En Route

I met Paul on my train ride from Portland to Seattle.  He sat across the aisle from me, a beer bottle resting between his thighs.  Drinking your own booze on the train is strictly prohibited.  

I liked him at once.

I answered a phone call and when my conversation was over I took out my computer to do some typing. 

“Are you getting any power over there?” he asked.  I had plugged my computer in but when I looked at the battery icon on the lower right hand side of my screen, I realized I wasn’t. 

“No,” I answered, “that’s odd, I wonder why there’s no juice.” 

“I couldn’t get mine to work either,” he said taking a swig of his beer, “so I just gave up.” 

I would’ve placed him in his mid to late forties, a good looking salt and pepper haired fellow wearing a wedding band on his left ring finger. He was lean and precisely dressed in navy slacks and a crisp collared shirt.  “I’m Paul,” he said extending his hand. 

“I’m Margot,” I responded, “nice to meet you.” 

“So I couldn’t help overhearing your phone conversation,” he said, “sounds like you’ve been traveling for awhile.” 

“Yeah, a little bit over two months now.” 

“Why?” He asked.

“Because I always wanted to.” I said, “and the time was right.” 

“How old are you?” he asked, “twenty-one?” 

“Ha, ha!” I laughed, “ugh, no, I’m twenty-eight, I wish I was twenty-one.  Well, not really but, you know…”

“Where are you from?”

“Chicago.”

“Oh, so Obama territory.” I tried to decipher his tone of voice, was it reverent or critical?

“That’s right,” I answered, “hometown boy done good.”

He smiled with relief.  “What a blessing,” he said, “I wasn’t sure if we were going to make it.”

“Totally,” I said, “finally America made one good decision.”  We went on politely chatting for awhile and he shared with me that he too had traveled across the U.S., twenty years earlier.  As he told me an anecdote or two about hitchhiking through California and being homeless in O’Ahu I sensed he was leaving important details out of his story.  To be candid, my gaydar was going off.  He spoke vaguely of romantic liaisons but was careful not to specify gender.  He feared I was homophobic. I needed to put him at ease.  “Have you ever read any David Sedaris?” I asked.  He hadn’t.  “Oh he’s my favorite! He’s written a lot of stories about hitchhiking America.  In his latest book there’s this great story about him getting solicited by this truck driver and how it’s very awkward for him because he’s just coming to terms with his sexuality, you know, coming out of the closet.”

“Oh, that is exactly what was going on for me!” Paul said and suddenly the walls came down.  He told me about his husband the Canadian preacher and how essentially he’s supposed to be a preacher’s wife, but he doesn’t know how well he’s doing because they just moved from Hawaii to BELLVUE, Washington (Chicagoans – think Evanston with newer, tackier money), and how everyone at their church is so rich and yet SO CHEAP. And on and on. 

I’ve engaged in the delicate dance of “are you my kind?” on countless occasions as I’ve traveled.  What is the magic word you can say to make people believe you’re worth investing time in and divulging personal information to?  What subject matter can bond two strangers?  Politics has been a major connector, though approaching it is always so dangerous. I’ve connected with people over authors, and books, and cities I’ve visited. And pets.  People LOVE to talk about their pets.

“And so what do you do?” Paul asked. 

“I do theater,” I said.

His nose crinkled.  “Theater?” he asked, “what are you ever going to do with that?  Not to sound judgmental or anything but…” He raised his hands and made a I’m-just-warning-you sort of face, which is when I noticed his chipped front tooth.  He set his beer bottle on the floor and I saw he had an opened bottle of white wine tucked into the front pocket in the seat in front of him. Later I would be in the dining car reading and he would come in and have a hysterical phone conversation about “why wasn’t my appointment set up on time?” and “I’ve called three times for you and I keep getting a recording,” and “yes I’m upset, I just don’t know if I can live this way.” But that wouldn’t be for another few hours.  For now, I just admitted to myself that perhaps we weren’t the kindred spirits I thought we were and said, “Well, I AM doing that. I’m living the dream.”