My summer of 1955 back in beloved Philadelphia had ended, and way too soon I'd be back in the dread Kansas City, where my parents had forced me to move a year earlier. I said goodbye to my friends with a heavy heart and missed them desperately.
But by saving my allowance and babysitting fees I would, I figured, be able to accumulate $85, the cost of a round-trip coach ticket for the train to New York City for Christmas vacation. A lesson in responsibility, said Mom and Pop. None of the family could bear the thought of another summer in Kansas City, so we all went east. If I could handle this trip by myself I had permission to be independent. Unlike a dozen years earlier, with the overnighters from Chicago or my family's escape from Washington, this trip to New York City, was mine alone, from start to finish. Once again worth living, my life became wholly dedicated.
Sleeplessness ruled one December night before the 7 a.m. "Colorado Eagle" on the Missouri/Pennsylvania Railroad line departed. I listened to the seconds ticking off, checked the alarm and worried about sleeping through it, or that the taxi would be late. I finally dozed off to spring awake in the darkness, seconds before the alarm rang, all systems "go." I boarded the Eagle to St. Louis and caught The Knickerbocker which would carry me over one thousand miles to Grand Central Station. The coach was a crowded, smokey heaven. After stowing my suitcase in the overhead rack I settled into a window seat, savoring each transcendent moment, my mind alive with sweet anticipation.
The moment had arrived to light the glorious first from my fresh pack of Luckies. Avoiding contact with the many soldiers swarming through the car, I focused instead on the landscape flowing outside the window. Cradled by the steady rhythms of the train and taking long breaks for gazing, I flipped happily through my movie magazines, reveling in my freedom and the unsurpassed excellence of long-distance locomotion.
"Is this seat taken?" asked the young soldier. "Would it be all right to sit here?" "Sure," I said, thinking, "Uh oh." He settled down in the seat by the aisle, overflowing with families and soldiers. The air hummed with sociability. The wheels clickety-clacked. "Mind if I smoke?" He offered me a Chesterfield from his pack. I relaxed an outer barricade and accepted it. He struck a match and lit first mine and then his. Serene against the comforting clatter and bustle of the coach, we puffed contentedly, exchanging tidbits about our lives and destinations. He hated being away from home and missed his family. Like the FBI, soldiers represented government authority in my Communist family, making me wary at first. But, I realized shortly into our chat that he was just a homesick kid, practically my age. I relaxed a little more, impressed by this wider view, and daring new encounter. Grandma did this all the time. "I love music," he sighed.
"Me too," I said. "What songs do you like?"
"Do you know The Great Pretender?" Everyone knew The Platters' new hit. We sang it all the way through to the end together. The train hummed along. "That's me," he reflected sadly. "I love that song. It says what I feel." Not threatening at all, I thought. It was interesting that soldiers could be regular kids who felt vulnerable. After awhile he was called away by others in his unit, and politely excused himself. "It was nice talking to you," he said. It had been nice. Had he been sincerely sensitive, or faking it to impress me? Either way, I felt more confident as an adult presence in the world. "Good luck," I called to his wave, and meant it.
The sun had gone down, and with it the commotion in the car. After a while the overhead lights dimmed. Here and there insomniacs dotted the darkness with solo spots they clicked off one by one. I closed my book, snapped off my own little beam and leaned back into the coach seat. With my feet riding on the footrest I contemplated again the old familiar thrill of a train taking me where I wanted to go. The nightime countryside flickered by to an accompaniment of hypnotic locomotion and the wheels sang unfamiliar but comforting symphonies faintly broadcasting from nowhere, slipping through the darkness of the coach into my brain. I closed my eyes and tuned in until the music slipped completely out of range.
