All I Am Comfortable With

The train did not move. We sat there, some more quietly than others. Every twenty minutes an employee named Jeremy would repeat what he knew over the tinny train intercom. He sounded so tired. A group of four, just out of sight of my window seat, rated him on a scale befitting a White House press conference. They had crowded into the rows of chairs that face each other, personhood and luggage in a careless sprawl.

"Jeremy sucks at this," said a man. "Imagine starting your big speech with So, a few things happened today. Picture that you're waiting to see if your uncle had a successful operation. The doctor pops out of surgery. You ask Is my uncle okay? and he goes So, an operation happened today. No shit, Jeremy!"

The woman next to him tittered, going stoooop in a way that made it clear that she found it hilarious. I could almost hear the man's chest puff out as he tore into Jeremy further. My attention flickered to my book for a few moments before fizzling out. I kept feeling phantom movements, convincing myself that the train had lurched back to life, that we would be hurtling down the tracks. The train stood still.

I contemplated my well-worn agnosticism. Wouldn't it be interesting, in a non-specific way, if the train moved at this very moment? Wouldn't it be affirming? I regarded the potential spirit of the railroad as if it was a friend saying they taught their dog a new trick. Remembering the last three times the trick in question hadn't materialized. Giving that carefully encouraging but noncommittal Mmm? indicating that I was interested in a new trick possibly appearing, but prepared for failure. The train waited.

I sank into the self-pity of the mildly inconvenienced. Of course, at the end of a wonderful day at the beach, where friends were more than happy to drive me to and fro, this happened. Was it because I only gave the man claiming he was five dollars short of a ticket a single bill instead of using my credit card? Because the possibility of duplicity and a hit to my fragile FICO score outweighed my need to do intrinsic good? Was it because I said "Sorry, this is all I am comfortable with," hunched over my overpriced burrito bowl, and felt the grace and dignity I had mustered leave all at once like a linguistic wet fart?

Jeremy's tired voice crackled over the tinny intercom. "Oh no, it's Jeremy again," the man in the four-seat cluster snorted, the woman beside him going stoooooop. The confidence of a heckler who never had to use a customer service voice where you announce that Nothing Is Happening in big capital letters because that is the Script you are Given.

Jeremy said that the crew for our return voyage was holding in Beachburg for a while longer. A Less Fortunate Train experienced a mechanical failure, stranding the Beachburg passengers and crew for over five hours. Jeremy's employer wanted to be sure they could board the Next possible train, since they had been waiting for so long. The cluster of four seats went into a sudden monastic silence, thinking of the Unfortunate Other Train. Or perhaps, as is the custom after a long travel day, not thinking at all. Letting Jeremy's cautionary tale wash over them in a guilt-stricken wave. Soon, Jeremy said, the train would begin the trek to us, and then the crew would transfer, and then we would go home. On the dawn of the second hour, Jeremy created the New Itinerary, passing onto us the meaning of our trials and tribulations.

I experienced the railroad spirit's divine intervention after two more intercom missives. An older man—graying at the temples, cargo shorts, floral pattern shirt, potential resident of Margaritaville—fidgeted and asked if the seat next to me was taken. I snapped out of my communion with the New Itinerary, examining its edges and curves, to give him a terse no. He rumpled himself into the empty seat. Humming, muttering, taking out his belongings and replacing them again. A human fidget spinner from a vengeful god.

I mulishly turned to face the window. Remembering the pleasant meander of car conversation on my way to the station. My friend and I discussed things big and small.

As we pulled into the parking lot she sighed and said, "Well, we didn't solve all the world's problems."

"Sometimes sharing the burden a little bit is enough," I said, tugging at my commuter bag. She smiled and waved, off to her next destination.

The man in the seat next to me rocked the ice cubes back and forth, scraping them against the sides of his translucent purple water bottle. I hid my annoyance. Maybe the interminable wait was his burden, one that I could share. Or a karmic punishment from the god of the tracks.

I paused. A new voice over the intercom, announcing the destinations. This one was named Timothy. The train lurched backwards, moving faster and faster as we left the city. After ten minutes the cafe car opened, so Mister Fidget Spinner rose to meet it. Reassembling his belongings, checking his water bottle, skittering three cars down as he hummed. Perhaps that was all the anticipation he was comfortable with. The train sped home.