Riding the Spoon River Rail

Whew. I thought I'd never get that chick to go away last night.
I never met someone I wanted so much NOT to take home.

What's worse than going in to work?
Being told that I ought to enjoy it.

And then she kept asking what my 'bliss' was.
My bliss. Heh. Don't spose I could make a living as a male prostitute.
And if I could it probably wouldn't be as good as it sounds anyway.

My bliss. Sometimes I think my bliss would be just to be left alone.
No bills no jobs no need to eat no need to cook or go out and get it
No one calling me no one telling me I should be better or richer or smarter.
No demands.

Don't think I could make a living that way either.
But some days dying don't sound so bad.
Double bonus if there's beer and sex in Heaven.

I dreamed of travel
foreign worlds exotica called
my name

Visions of wildly colored
flowers and songs in
unknown languages
filled my senses

sunlit beaches
burly cities
love and adventure captured
my soul; I planned
all of that
all of that
all of that
and more

Now I travel destinations
between two points
assisting other travelers
some always the same
some never to be seen again

Working the train
is traveling without
going anywhere
a treadmill of sameness
on the move

there are no beaches
washed in sunlight
and no surf pounding
in the night

between and at each end
I am always here

There will be jackhammers today.
and old A.D. Blood will be taken away,
to stand in front of the town museum.
Forty years now I've been facing down that smirk,
him and those silly cherubs tumbling at his feet.

I've always suspected the sculptor was drunk the day
he carved the old teetotaler with that simper.

Well, the city always changes.
And if the old is lost, the new is gained.
Trust them to put in a play fountain
just when leaves are yellowing
and school is starting!

So today I'll fiddle between jackhammers
and hope someone can hear.
But next summer I'll have something
better to watch, and someone
better than AD to fiddle for.

Don’t tell me to smile, old man.

"It can’t really be that bad!"
I see your expensive suit
And eighty-dollar haircut.
Gonna give me back my job?
Take away my lover’s death?
I'll tell you what bad can be
Till your big fat mouth is shut.

Now I see your red face pale
And you back away from me.
"Sorry, ma'am, I didn't know."
My eyes narrow, the rage shows.
I’m not done with this creep yet.
"How dare you lecture anyway?
My sadness is all my own.
You can’t paint me a new face."

He gets off the train so fast
That I see a fat grey blur.
Has he learned a lesson here
Or will he do it again?
Grief and anger war a while
And a bitter smile leaks out.
Oh, Life! You hurt so much to live!
I will not mask for fools like him.

Hey ... HEY!
That bitch there got an Adam's apple!
That don't go with those shoes
and that skirt.

Yeah, no way that one was born a she.
No real woman walk like that,
even if she that big.

... not too hairy, though
and those tits maybe could be real.
Maybe she goin' the whole surgery way,
for sure the hormones, at least.

Man, she ugly.
OK for a he, for a she ugly.

Wonder if she happy.

wonder if that could be me some day?

Move the hips more.

Keep my elbows in.

Eye contact? More? Less?
What?

How the hell am I supposed to figure this out?

How did I figure it out the first time?

Strangers never looked twice before,
so I must have looked normal as a man.

Maybe this is why little kids always move so weird:
jumping, jiggling, contorting,
making strange noises.
I guess they're just testing.

Don't think I can do that as an adult.
Especially since the whole point is act normal
whatever normal is now.

....good thing I wore flats today;
no matter how much I practice in heels,
I don't think I'm ready for them on a moving train.

Why is that boy starting at me?
Look away, kid, I don't need the pressure.
No scenes here.

All I wanted to do was to live in a body that felt right
...well, that and blend in well enough
so no one stares at me.

If this is being who I really am
who would have thought
it would feel so unnatural?

No heads turn as I walk down the aisle.
No eyelids flicker above those bodies
hunched over magazines, games, phones.
"Middle age," you seem to mutter,
and look away too quickly.

The essence of camouflage
is to let people see what they expect.

Loose grey slacks hang shapeless;
buttoned shirt with a sad little ruffle,
honest face and limp constrained hair,
all carried above the
inevitable sensible shoes.

But wait. Wait until after work.
Wait until I slide on silk stockings,
setting each seam dead-straight,
hooking garters with practiced fingers.
Wait until the lacing reveals a waist
where none was suspected.
Did you think my breasts sagged empty
under the unflattering blouse?
Of course you didn't; you wouldn't think
about them at all, never
think of me as woman.
But wait
until the corset presents them:
delectable offerings,
unattainable as paradox.

Wait until I line my eyes,
redden my lips to scarlet,
let my hair curl unrestained.
Wait until I zip the boots thigh-high,
until I guide the gloves
up my arms to the elbow.

You'll notice me then.

And you'll pay.

Did she mean what she said last night?
It's been such an easy ride,
so miraculously smooth, until now.
We fit together so closely
That nothing could come between us.

And now the smooth ride
has turned to a roller coaster:
we're plummeting downhill,
each strapped to separate seats.

I hate these restraints -
that life won't let us
talk about it until tonight. But
some things can't be handled
in a phone call from the office.

So today will be a blur,
nothing but a wait for tonight.
I can only trust
that our roller-coaster love
is strong and well-built,
that we'll rise back up
and come together
again.

I never expected to be riding a train
to a mundane job every morning.
I thought I'd be taking
the asteroid shuttle to work.
or maybe I'd live on the Moon,
in tunnels dug deep into lunar rock
or out on one of the great orbiting ships
As we studied how to build a city that could
travel to the stars.

I'd be a hydroponics farmer, maybe,
or a spaceship mechanic
or a designer of ships that might someday
encircle another star.

I wasn't a silly idealist;
Everyone believed we were going on.
And then...we stopped going to the moon.


And now I'm a teacher.
And I ride the train to work every day.
And I'm very, very careful when I talk to my students:
because when you tell a child she can be
anything she wants
she may believe you.
And a broken promise is a broken dream.

*snerk* I can't imagine what those old women thought
Seeing all the green silk and ruffles fall out when I dropped my bag.

They probably think I'm a cross-dresser with really bad taste.

Better check ... do I have everything?
Makeup kit, nose, wig, striped socks, big shoes
Magic scarves, rings, coins, hat. Yup.

And most important, the big colorful handkerchief
- colorful, so if anyone sees me between rooms
I can pretending to be blowing my red nose
- just a clown joke, you see?

but really because I can't let tears
smudge my makeup
and some of those kids in the cancer ward
would wring tears from a much harder heart
than this clown's.

There really should be
some extra floating holidays
anyone could take now and then:

For a day of absolutely perfect weather
especially when it's been raining, blowing
or otherwise miserable
for a while;

For a day when, despite your best efforts
sleep didn't come until right before
the alarm clock
went off;

For a day when an old bereavement
hits you again, just as strong
as the very day after
she died;

and

For when there are new kittens
in the house! Because they're only
day-old kittens
for a day.
And kittens don't keep.

Oh, crap! There's a run!
Good thing I brought spare hose today,
though I hate to be going to backup this early.
Maybe I can stop at the drugstore for spares.

I'm glad I decided on the flats;
I just had a vision of myself
catching a heel and going
flying across the courtroom
fetching up under the judge's bench
skirt slip up to my hips.

I'd have to leave town.

I wish it weren't scheduled for after lunch.
Sandwich today, definitely no mustard.
Water to drink, no Coke, no coffee.
I'm taking no chances.

The funny thing is,
the big things are ready.
My case is prepared,
my arguments rehearsed,
research done, questions listed.
I know I can do the lawyer part well.

It's just the standing up in public
not making a fool of myself part
that worries me.

Does a gerbil
running in a gerbil wheel
think, "Must get in ten more paces today"?
"Must turn the wheel just a few more times
before I snuggle down in my
soft nest"?

Or does she just think
"run run run run run run run"?
Either way, is she
an example to follow,
or one to avoid?

Maybe I shouldn't have set up
this meeting.

What do I call her?
Not "Mom": I have one of those.
Not "Sarah", that seems disrespectful.
And not Ma'am; I'm neither military nor Southern.
Ms. Dubrovnik seems too remote
for someone whose body I once lived inside.

I suppose I'll call her, "Um..."
As you do for in-laws and other peoples' parents.

And what do I say?

"Thank you for giving me life"?
Too dramatic.

"Thank you for not killing me"?
But I wouldn't have known the difference.
And anyway, you do what you can;
I don't want to sound like I'm judging.

I'll probably stick with "Hi."
I hope I can think of something to say
After that.

I hate that "No Busking on this Train" sign.

It would be so great for my students...
Half of them ride the Metro Rail anyway.
They need to get used to performing for strangers,
And maybe they could make some lunch money.

When our school was started in the '80s,
I hear, students sang and danced
On this train every day.
I haven't heard that anybody minded.

But people gave them money
And then the beggars started coming,
Not like old Norris, but ones who asked for money
Without performing,
and didn't wash,
and people complained
and then the Rules came after them.
Because students, you can see as "us"
And enjoy them
But homeless people are almost always "them"
and people are afraid they'll catch it
if they get too close.

Is it only busking if you take money for it?
Maybe I should ask:
This would be a great place to do a short skit
To drum up interest in our year-end show.
Maybe I shouldn't ask;
I bet they'd do no worse than ask us to stop.
I wonder if the kids would want to do it?

How strange.
That man across the way seems to have his book upside down.
Stranger still,
no one seems to have noticed,
Except possibly the man across from him
Who looks at him oddly.

Maybe he's a reader, too.

But the point is,
people rarely look at each other on the train.
Everyone is too deep in their own thoughts.

And if they did look, what then?
Why should I care
what random strangers on a train
think about me, anyway?

This morning I was resolved
to bring along the book I'm actually reading
instead of something more "acceptable",
something like National Treasure,
or, conversely, Women Who Run with the Wolves.
Now all I need to do
is to pull it out and read it.

And if anyone finds it odd
that I'm rereading Mary Poppins,
well...
That's not my problem.

Or so I keep telling myself.

That's him, that's him!
Has he seen me?
I feel sick ...
Keep my head down
Hold up book
No, wait, it's upside down,
Turn it over,
Hide!

Can I walk away?
No, if I move I'll catch his eye
And he might still know my walk
After all these years.
(He once knew my body only too well.)

Just hide.
Maybe he'll get off first.
What is he doing here
In MY city?
I came here
because it seemed like
the last place he'd ever go.

I'm an adult now
(Breathe!)
I know now what he did to me
(Breathe!)
I can defend myself
(Breathe!)
I've had therapy
And I've put my life
Back together....

If I'm so together,
Why does just seeing him,
Who was once my brother
Feel so much like a kick
to the stomach?

I first rode this train as a baby
Twenty-eight years ago.
Of all the times I've ridden it,
I can't remember a ride as miserable
As yesterday.

And of all the times I've ridden here,
Twenty-eight years of train rides,
I can't remember one where I was as happy
And as sad
As today.

This could be the last time (again)
But there *will* be this one last visit
Mom promised she'd wait for us.
And Mom won't break her word.
(I'm my mother's daughter, for sure.)

All those days agonizing
Over what's so clearly coming to her
And over what I couldn't tell her

And then yesterday morning
When she looked at me,
With those eyes that are starting to see into forever
But she pulled them back from that far distance,
And looked into me
And said, in her old way, "Spit it out.
What haven't you told me?"

No one could ever keep anything from my mom.
And so I told her... everything.
And she laughed
She said, "What were you so scared of? Me?
I'm only dying. I'm not so far gone
As to forget the imperatives of love."

And so here I am -
Here we are
Holding hands on the train
Just like Mom held my hand
Twenty-eight years ago.
And whatever happens after,
We'll have had this last visit.
Because Mama promised me.

This could be the last time.
Just because I've said that every morning this week
Doesn't make it any less true.

She's been fading for a while.
She's ready to go: she wants to be with Dad.
I can bear it, I think.
This is not my last chance to talk to her,
Just the last time I can hear her answer.

And so every morning, I've made myself the same promise:
This will be the day. This is the day I will tell...
Today I will tell Mom about her:
How beautiful she is, how smart,
How she makes my heart sing,
How I love her.

And every day, I've said
"I love you, Mom,"
and "I'll be OK"
And nothing more.

It's not fair: when my brother brought his wife home,
He said "Mom, here she is,"
And no more
And everyone was glad,
And eveything was easy.
But no one ever said life was fair,
(How many times has Mom told me?)
And I won't live a lie.

Life will never be fair,
But I am. I won't break that promise to myself.
I have to be honest: I don't have to be happy,
And if I can't tell my dying mother about her,
Then I can't tell myself this is right.
And more: if I love her,
If I value her as she deserves,
Then how can I give her less than my full truth?
Or anything less than complete committment?

No.
Six days I have failed;
Six tries are enough.
Once more I'll visit Mom
And I'll tell her everything
Except this one most central thing,
And tonight I'll go home -
No, not home any more, just her house -
And I'll tell her
It's over.

And I'll remember this as the week
When my mother's death may not have been
The worst thing that happened.

"A man provides for his family,"
My father never questioned it. That's
what a man does; for my father, for
the older men, that's most of who he is.
Does he provide well? Can you rely on him?
Does he fulfill his religious duty?
That's all they needed to know.

They had it easy, I think. I think, sometimes,
that it was all an excuse.
My father could walk out of a houseful of crying children,
leaving the mayhem for my mother to sort out,
firmly believing he was doing his part,
as long as the family was housed, clothed, fed
and properly behaved in public.
"Loved" wasn't part of the job description
though he did love us, I know that as well as I know anything.

His life was easier, I usually think. No guilt;
but no glory either. He missed out on
the sunrise of babies' smiles,
the fierce concentration
of a five-year-old intent on her
(awkward, mistimed, incredible, beautiful) dance recital,
the beloved bruises that are the scars
of being the toddler's first climbing gym.
These train rides are the saddest part of my days
as they take me into the hours away
from what I love.

Today, though, I fled the house:
Wishing I could stay to comfort the baby,
wailing in response to his sisters' sobs;
Wishing I could console my daughter,
as she faces a dying beloved for the first time;
Wishing I could help my wife,
as she prepares for the last sad visit to the vet;
Not willing to admit I'm glad to escape
To a quiet office,
To provide for my family.