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‘A Veteran of Train Delays’
A Rogues Gallery of Post Shamdemic Transports: 4/22-23/2023, Coastal Starlight #11
© 2023 James LaFond
DEC/18/23
On arriving at the Portland Union Station at 1:10, for the 2:22 scheduled departure, and entering, looking for a clerk, a light-skinned lady of color waved me over to her window. There she politely scheduled my itinerary. I asked about the missed call from Amtrak. She informed me that my train was here, but we were waiting to board, as the train was being held so that passengers on the connecting Empire Builder train from Chicago would not miss their connection.
I sat down between a frightened mask man and a big bearded man, both of my general age. The mask man skittered off and the big bearded man asked, “Coastal Starlight?”
“Yes.”
“They are holding it an hour.”
“That’s a lot better than the ten hours the last time I took the Eleven.”
He grinned and laughed and said, “Yes, a veteran of train delays!”
During the entire trip this man was helpful and informative to other passengers. He offered me to stow my gear over his seat when he saw how sloppy my seat mate had stowed his, and seemed interested in conversation. I thanked him and jammed my gear in next to the hastily tossed ruck of the man I was assigned to sit next to.
My seat mate was named Zachery, and we never spoke. He was headed to Emerryville with two packs. He stood 6’ 8” and scaled 260, had plumbers crack and was polite enough to apologize for mooning me every time he stepped out into the aisle. He had long dirty Caucasian dreads, dropped his trash on the floor, snacked loudly, had filthy hands and coughed constantly. He was so tall it was very painful for him to sleep in the seat, affecting numerous positions. We never said a word. I suppose he was 24 years old.
Across the aisle was Baby Blue, a timid, cute young thing who dressed like half a slut, had a nice figure, rating a spot on the itty-bitty-titty-commitee on the big-ass-subcommitee, and worked on her computer a lot, never speaking to a soul.
Ahead of me was Cough Cuck Minor, a small timid husband to Little Karen Major, a mouthy bitch under her butch cut white hair of some 60 years and some 90 un-appealing pounds.
Ahead of Baby Blue towered, Big Karen Barnstorm, a mouthy, opinionated white bitch who was a rural school teacher in Oregon and vocally befriended any person who would talk to her and pined for “a seat buddy,” nobody having been assigned to her. Big Karen Barnstorm was once, I reckon, breedable, still had a vestigal figure for a big girl and was a cute brunette until she opened her mouth and went from 6 to 4.
Ahead of Little Karen Major was a fit, handsome, 30 year old couple, a quiet, polite Ken and Barbie of the Pacific Northwest. Ahead of them was the door to the next couch.
Ahead of Big Karen Barnstorm was Little Karen Bitchstorm, about 60, short, blonde, with a 5 face, no rack worth mentioning but still with a nice round ass. That 7 ass adjusted to an 8 for her age, would not be enough to save her from being thrown to the crew if she found herself on my pirate ship. She was loud, grating and shrill voice, did not own a whisper, and spent two hours in one day demeaning loudly her semi-retarded pothead husband, airing all of their dirty laundry in public. She, like most karens, was a medical expert on everything. Her husband always seemed near to tears and moped like a castrated orangutan.
I only looked behind when returning to my seat, to see various autistic sissies, masked Asians and fearful golden skin negresses. But, there behind Big Helpful, reclined an 18-year-old beauty of some six feet, with very short pants on, exposing her 32 inch thick thighs of Latina promise. When I went pass she followed my eyes and smiled each time I scanned her thighs, even changing her posture once so that both thighs were fully visible. I recall no details about her face other than it rested above average breasts and was framed by thick black hair that fell straight past her shoulders. The mathematical burden of inventorying her thighs challenged my mental capacity… Oh yes, brown eyes.
In the viewing car there was Coughing Karen Minor [not a bitch and homely], Coughing Beta Boy, Coughs A Million, and Hippy Coughbiker the bearded, lisping homo who spoke of aggressive citizen policing with bikes against rednecks in pickup trucks in San Francisco as an activity he was involved in.
Additionally was Miss Carpel Tunnel who sat next to me in her wrist brace and watched as I massaged my own knotted wrist.
Never did I speak to a person here other than Super Soldier Joe, who has his own article.
The Hippy Honeys was a mated pair of hippies with their baby in a car seat who occupied the back left corner of the viewing car, with Mommy lying on the floor rocking the car seat in the seat above her as she rested her head on her hippy hubby’s sneakers. They were nice folks.
Manotubby, a bearded glazed doughnut of a hipster, sat with his back to the Hippy Honeyes.
Lacy Litigation, is an 8, a tall, cute, well built brown-haired girl, on a bicycle tour, with thighs and ass to match, with big brown eyes, born in Jersey to lawyers, who is now studying law and environmentalism in hopes of saving the planet. I would be content with her saving herself for me, but Super Soldier Joe swooped in with the cosmic negrotto schlong rap song…
Bronzed Blond Claim Denier is an insurance adjuster who sat by herself near to me and seemed disappointed that, like every other person I met, that I did not start a conversation. She will figure heavily in the ballad of Super Soldier Joe.
Finally, Retired Twerp Housing Inspector, is a short, slight, irritating creepy voiced negro worshipper and lecherous crawl daddy of an elf who also figures as a foe of Super Soldier Joe.
Big Helpful, who looks like Randal Carlson with a backpack, was also active in the viewing car, but avoided approaching women and also the hyper-manly wake of Super Soldier Joe. He glanced at me wondering what my story was, and I looked away.
Now, with the rogues gallery set, we are prepared to hail the advent of Super Soldier Joe, the Othello-as-Beowulf of the Coastal Starlight #11 overnight train from Seattle to Los Angeles running from Saturday morning, April 22nd to Sunday night April 23rd.
Praise be to he cola’ and pussy be upon him…
Note
I plan on traveling more, which I do not like and which cuts into writing time. So I have decided not to speak on the train except in answer to a direct question, in order to work up more character sketches then permitted when allow myself to be drawn in by the lonely, or by their counterparts, the egotistical kings of the rolling court.
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