Choo-choo, and that is the truth

I spent my morning train ride listening to Tobias Wolff read Stephanie Vaughn’s short story “Dog Heaven,” which was – and this will come as no surprise to those familiar with the short story - not really about a dog going to heaven, though the dog did die at one point. It turns out that the message of the story was that you should never name your kid Sparky, though no one comes right out and says that.
 

You are probably wondering what I was doing on the train, and I have to admit that for a while, I was right there with you. But, the train is actually pretty cool. I have not seen anything extraordinary yet – no knife fights or bloody derailments where we all fall hundreds of feet to die in a twisted pile of metal and gore - but I know it’s only a matter of time. I do get this creepy sense of uniformity and sameness when I’m on the train, like we’re all headed to the central processing center to be processed or centralized, though this may be attributable in large part to my fifth grader’s class. They are reading – rather, we are reading – A Wrinkle in Time. This is my daughter’s first trip through, but I’ve read it so many times I wouldn’t even guess at a number. We’ve just arrived on the dark planet, where everyone does the same exact thing at every moment without thought. Swap out the grey suits for black North Face jackets, and you’ve got a pretty good idea what I’m seeing every morning.
 

This afternoon I rounded the corner of 19^th street and noted with some amusement that my fellow commuters, in an effort to ensure they did not have to stand for forty-five minutes, had begun, like French school children, to line up at the spots where the doors would be, once the train arrived. I realize that train seats are at a premium in the afternoon, but I hesitate to conform to the crowd mentality by lining up seven minutes before the train arrives. But then, I know if I don’t get in line, I’ll end up with my rear in someone’s face, staring down upon someone else’s scalp and wondering if they know about the bald spot that’s just beginning to show. So, of course, I get in line. It wouldn’t make any more sense to stand around all unordered and haphazard like, making a mad dash for the doors once the train had come to a full and complete stop, but to me, it would just feel a little less scripted.
 

From my window I can see the whole city, which is actually quite small, and not so entertaining from the 23^rd floor. The building just a couple of blocks away is adorned with a gigantic tapestry of Obama – the picture with the red and blue –and this is what I spend most of my window time thinking about. I cannot remember, nor can I imagine, a gigantic and proudly displayed banner depicting the likeness of any other president – Bush, Clinton, Reagan, Carter or Ford. I may be wrong, but I don’t think we’ve had any such thing in a very long time, if at all. When I think of gigantic banners hanging from city buildings and depicting political figures, I think of Stalin, Hitler, Castro, and that Korean guy. I’m in no way trying to draw parallels here; I’m just making an observation, and wondering aloud if maybe we should tread cautiously down this road.
 

This afternoon I was not so literary. I spent most of the ride watching humorous video podcasts and trying to keep my butt from falling asleep. It turns out, as much as we go out of our way to get a seat, they are hard and scrunched and really not worth it. Tomorrow I’ll listen to the new TAL, so hopefully that will be interesting and I’ll have more to talk about. Barring that, I am still holding out for the knife fight, or the derailment, which would shake things up a bit for sure. I’ll let you know how it goes.