Two Dollars a Minute
Waiting on the train, the guy next to me offers two dollars to make two phone calls—says his cell is out of minutes and can I help a brother out? Fer sure, I think, I’m about to waste the Saturday of a good friend working on my reel, so I should return a favor. He makes his calls—one to Indiana (219 something or other) and another to Chicago (773 yadda yadda). He’s hoping someone’s there waiting on the other end, and aren’t we all?
Train comes. I pay the surly engineer. Adjust to the church pew on rails. Answer the phone. It’s the friend/savior/editor. His wife and kids are stuck outside of Rockford where the family truckster up and went kaput. The session is off. The reel will have to wait. Sorry, but Igottago.
Oh, piss. I’m heading towards Chicago at 60+ miles an hour and have no clue how to make the train turn around and take me back to my car. In fact, while I’ve ridden the Southshore many times before, I’ve never really looked out the window and paid attention to what it passes. In four years, I have never considered what’s between Point A and Point B before. As it turns out, there was a heck of story just waiting to be discovered.
A Novel Idea
I pack up the iPod, grab the MacBook, tie the Chuck Taylors and head off to consult with the conductor. He informs me that the next stop is Beverly Shores and another Southshore heading back to Michigan City won’t be around these parts for another 90 minutes. Seriously, “around these parts.” “Well, it’s better than going all the way into the city, waiting on another train and finally arriving back at the car at sundown,” I quickly assess. I’m off the train and standing in a deserted country depot within minutes. Only it turns out that Mister Conductor is wrong and it will be 150 minutes until the next train passes through. Piss up a rope.
My love for On the Road and The Body, plus a dash of big city impatience (less a smidge of foresight) lead me to believe that I could simply follow the train tracks back to Michigan City from Beverly Shores in less time than it would take to wait for, board, ride and depart the next available train. So that’s what Imagonnado.
Do-Do-Do D’Doo, Do-Do-Do D’Doo, Doo Doo Doo-Doo Doo Doo Doo-Doo
It doesn’t take me long to reach the middle of nowhere. I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s where I am, though I couldn’t quite make it out because of the copious amount of sweat running into my eyes from my bald—and now sunburned—head. I’ve been walking along the tracks for just 20 minutes, heading east, living out my own version of Stand by Me. Only Richard Dreyfus hasn’t provided any useful insights. And I’m worried that the only dead body to appear in the story will be mine. And true to form, I don’t get to be cool River Phoenix, but fat Jerry Connelly instead. If you’re curious who got the part of irritating Corey Feldman, it’s the massive horse fly that continually circles my bright red ears.
To continue with the literary allusions, the Pillars of the Earth begins to figure greatly into my head as I’m absolutely positive a group of hobos is going to emerge from the deep forest on either side of me, club me and steal my worldly possessions—mainly my laptop with all my unbacked-up files. I pick up a rock. I figure I’m not giving up that laptop without a fight. I have invoices to submit! Then I trip over a railroad tie and nearly impale myself on said rock.
As if on cue, my cell phone rings. Shit. I flip it to vibrate, scan the perimeter of the woods. No hobos. Looking at the screen with the last bit of amusement I can muster, I see an unknown 219 number and figure it’s somebody looking for my fellow passenger from this morning. Sorry, I’ll say, but he was smart enough to stay on the air-conditioned train until he got to where he needed to go! I ignore it for the first of many times.
Hello, OnStar? I Fucked Up.
An hour passes and I’m pretty sure that I’ll be crossing over from a rural setting to an urban one any minute. While I know that there are no railroad trestles to cross, effectively ending the first movie narrative, I do know that I need to go through the west side of Michigan City.
My phone continues to ring as I emerge from the brush into what was once probably a pleasant working class neighborhood. Only now there are cars on blocks, cars that appear to be on blocks but are actually on 20” rims, blocks on blocks (prolly were once buildings), collapsed porches, overgrown shrubbery and yellow police tape. Lots of yellow police tape.
One of my first thoughts is that with my standard-issue ad-guy shaved head and goatee, I’m going to be mistaken for a standard-issue Indiana skinhead. And, man, do I hate Indiana skinheads. I think to myself, “I’ll make sure to throw in some of my genetically programmed ethnic humor to relieve any tension if confronted.” Definitely more Rodney Dangerfield, less Sarah Silverman.
Damn 219 caller won’t quite. I call my wife to ask how many blocks of this urban wasteland I need to cross. She consults Google Maps and counts one, two, three, four… at eight I beg her to stop because there’s no way that my Target-issued Converse will carry me that far. The 9-year-old Taiwanese girl who made the shoes never intended them to carry such a pasty bastard this far.
Would’ve Preferred Rain on My Wedding Day
I stagger to the car, unlock it, toss the bag in the back and collapse into the seat. I’m a mess. Sweaty. Sunburned. Feet on fire. But I beat the train back from Chicago. So middle fingers to you, Southshore. I won. It would be ironic, dontchathink?, if I pulled out of the lot and was immediately crushed by the oncoming train from Chicago.
But instead, the phone rings again. This time it’s my friend calling from Schaumburg or some other circle of hell. He’s just packed up his family in a friend’s car and sent them on their way. I tell him my tale of whoa (as in, “Whoa, dude. Are fucking crazy?”). He tells me that he felt bad about what happened so he tried to have his neighbor from Dyer come and pick me up. “Didn’t he call you?” Ohshit. “WhatsyourareacodeinIndiana?” I wheeze.
most excellent story. I commend you for hoofing it. great to read, Jerry. ;-D
ReplyDelete