The Train Syndrome

Time and time again, mostly on long distance trains, I get a feeling I have trouble defining. Perhaps it's my poor vocabulary - I can't say. It's the sort of lonely feeling of a child left at home. It's not quite as devastatingly abstract as the sort-of permanent loneliness of man, no, but rather an ill-tempered, temporary one. It shall last, I suspect, only for another hour and a half - before I fall asleep on my seat and swing through the rest of the trip, but oh shall it sting me every moment in the meantime. Sometimes, I almost prefer the incurable existentialist in me, for her loneliness is by now well romanticized like no other. Or perhaps this simply seems worse under the no-smoking sign. Oh, how I wish I had a cigarette in this moment-la. 

I figure we have finally found that spot in the far distance where time and space have merged. The train carries my weak and sleepless flesh through the street-lights as I kidnap my soul all the way back to my childhood. I don't remember much, but with these heavy streetlights of Pennsylvania - sure, we must be somewhere along Pennsylvania now, memories can be exposed so suddenly and with such little effort - it's almost sad. But then again, we tend to like sad things in this modern-world, don't we?

I jump over the man sitting besides me with my hand grabbing the window screen and my head turning back. "I'm awfully sorry, sir, I have frightened you. Look back - but I suppose you cannot see anymore. Oh well, we just passed by my 5th grade concerto."

 "It's okay dear." I never thought he would respond. The feeling inside takes its first hit. 

"I used to think Che Guevara was the most brilliant man who ever lived."

He thinks, this time, before he responds. 

"He was.. For a while. Wasn't he?"

The feeling takes its second hit. My eyes stop searching for the secret smoking spot on the train now. I figure this could be more fun.

"Are you married?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm too young."

"How old are you?"

"I'm 30".

"You're not young".

"Thanks".

"That wasn't a compliment". 

"I know".

"It was a reality check".

"I know".

"I'm so tired of 50 year old men hitting on me on trains".

"I wasn't flirting with you".

"It's because you're not 50, I suppose".

"Or because I'm not 20."

"Or because I smell of cigarette smoke".

"Or because I don't like the piano".

The feeling took the third hit. He had remembered my remark. Now I didn't need any cigarettes. My hands searched my pockets for the pack of Marlboros. I sighed with a relief that it was still there. 

"Where are you going?" I asked him. 

"Home".

….

"Is that a sandwich"?

"Yes".

"Who made it?"

"Someone else."

"Are you going to eat it?"

"No".

"Can I have it?"

"Are you hungry?"

"No".

He gave me the sandwich. I took a bite and began to chew. The bread was stale, it was hard to swallow. I took another bite. This time I got some of the tuna. It was quite tasty. I put the sandwich down.

"Wanna fuck?"

"No".

"Okay."

I put on my headphones and began listening to Nancy Sinatra. The feeling had taken a break, healed itself from the hits, and come back much stronger. I looked at the time. An hour and 13 minutes to go. I put my hands in my pocket, held my pack hard in my palm, closed my eyes, and dreamt of having a cigarette.