From 3 PM July 6 thru this Morning at 1:30 AM July 8, that is 30.5 hours, I was a member of a harrowed, dwindling and yet lauded section of the ape herd owned by USG, as its train conductors, engineers and station managers attempted to get us from Martinsberg, West Virginia to Chicago.
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Florida, July 5
30 minutes behind due to mechanical issue
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Martinsberg, July 6
STA 5:37 PM, Actual Time of Arrival 8:05 PM
The skeleton of industry hung heavily over the brick shell train station behind us as we handful waited in the light rain under heavy clouds. This was the ruin of an industrial hub, we the rats who scurried among the ghosts.
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Connelsville, PA, July 7
Halt from 2 thru 8:10 AM
At 1:40 AM, I woke in heavy rain from a fitful nap to the buzz of the phone. The update said a mudslide washed out tracks ahead and we were backing up to Connelsville. There would be no new updates for six hours. The onboard staff—the two coach attendants, were frayed.
The tall lady attendant was in good spirits, the older man, beat down. A big fury gave me and the man next to me bottles of water that the airline would not let him board with. These fury fellows were real sweet and carried their costumes on their backs, all white and Asian, either skinny or fat.
The man next to me was an X-Marine, a tall thin rich kid from Boston, who laughed about people thanking me for his service, “Oh, you mean banging hookers in Hamburg and snorting lines in Amsterdam? That service?”
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“I was a breacher. Combat engineers actual know how to build shit. We just blow stuff up. I think we have been replaced. I put the 9mm in my mouth one time and pulled the trigger, but forgot to rack it. Then I think, what if I’m serious, will I get it done? I had a better answer; a det-chord necklace—right off this bullshit planet. You know this service is really bad—the train is a joke. The planes are getting bad—but this, no instructions to the conductors? Look, these guys are ubering out. I’m going to split fare with them. Have fun.”
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Pittsburgh, PA, July 7
STA 12:00 AM, ATA 11:00 AM
We arrive in Pittsburgh with a promise to make up time by the departing conductor. Then we are told that the fuel truck did not arrive and we had an extra hour. I walked the platform briskly as the fatties and smokers trundled about. The people who had slept on the floor at the Pittsburgh station were harrowed looking as they boarded.
An insane, blond, Karenesque shrew spoke loudly of all the staff she was naming in individual law suits. She had a Doctorate in Law, a Doctorate in Sociology, had been a school teacher, predicted Trump’s death from a stroke within six months based on her extensive lore. Seemingly fit and my age, she declared loudly that she suffered from grief from loss of a cat, that she had “no nuclear family” and sought justice for herself in this unkind world.
Anthony, the big easy going black man from Toledo next to me, looked at me and said, “For real, man?”
“Yeah, bro. Every train now has a crazy cat lady on it. When there is a delay, they always lose it, and a handful of other women start flipping too.”
The woman then starts rabble rousing in her raspy sandpaper voice, “I have his name. He is not recognizing my disability. I will have him disciplined!”
Stew is brought around. Andrew looks down at me, “You want some, James?”
“For you. I’m on a diet.”
He eats half of his first bowl and sneers, “Really, now I need to buy something to get this out of my taste!”
He returned with a snickers bar and two Sprites, offering me one, which I declined.
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Toledo, Ohio, July 7
ATA 5:00 PM
The bathrooms are broken, water is depleted. The rails are so rough in Ohio that one cannot drink an open beverage without it sloshing out. The freight traffic rules the rails. Things first, people last, are the rules. Once a passenger train in the Midwest or East, outside of the DC-Boston-Harrisburg lines, is knocked out of its slot between freight traffic, it then loses time every hour, spending 45 minutes an hour pulling over, slowing or stopping for freight.
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Indiana, July 7
A lovely view of corn fields, creeks, great corn-fed whitetail deer, lush elderberry bushes and towering skies was marred by the unveiling of the creature before me. This well-behaved, crew cut, blond church boy of 20, boarding with a bike at Martinsberg had been very polite to all, switching seats with fatties for their comfort, joking with two pale bears his age—mostly on the phone. He once apologized to me for stepping into the bathroom with me when I neglected to lock it for some water. I hear him on speaker with a lass and look right to see her reflection on the phone chat, a lovely, high caste Latina of my skin tone. I looked away, but could not help but hear his end of the conversation.
“I know my hair is different on my profile. It was red and black. But when I wanted to go to church, I bleached it and it came out pink. So I dyed it brown and it took. Now its kind of blond.”
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“Because church is a good place to build relationships.”
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“That’s my ancestors—I’m not them. I’m not Jеwish, alright. I am what I want to be.”
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“I’m not messing around with those instagram girls—not since last week. I’m done. Besides those are not relationships, they are hook ups to get out of relationships.”
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“How so? Jеwish doesn’t have an accent.”
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“I was with Pablo playing soccer and biking in West Virginia. I’m really into it. He’s really widening my horizons. I want to move to West Virginia and be a soccer player.”
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“No, I’m not sucking his dick. I did promise to suck his dick if Mexico won the World Cup. Now they’re out, and he wants to make a new bet. But that was a one time deal, because I’m not gay.”
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“Yeah, I’m sure. I did joke with him that I sucked him off while he was sleeping once. But that was just a joke. So yeah, maybe I will suck Pablo’s dick. But I’m not gay.”
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“Why you laughin’ girl? You know, you will either be the best or worst thing that has ever happened to me.”
Our hero then ends the call and laughs, laughs in a serpent like hiss as he makes another call:
“Yeah, you like what you see? That’s me, back on Instagram!”
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“No, my hair is not red and black anymore, I’m blond.”
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“What? Why do you say I’m Jеwish?
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“Because I look it, there is a look? Look, I’m white like you.”
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“How can I look like THAT? That is not even a race. Its a religion and I don’t practice. I go to church.”
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“No, I’m not gay. How can gay have an accent?”
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“What about you?”
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“Paul Harvey? Look, just because you have the same last name as a famous person and live in Michigan does not mean you are related. Besides, ancestry doesn’t mean anything…”
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Chicongo, July 7-8
STA 8:30 AM, ATA 10:30 PM
Only14 hours late
Midway Airport, Sleep Inn
Arriving at 12:00 AM this morning with two busloads of Amish, cripples, boomers—two 20-something furies and three Africans, we were greeted by a smiling matriarch of about 40. The handsome, great-voiced woman said, “Y’all know I love my Amtrak people—please be patient, there’s only one of me and a hundred and six of you.”
A collective laugh buoyed by an undercurrent of a groan swept the lobby.
In 2022, I was out on the street with a hotel [Hilton] voucher.
In 23-24, a bus picked us up and took us to a nice hotel [Swissotel] near the train station. The cost was high and reflected a belief that the rail situation would improve, as all stations and fleets are in a remodeling and updating process.
In 26, there is a standard staff in place to take care of the hundreds of stranded passengers, get them to buses, to hotels, and back with updated tickets. I am now here at the cheapest hotel in a blue light crime zone 30 minutes from the station by highway.
This organization has admitted logistical defeat and is bleeding rebuilding funds to make up for the public money that has been leached by private business. The railroads are capitalist networks and the American passenger train service is its redheaded step child. Freight went up X 4 or 5 in 2020 and has never gone down. Passenger traffic has doubled as airlines degrade, car ownership declines and mass transit friendly immigrants flood the nation.
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The most glaring statement about this decline was in the person of the four conductors, two women of color and two pale men. When the women ran the train, chaos reigned, with much agitation—especially among women—and the boomer and black passengers. [1] But when the two men took charge, between Connelsville and Pittsburgh and Toledo and Chicago, everyone breathed easier, behaved better and recalled their explanation, “Late trains get later—freight gets the right of way. Sorry. Thank you for traveling with Amtrak.”
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Notes
1.) White boomer retirees and black folk on the rails seem to have the same entitlement fetish.
