On the Floridian, #4, all Pittsburgh bound coach passengers get on the same rear car. I saw, Thighs, the attendant, waiting for us. She is a well-formed black woman with long legs and thick thighs who has a habit of waiting for passengers to board at the end of the long Chicongo platform by standing in the four-step steel stairwell, holding unto the bars, and doing front leg swings and lifts. I get there first, and compliment her on her form and she smiles sweetly. She says, “Up to the right. We are sold out. You will be sharing a seat."
Behind me flood in a few other folks, mostly large black men headed back to the Southside of Pittsburgh and a few Benovan Heights college graduates returning from a Seattle vacation. Past us struts a hat-haired ebony witch of thirty years, snarling, “Share a seat! Share a seat!! Make me bitch—how ‘bout that! Fuck no! Dis bitch ain’ sharin’ sheeit! Juz you reach out and sea, BITCH!” and on she snarled to the head of the car.
I find a window seat and am not paired up. In Southbend Indiana a young fellow in yellow safety attire boards and asks, in a high girly voice, despite his 6’ 6” frame, “May I sit here, sir?”
There is a strangeness to his lisp. The car was cold four rows from the rear coupling to the last car. I use the bathroom in the head of the last car, walking through the coupling as we cross from Indiana to Ohio at about 11:00 PM. The stamped stainless steel housing is cased in snow and ice. By Toledo smoke break at 1:00 AM I’m thinking of Tango, my brother, two hours off in Columbus, at state’s center. But the train line follows the lake to Cleveland. We make Cleveland at 3:00 AM and many folks board the final car, a few offloading. The lights by the water always accompany my thoughts of Tango, as he is, again, 2 hours south. Pittsburgh is two hours away. That is the place to meet up. Punky lives there and it is, again, two hours from Columbus.
We are delayed by freight and roll in at 5:40. Big Jeff has been waiting there for me at Union Station since 5:00. He is a country black dude from Texas, married to a Pittsburgh black girl with five kids. He works as a bailiff for family court in Pittsburgh and is interested in training. I pay him to pick me up and drive me into the train station. On this occasion, I am certain that Punky, and her friend and daughter, who are fixing a special dinner for me, are going to ask me to stay in Rick’s old apartment, a really nice bachelor basement with full bath. Tango will pile on as well—all is known in advance and they do not disappoint.
On the train, as we pull into Pittsburgh along the Ohio, the young fellow next to me is nervous about his new installation assignment in Vermont and talks to me. I notice that he has fanged mouth piercings, making his voice lispy. I try and boost his confidence, even as the black fellow across the aisle does the same.
I get off the train behind a tall, blond with a nice athletic ass, a real Valkyrie with breeder hips. The white faɡɡot from across the aisle, who sat with the cute Jеwess and did not even get her name, cannot wait to pass the Valkeryie, who is having trouble with her luggage on the busted up Pittsburgh platform. I drop my luggage and she gets a lead, far enough off that I wont be able to smell her hair. I snarl and catch up and she drops her luggage. I could have helped. But she is too young, so I wait for the 6 foot 2 inch 220 pound man of her age, to help her, and he instead uses the chance to cut past her!
The old school black guy that had sat across the aisle from weak-ass Dracula, looks at me and says, “Is every dude under thirty gay?”
“Yes sir, it looks like we will have to get TRT and start harems just to further the species!”
While the towering twenty-somethings waited for the elevator, I carried my freight down the stairs. The torn hips held, so out I limped, into the 3 below cold. As I looked for Jeff’s vehicle a man of about 50, ashy black, my runt size, freezing, approached me and said, “Hey Big Guy, could you—”
“Of course, man, you’re freezing your ass off. Besides, I’ve become a weak-ass cuck in my decline, here’s the rest of my $ones.”
“Thanks, Big Guy.”
“The Big Guy is commin’ bro.”
“I see you here, young dudes pick you up, drop you off, you need help movin’ what you move?”
“Oh, I’m a movement coach. Broke as you. But an Eye-Talian lady is waitin’ to cook meatballs for me, so I don’t need no small bills.”
“You coach what?”
“Boxing.”
“What did you fight at?”
“143 to 157, never won above 150.”
“You 170 now.”
“Thanks for reminding me I’m fat.”
“Were you any good?”
“No.”
“How good?”
“I’ve won eight of thirty.”
He winces, “Dammmn! Least you stepped up.”
“Thanks.”
“Watchyou think of Floyd en Mike goin’ at it?”
“Really, they’re doin’ that?”
“Yeah, an exhibition.”
“That’s a favor to Mike, since Don took all his money on that bogus rape charge.”
“Daz right—dat lyin’ redbone bitch!”
“Men of Mike’s frame don’t age well as fighters. He was smaller than almost all his opponents and had to spend twice the energy, like Frazier.”
“Never thought of that, interesting.”
“Damn, you ain’ kiddin’ daz a big boy,” and my greeter disappeared into the morning dark as Jeff stepped around his SUV, “Jimmmy! Nice to see you—let me get that, welcome to Iceburgh…”
I was asked, over wine, at dinner, by Tom, his wife, Punky, her advocate, and the Merlot, “Why won’t you live here?”
“Don’t have a woman here—if Punky threw in that blond babe with the tan that makes a five hundred a night in tips, I’d spend ten days a month here and risk being scalped by my Step Son in Portland.”
