getting old is not for sissies," the saying goes, and that's certainly true.  But twenty-somethings don't want to hear about back pain, hip and knee replacements, arthritis flare-ups,  kidney stones, and cataracts.

Their grandpas and grandmas have held them in diapers, attended their graduations, walked down the aisle at their weddings, and now are travelling around the world with them.  They have become role models who have the younger generation's attention, and that is a testament unto itself in this culture of risk and exponentially increasing speed.  Grandma and grandpa's histories need to be repeated, and time is of the essence.  Forget the vinyl and afghans.  Forget style.  Tell the stories.

Key West Revisited

Charley and I head south every year in late April for the Conch Republic Festival.  It's Key West's version of Mardi Gras, a celebration of the island's unsuccessful attempt to secede from the Union.  The fact that they didn't succeed in seceding doesn't seem to matter.

We head as far south as we can go until U.S. 1 runs out, ninety miles from Cuba.  Key West is a paradise for writers - and artists, lovers, snorkelers, divers, boaters, fishermen, campers, birders, foreigners, lesbians, gays, transvestites - ANYONE!  Just the drive down is worth the trip.  It takes five hours from Delray Beach, over forty-some bridges.  The sea changes on both sides from deep azure far out to vibrant turquoise in the channels to beige over the sand bars to thin pea-soup green in the runoffs.  Nonstop photo ops, but not at 45 mph between Key Largo and Duval Street.

The bizarre becomes commonplace here and acceptance is the norm.  A young Irishman walks the sidewalk with pink dye in his blond Mohawk.  The spikes on his head are outdone only by the spikes on the green iguana grazing on the sea grapes at the edge of our beach.  A van in orange and white psychedelic swirls advertises a number to call for transport to "Live! Naked Dancers."  As opposed to what - dead naked dancers?  The mainland seems a million miles away.  CNN reports that authorities have surrounded a suspect from the Boston Marathon bombings.  He is lying wounded under a tarp in a boat in someone's backyard.  We are in the twilight zone.

There is the drag race down Duval Street.  Men in drag - sequined dresses, bright makeup, wigs, and revealing undergarments - RUN in stilettos, then jump through tires down the street.  Some of the

shaved legs are pretty shapely, and the butts aren't bad, either.  The contestants must work out for this. There are no bulging guts.

Another event during the two-week Festival is the bed race.  Beds become floats, pushed by the aforementioned "beauties," while real-life beauties sit on the mattresses, feathered, flocked, or fried.  Monkeys and a lemur squat on spectators' shoulders peeling peanuts, while parrots and macaws squawk at the contestants.  The pigeons are busy!  We see a dog dressed in doll clothes wearing a straw hat.

The other event that is a blast, literally, is the Coast Guard's attempt to subdue the rebel Conch Republic pirates on their ship off Mallory Pier.  The Pier is the site of sunset kisses, cruise or Naval ship dockings, and acts of wonder under spotlights.  We've seen the same contortionist, now age 60, remove himself from a chained straitjacket for ten years.  It's also the spot for the water fight.  The Coast Guard, with its superior hoses, subdues the rebels, but not before it has doused the spectators to their bones.  None of us care, since we all have a glow from the sun or whatever. 

I no longer wear flip flops with cute crystal beads cutting between my toes, as I did when we first started going here.  Charley doesn't walk in sandals, either.  Instead, we ramble up Duval Street and back (two and one-half miles, total) in the morning in sturdy walking sneakers and socks.  Charley dons a safari hat, looking for native Key West species.  The temperature will climb near ninety.  He sports a three-day beard, Papa Hemingway-style, and blends right in.

We no longer peer into the Hog's Breath Saloon, Sloppy Joe's, or Margueritaville.  The stink of beer venting onto the sidewalk in the morning takes away my appetite.  Instead, we stop on a porch near the Southernmost Hotel for glasses of ice water, coffee, lemonade, and muffins. 

There is a problem during our walk.  I must shop by memory.  "I hate to shop," Charley reminds me.  The first day I do a memory snapshot of the exact item I see in a window, the shop where I saw it, and where the shop is located.  The following day Charley indulges me by retracing our route while I try to locate the items.  He prevails upon the nearest shopkeeper to provide a plastic chair.  One year a shopkeeper actually gave him a key chain as a reward for his patience.   On the way back to our hotel, we look at shirts to replace what he forgot  or "Y" straps that will hold his sunglasses in place, since they are slipping in the heat.  It's a trade off.

In the afternoon we collapse on our hotel beach and order a late lunch from our chaises, without moving.  Reminds me of a story.

We took another couple with us to Key West a couple of times.  The first time we set up at the same beach but had no idea our section was designated "Topless."  Tom settled in, took one look at what was in front of him, and never moved a muscle for the rest of the afternoon.  He didn't even open a book.  "This is where I want to have lunch the rest of the trip," he said.

A Restaurant Encounter

We met a friend for drinks at a popular south Florida restaurant last week.  Maria had half a martini left when we arrived.  "Good thing I got here early," she said.  "It's Happy Hour!  I'm going to try to hold this seat for Steve, but I think Derek might come, too." 

Charley and I perched on high stools across from Maria in the middle of the room.  The bartender was hustling along the length of a granite slab behind us.  Two women sat across from each other on the right end of our island.  Someone whose head was barely visible over the granite top stood waiting next to them, with her husband.  Those end stools would be vacant for maybe thirty seconds after the two women had licked their last drops.

A couple nursed Margaritas to our left and another couple cut into their appetizers across from us, next to Maria.

Steve came in, leaned in to give Maria a peck, and claimed the empty chair she'd saved.

Derek came in, cradling his pekingese against him like a babe.  The two women at the end got up to leave and Derek moved in. 

"Oh no,"  said Bobblehead from somewhere near the floor.  "We've been waiting for these seats."

"But I'm with this group," Derek said.

"Too bad," Bobblehead said, raising her haunches toward the bottom rung of the stool.

Derek came behind us. "Guess they're in a rush," he said, while I searched Lily's long hair tied into  bows, trying to find ears to scratch.   She was swaddled in a green jacket.

"Oh my God, it's a dog!  Dogs aren't allowed in restaurants," the woman next to Maria yelled, spitting some of her appetizer toward us.

"Yes they are, if they're service dogs," Derek said.

"I'm allergic!  You've got to get that dog out of here," the Spitter said.

"I don't have to do any such thing!  It's a service dog.  See the green jacket?"

"What kind of service could that pipsqueak perform?" Spitter asked Maria.

"I really don't know.  But they're allowed.  If you don't like it, write the Governor."

Maria turned to speak to us but didn't get a word out.  "Get that f______ dog out of here!" yelled the Spitter's husband from the left end.

"There's no need for that kind of language," I said.

"Everyone calm down," Charley said, pushing his palms downward in slow motion.

"I'll go outside and see if there are any tables where we can finish our drinks," I said in an attempt at peacemaker.  I still had half a Bloody Mary to finish.  No seats outside.

Mr. Foul Mouth wasn't finished.  "My wife is allergic!  Get that f______ dog out of here!"

Steve found his way to the hostess.  He and Derek had a dinner reservation, and Steve motioned to Derek the table was ready. 

Lily went along for the ride, and maybe for leftovers.   Maria, Charley, and I drained our drinks and found a quieter place to eat, as three women jumped in to take our stools.

Oops - Forgot Something!

I've heard of leaving a child behind, but a wife??

Taking some heat - Galapagos, Ecuador

         HIS VERSION

The guys were all in the back of the bus playing poker.  We wanted to be close to the john, since we'd polished off a few beers by the time we stopped for lunch in St. Johnsbury, Vermont.

The women were all up front, and the guys were happy about that!  We didn't have to listen to the yapping from Bangor all the way to Montreal.

Sue and I had lunch together when we stopped.  Then our monitor, who was a member of our group, told us to get back on the bus.  I said to Sue I didn't need to use the bathroom in the restaurant, so I did what I was told.   I got back on the bus.  I figured Sue'd get on with the women.

One of my real good friends, Tom, was with us and he's a joker.  About three miles out of town, he asked where Sue was.

"Up front," I told him. 

Tom walked up the aisle, then came back and said, "She's not here.  I thought I spotted her running toward the bus when we took off."

My first reaction was that he was being an asshole and he'd hidden her in the nose of the bus or in the bathroom.  But I realized she hadn't passed us to get back there.  So I took a walk up front.

He was right.  No Sue!

I asked the monitor if he'd counted us before we left St. Johnsbury.  "All you have is one wife and you can't keep track of her?" he said.

We had to go another mile before the bus could turn around.  St. Johnsbury is a one-street town, and when we got back, there was only one sign of life.  It was Sue, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.

The first time she spoke to me was three days later, when we got back home.

HER VERSION

What husband doesn't check to make sure his wife is on board?  He knows I always uses the restroom after a meal, and I sure as heck wasn't going to use the one on the bus, with all those beer-guzzling guys peeing in there!

He's saying it was the monitor's fault.  I had lunch with him, not the monitor.  I was with him when he told me he was getting back on the bus.  That's when I went to the restroom. 

I figure he must have been losing at poker because I was the furthest thing from his mind all during lunch.  He deserved that "Screw-up of the Year" plaque at the national convention!