The way I dress, my independence (female), my long black coat a flag waving at every redneck. I slept curled up on two seats-- a platform with both footrests up--my two black coats for blankets. I can't sleep this first night, I thought--but dozed off around midnight. (I'd started the day at 5:30 in the morning) Woke every hour--at Salt Lake, at Provo Utah. Got about 6 hours sleep, total. At nine I brushed my hair, put on clean tights down in the on-board dressing room, put on fresh makeup, then got a cup of coffee. The second day since departure from San Francisco just crossed the Utah border into Colorado. Both women and men on the train made comments on my vintage coat, they liked it, "It's adorable." But then that redneck approaching, "god, is it Halloween," he said extremely loud as I passed him. A little earlier he'd stopped at my seat, bored me with some news story about a woman who'd spilled a cup of hot coffee on her chest at McDonalds, then sued for millions of dollars. "Remember that?" he asked, signaling his limited experiences and assumptions, breathing his breathy drunken stench all over me first thing in the morning. I'd tried to put him off with politeness--that didn't work. I'd already given myself that talk inside my head about practicing manners now, out here in the world again. "Hey Zorro!" the redneck called out at me--loud. I pass him ignoring his remark--there's only ten minutes, at this stop, to locate the fruit stand in the middle of the Grand Junction station platform--wait in line, buy something and get back on board. A banana for fifty cents-- a lot cheaper than Amtrak food I'm tired of eating...already. After the fruit stand I stepped inside a little station shop that had candy bars and a display case of fake turquoise jewelry. I bought peanut butter cups and on my way out noticed a sign 'Free Coffee' -- pouring myself a cup when the redneck came up behind me..."Hey, Zorro. Why don't you have your mask on?" "I do," I told him, walking away leaving him puzzled. Back in my seat, train moving again, he stealths up, bends close in over my shoulder, "you have nice handwriting..." he breathes all over one side of my neck, placing his hand on my arm. I turn my page over. When he's gone take up my writing again--squiggling and jerky black juicy ink flows in abrupt unintended directions as the train car rocks, swerves and balances. He's right up on my neck again, his hand patting the shoulder of my velvet coat..."I wasn't spying on you..." he said. Don't know where he went after that. I open a book, read the first few brief chapters of Maggy Cassady. He won't interrupt me when I'm reading, I thought. Damn, I feel hungry (even after the banana and peanut butter cups). Nothing much to do on this train but eat. I descend the stairs to the subterranean snack lounge--he won't find me down here. But then there's the other annoying guy--kept talking to me--saying things--trying to start a conversation, but polite, not too pushy--he's down there drinking Coronas, as usual. I sat off in a corner eating a hot pepperoni pizza. He glanced back over his shoulder in my direction, then turned back-- that’s when I noticed his oval bald spot combed-over with long hair. Maybe he's the kind of guy who'd gotten lucky a few times just hanging around in bars minding his manners with the ladies till one just in the right mood, right depressed neediness--at that necessary level of intoxication.
I hurried past, swishing my long coat and dress back up the narrow stairs--so much of my life avoiding people I know and the ones I don't care to. I'm the only woman on the train wearing a dress. All those unworked wide slack asses making their way up the aisle in pale denim topped by nylon windbreakers--red neck women (god, I despise that lack of style). To have no style makes them proud, feel correct, American--good about themselves. Yet that annoying redneck's woman a faded beauty in everyday overalls cringing under his aggressive thumb.
I felt sorry for her for a flash--and yet, he's the man she'd chosen. My mask--pretending--letting them all see what they want to, while concealing the foul-mouthed, hardened, street-wizened woman I am, just leaving the end of ten years of deliberate ghetto living, I entered in 1995 after traveling around the world. I reminded myself to put my best manners forward --- I could see in my imagination the shocked looks on the faces of the women on this train, if what I really thought came out of my mouth. Why waste it on them anyway. I'm riding to Chicago where I'll get off and never see these people again. I am not out to change their thinking. They can give me something—material for my writing--buy me a meal. I'm the "dude" the "city slicker."
Be cool, I tell myself--read a book--look out the windows at the scenery. I even sat in the observation car for a while through remote Colorado--canyons, river, bald eagles, deer, elk...lots of animal tracks across deep snow. That second day, ate as little as possible--rice crispies for breakfast--dinner of eggplant ravioli--gazing at snow peaked mountain scenery through the dining car windows. In Denver I got off and hurried over the long platform to the huge old station building--just to sit on a non-swaying toilet seat. Then returned to my spot on the train as new passengers poured on. I nearly had to give-up half my sleeping space--read some more--now only 9 p.m. -- getting tired again, want to turn off the overhead reading light before someone figures out I have 2 seats. Strange people talking so loud on cell phones, in ways totally unacceptable in San Francisco. All these rednecks and non-creative types. I'm starting to feel so out of place and scared at what irrevocable thing I've done to myself--yet thankful to have escaped that ghetto shit hole I'd grown wearing of...
An older (different) redneck guy invokes their elder authority with a young 20ish redneck type boy..."Are you two boyfriend and girlfriend or just friends?" I hear his meaty voice in seats behind me and the dutiful response..."we've known each other since kids in school..." The girl'd been singing outloud just before, to the recorded song only she could hear through her headphones..."there ain't no cover charge...boys and girls know how to get-down on the farm..." More deep-voiced questions..."going to work or going to school?" The word culinary in the reply. The young guy liked to cook with his father, grilling meats and veggies while the mother worked on the desserts. "What do you cook best?" The young guy made thought sounds with his voice then his answer...chicken with lemon...and orange the girl interjected then praised his fancy mixed together vegetables too. The older redneck told them..."my wife cooks pork chops with onion and then adds a can of mushroom soup! That is so-o-o-o good!" Geez. That stale old recipe of cream of mushroom canned soup white trash secret sauce that those types all think so highly original. Shit! it's probably been published a jillion times as a cooking tip in Readers Digest or someplace like that.
Embarrassed silence from the young man chef. That gap that makes communication unnecessary--futile even--impossible without insulting. Same with that distance between poet/performer me in long vintage black and that rude crude redneck who called me Zorro so many times I'd spent my evening thoughts planning to go complain to one of the train conductors to complain of sexual harassment. But by morning, most of the passengers had detrained in Nebraska, where they belonged. The absence of my redneck terrorizer and his strangely staring wife left a nice calm emptiness in all the quiet cars as I warily moved toward a morning cup of coffee. He'd definitely gotten off back there somewhere. The train crossed on a bridge over the Mississippi. I started feeling better--calm, more positive. That wasteland just before and after the gorgeous Rockies--that dusty dead area that bred his sort, long behind me--I'd escaped. I'd been so out of place in those neck of the woods. Flashing now on the dudes emerging from stage coaches of the old west in ruffled shirt fronts--locals firing bullets at their feet raucous laughter of the low-life drunks, until the hero intervenes. I'm 'the dude' the 'city slicker' that the wild west rednecks teased--those sorts that had so oddly filled this train for a day and night and fortunately feel uncomfortable too near the Mississippi --that river borderland-- the 'East' beyond. My hero, space and time, the continued push eastward toward more intellect, style, civilization--things I feel comfortable with...
I'd be in Chicago by 4 p.m. with 5 hours to kill in that city before boarding the last train at ten...
Marie Kazalia was born in Toledo, Ohio but has lived her adult life primarily on the West Coast and in San Francisco, with the exception of four expatriate years in Japan, India, and China. Marie has a BFA degree from California College of Arts and Crafts. Marie’s book of poems titled Erratic Sleep in a Cold Hotel has been published by Phony Lid Books. Marie also has two mini-chapbooks published by CC Marimbo: All-Purpose Tragedy and Megalopolis.
Marie Kazalia’s poetry and prose has been widely published in anthologies, and in numerous print and on-line journals, nationally and internationally.