Usually on Sunday, I have found a likely church and I showed up for services. Last Sunday, I woke up in Arkansas and drank coffee and watched as the tilled agricultural fields passed by and we arrived at the Ozarks. We followed rushing streams and noted little churches, cars outside, in the villages of that remote region. I made conversation with my fellows, first a young man who couldn't find his power cord. We were a gathering of two on a Sunday, religious enough as we rolled like a miracle on the Texas Eagle, seventy miles a hour.
He had to keep his cellphone charged up because he was trying his wings as a lifecaster. I told him to look at the front of the observation car. He found the cord and plug and came back to thank me. He sat down and we began to compare notes about life and travel. I ministered to him by listening. He ministered to me by talking.
He broadcast mostly through the Bigo Live platform. I had to look that up because I love Bigos, a Polish stew made with sauerkraut and sausage. He showed me his show. He showed me the shows of personalities who actually made money on the platform. A few played the vixen. A few dressed up for cosplay. He had a beautiful head full of dreadlocks so he went cleverly disguised as himself. He had yet to hit payday but he had faithful followers.
The endless show on Bigo Live seemed torture to me. I like my plot points and commercial breaks. I like when Donny and Marie Osmond sign off, singing, "May Tomorrow Be A Perfect Day". I might love a movie and yet I feel a sense of relief when the credits roll and I can walk over to Ironwood next to the Manlius Art House and order a bottle of Saratoga Springs bottles water. I wish I could enjoy these simple Sunday pleasures but not today. Memory will have to satisfy.
A conversation should have a beginning, a middle and an ending. He went back to his broadcast. I would have been happy to have appeared on his show but I had a three day beard. I went back to my writing, just typing down ideas as the landscape outside brought thoughts to my mind. A wide band of water appeared in the great windows of the observation car. I looked at Google Maps to be certain. We were running north along the Western Bank of the Mississippi River.
I decided to be subtle. "Domingo, something special has happened". I smiled. He waited for me to say more but why would I? He looked over his shoulder. "The Mississippi River. M.I.S.S.I.S.S.I.P.P.I". He announced to his following. "Hey, you all. It's the Mississippi River!" He held up the cellphone, capturing a dredge ship harvesting gravel off the river bed.
I like TikTok, allowing me to make a short film. I talk, practicing my voice over and ad-libbing skills. He left the observation car. When he came back, he explained, "I wanted you to have the view to yourself". "Thanks, that was very polite". We were creeping through the railyards of St Louis. The crew had promised us a smoke break at St Louis.
I padded around the platform, walking the length of the train. I hadn't put on my corduroy jacket against the cold. When the magical yellow stools are out and all doors of all superliners are open, I like to stay on the platform until I hear the "all aboard". Three years before into the day, I had walked about the St Louis Station, reaching the subway stop before returning to the yellow stools outside my car. The wait draws on and on at St Louis as the train takes on water, adds cars.
I returned to my laptop, untouched on a table in the observation car. Only twenty of us inhabited the six coach superliners by my informal count. A woman sat down across from me. I had gifted her a small bottle of wine as we rolled out of Fort Worth and into nightfall. She introduced herself as Sondra. She taught writing. I practiced writing. We were deep in conversation when she said, "Something awful has happened"? She was staring behind me. I turned and saw the bubble lights of an ambulance, pulled up on the platform. It pulled off, siren singing. "I saw a young man on a gurney". I had counted three on my last walk from rear car to the dining car. I knew.
Police entered the rear most car. We waited as the officers investigated. Sondra and I talked about culture and content and context. A tragedy had happened and we were helpless and I had just talked to the man. I had claimed him for the writers. I made a new friend and I had failed to keep him from harm. We had exchanged Facebook friendships. I had to know something, so I texted him. Domingo had picked up right away when I sent him a "Hail fellow, well met" message. The message delivered to an unattended mailbox.
When Sondra left me to go make lunch, I walked the train. I discovered I was no longer in the rear car. Two superliners had been added but I was barred from walking the newly added units. Chicago probably needed the two for the southbound Texas Eagle. Babe, the sleeping car attendant, was cleaning the seat once occupied by our lost passenger. She had filled a small bag of refuse. I didn't ask for details. Her look said she couldn't tell.
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