Detraining was a pleasure in San Bernadino. The platform is separated from the station by a sky walk, which has an elevator. The folks are mostly Latino and all polite. A line of cloud, 5 times thicker than a chem trail, occurs in the north, simply traced their as if the finger of God were painting.
A pretty Latino woman of 50, still well shaped and preserved waved to her boy friend, a man my age, who was across the inner tracks at the train station, which is also here, a local government building. Most everyone had such smiling welcomes, except for we three who stayed by the cross walk where the church lady and her husband set up their news stand.
There was this old crumb, who stacked his gear bag on the roller suitcase against a bike anchor and hung his backpack from the hip high bar and did there his stretches.
There was the beautiful Latina from car 411, about 19 or 20, dressed in beige shorts and white lace mid drift top, standing in her slave girl sandals, looking at the old crumb with her pretty white face framed by weeping sheets of black hair, as if she wanted to cry.
The crumb ignored her and did his stretches. She came to stand by him and make a phone call. In ten minutes a silver luxury car showed up—obviously not an UBER or a loved one, as it stayed over in the far lane of the deserted and unused strip mall drive way, where 10 of 10 businesses had real estate vacancy signs. She was compelled to walk, the old crumb admiring her form as she faded from the world.
Another passenger form the train, the man who had so much trouble dragging his “world” off of it, in a backpack, suit case, huge oval room case and large gym bag, ignored the beauty as he heaved three of his bags on the bench next to the bike lock anchor.
“Sir, sorry, did you want to sit here?”
“No thanks,” said the crumb, “been sitting for 29 hours.”
“I heard that, sir! Never took the train before—four days from Florida to San Bernadino, when they said three.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Coast to coast is an extra day since 2020. The freight traffic is so heavy since then and the rails are owned by the carriers, not Amtrak.”
The man is 35 years old, 5” 8”, 250, well-groomed, dressed in clean tasteful casual wear, and has a flat top hair cut with a curl above his forehead like the prow of a ship of sail.
“Sir, I came out here for my I.D., to get it renewed, been workin’ in Florida, dishes, waiting, landscaping, carpentry, do it all, work hard, doin’ all right. But I can’t get my I.D. updated in Florida at the DMV, since I was born in California. Beside, I have a son in Santa Barbara. I want to take him to Florida with me. He is eleven and I haven’t seen him since he was eight. Let me see if I can get a ride. I have friends and family here.”
He makes a few phone calls to friends and family, a sister and two men, a fourth to a homeless shelter which will not accept occupants until Monday. Pacing and talking into the base of the flip phone on speaker, the crumb can hear the conversation. The man raises his voice, hurt, and says, “So its like that, you don’t have time to pick me up,” to the friend. The sister had already hung up on him.
He came over to the crumb almost in tears, “Family is supposed to be there, ain’t it sir.”
“Well, mine look away too—I’ve been kicking around since 2018. It took me six weeks to get my I.D., had to go to Maryland. If you don’t have a certificate or social card, try the hospital where you were born for a copy of the record of birth.”
‘It’s rough sir, don’t want to sleep on the streets again. The sister I was staying with in Florida, even though I paid rent, kicked me out for coming home late. I don’t mind a shelter. I got my whole world with me, my tools, I can’t keep all this on the street. You ever sleep on one of these?”
“One time, in Union Park, New York, only night I ever slept on the streets, 14th and 6th on the sidewalk—I went down to the park, a trash truck turned the corner every ten minutes, shock the concrete.”
“How do you get by now?”
“I work for room and board, a man is picking me up soon.”
“Are you hiring—I work!”
“Oh, I’m a boxing coach. I stay with men I coach. In Utah I garden for some folks in August. I’ve been real lucky—not tough enough for the street.”
“What should I do?”
“Your biggest problem is your gear. This is a transit hub. Stay here during the day and sleep by those vacants across the street at night. This is dead—you know this town?”
“Born here, sir. Got friends, but they ghosted me.”
“Rent a room for two days, shelter on Monday—then get that I.D. There is plenty for work. They’ve been rounding up illegals. Home depots are dead for help.”
“I know—Trump is helping. I just need the I.D. and I’ll be rolling in work. These trains though, they don’t check I.D.s, I bet them fucking illegals will start using them—I saw some weren’t born here.”
“The next week will suck. But when you’re my age you’ll laugh about it. What is your name?”
“Alexander, sir,” he said as the men shook hands, “Yours?”
“James.”
“That was my father’s name. We were all tight until he died three years ago—then the family scattered, don’t even know each other anymore.”
The crumb handed Alexander a $20, “Alexander, means protector of men—a good name. I’m eating for free for ten days. Get your son and good luck.”
“Sir, you too, man. Thank you,” gritted Alexander as he hugged the old crumb.
As the old crumb left, he looked to the sky to see that the line of cloud had become a field of cotton between the marine layer and the hazy San Bernadino Mountains.
