Ed. note: Shortly after moving to Virginia, I discovered the Tinker Mountain Writer’s Workshop at Hollins University down near Roanoke. I applied for a spot in the Creative Non-Fiction genre and got in. Here’s a piece that I workshopped there and that has always had special meaning for me as a New Yorker. Hope you like it as my lead-off piece for 2014. Happy New Year, everybody! Stay found, okay?
Credit: www.jaredthenyctourguide.com
James loves the sound of the trains. He loves the rocking back and forth of the trains. The big, shiny, toy car feel of the trains.
He came by train from the Carolinas years ago. He came here by train to work, to be near the trains, to hear the sounds, and to be rocked by them. James came alone, leaving his wife and daughter behind.
When I met him he was leaning over the railing, leaning into the afternoon, looking down to where the trains would come, looking down to where the people would rise up out of the hole in the ground, looking down.
He was in the station in winter, in a light spring jacket, and it was cold. But James was smiling and leaning, just happy to be near the trains. He sidled up to a young woman and, smiling, asked her to smile.
I have never liked this strategy of old men, who never knew what kind of day I was having and whether I had a reason to smile, but this is what he did that day. And the young woman did smile, very briefly, then moved away, a little afraid of this gray-haired, soft-voiced exuberant black man who no doubt had once smelled a whole lot better. And then he came over to me.
He didn’t ask me to smile. He just stood next to me for a while, both of us looking down into the hole, waiting for the people to come up. I knew if they came up, then I could go down. He just liked to watch them come up, fresh from their experiences with the train.
Finally, he spoke.
For a few minutes he told me stories about his life, about how an old southern man survives on the streets in a big northern city. About the kindness of strangers. About how the police let him stay in the station on cold nights because he never causes any trouble and never would. He told me how much he would love to go and see his daughter again, but how that might not be such a good idea after all these years.
James talked. I listened. And the people started coming up the stairs, up from that hole in the ground, up from their experiences with the train. Some of them probably hadn’t even noticed. For some, it was an everyday occurrence, just a way to get from here to there. James couldn’t understand that. Trains were his temple, Pennsylvania Station his sacred place.
The people who came up were making room on the train for me by their leaving. I was going back to Boston. Going back on the train, because I, too, loved the train. I knew what James meant. The swaying back and forth of it, the darks and lights of it, the leather seats of it, the amniotic hum of it, even the dirty windows of it. Life passes you by. You pass through life. Whatever. It’s magical on a train. You’re connected to something on a train.
I don’t know why exactly, but I reached into my purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and held it out for him. James had never asked me for a penny. I just offered it to him. He refused, and folded my hand around the bill, gently pushing it toward me. I insisted he take it. For a second or two, we just looked hard into each other’s eyes, him holding my bill-encrusted fist. I saw his years, the yellow in his eyes where the white once was. I saw his longing. I did not see unhappiness, however. He was stronger than I, and I knew it at that moment. I wondered what he saw in my eyes.
Finally I forced the bill upon him and said I had to go to catch my train. Out of words then, we hugged each other like old friends, James and I. I had been seen off on my journey. I would go down into that hole and find a seat on that train and I would sit and think about this for hours as the train rumbled north. I would think about James and that dirty, pungent-smelling life-saving hug for a long time. I would hear the crackle of his nylon jacket as we held on to each other for a second, for an eternity. Two strangers looking for home, finding a home, lost and found in Pennsylvania Station.
Buon viaggio!
Linda Dini Jenkins is a card-carrying Italophile, travel planner, freelance writer, and amateur photographer. Travel is her passion, so writing about her travels just comes naturally. She hopes all her travelers find a way to express their joys, surprises, and fears as they travel and gives every traveler a nifty journal to help smooth the way. Learn more…
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