“What are you doing?” said the tall, bald aggressive gay man.
Blank stare.
“Um, what are you doing?”
Still staring, “I have no idea.”
This man smells like Lysol.
“Well, is your name on the list?”
“No.”
“What is your name?”
“Lauren.”
“How many of there are you?”
I slowly raise my index finger to indicate to this rather intimidating dinning attendant, that, just like my father says when affirming my individuality, there is only one of me.
“We’ll call your name,” said the undeniably Mr. Clean look alike and with that and a brisk shooing motion, I was dismissed.
Jumping out of the booth that I had, much to my mistake, just sat down in, I made the rocky walk of shame out of the dining car, down the stairs and back into my heated sleeper cabin.
Welcome aboard.
***
“EXCUSE ME Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention please? ‘David’ party of three, ‘Sarah’ party of one, ‘John’ party of two and ‘Lauren’ party of one, please make your way to the dining car.”
Hmm.
Standing in the door frame of the car, I wait, with a polite smile on my face, staring at Mr. Clean, watching his Mr. Clean mannerisms. After he looks at me, checks his little list, scans the car for the most awkward table possible, he looks back up and tells me that I have the privilege of sitting right over there.
Lovely.
Here in lies the story of the most fantastic/horrific lunch I may ever experience in my life.
There were three of us at this booth: weird, I-should-be-skinny-but-I-have-never-worked-out-a-day-in-my-life-so-I-now-have-an-awkward-belly, computer, come-over man, on one side of the table and, my seat buddy, an overweight, deaf, Hispanic-Italian woman.
She sits down and starts talking. We don’t really know who she is talking to exactly and neither of us can quite understand her because she has this lisp that, when facing your direction, projects a surprisingly large amount of spit, so neither of us really want to lean in to understand.
“Wooh, thish train ish rocky! Well, I don’t know about y’all but I am going to Shan Antonio. I don’t really want to go there, but thatsh where I am going. I really want to go to Dallash, but itsh jusht sho exshpenshive to get there! Thatsh why I am getting off at Shan Antonio and driving to Dallash.”
At this point in the conversation I was asking myself how she was “getting off” in San Antonio when that is where this train starts off and if we were already past McGregor. I got my mouth halfway open to ask when some of this woman's so called "shpittel" flew into my mouth.
Fuck that. Not asking another question.
While we have this whole interaction between me and Little Italy’s most prized deaf Hispanic, Mr. Computer-creeper has been staring in my general direction the whole time. Sick.
“So…where did you get on?”
Fucking sick, don’t talk to me. “McGregor”
“Rad. Where are ya headed?”
Who the hell says “rad” anymore, let alone when trying to impress someone? “Chicago”
“Love that city. Did some work up there. So, ah, what brought you to Texas?”
One: No, I will not ask you about your job Two: don’t talk about my city and Three: why are you still talking? “I had never been, thought I’d figure out if all those stereotypes were true”
The conversation went on from there. He talked; I started out the window and the lisper agreed, I think.
Never before was I so happy to see Mr. Clean.
I wrote this my freshman year when I took the train back to Chicago for Christmas. I have not written in a long time, so please forgive my poor organization, inadequate grammar and silly personal narrative "voice".
Ciao.
Blank stare.
“Um, what are you doing?”
Still staring, “I have no idea.”
This man smells like Lysol.
“Well, is your name on the list?”
“No.”
“What is your name?”
“Lauren.”
“How many of there are you?”
I slowly raise my index finger to indicate to this rather intimidating dinning attendant, that, just like my father says when affirming my individuality, there is only one of me.
“We’ll call your name,” said the undeniably Mr. Clean look alike and with that and a brisk shooing motion, I was dismissed.
Jumping out of the booth that I had, much to my mistake, just sat down in, I made the rocky walk of shame out of the dining car, down the stairs and back into my heated sleeper cabin.
Welcome aboard.
***
“EXCUSE ME Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention please? ‘David’ party of three, ‘Sarah’ party of one, ‘John’ party of two and ‘Lauren’ party of one, please make your way to the dining car.”
Hmm.
Standing in the door frame of the car, I wait, with a polite smile on my face, staring at Mr. Clean, watching his Mr. Clean mannerisms. After he looks at me, checks his little list, scans the car for the most awkward table possible, he looks back up and tells me that I have the privilege of sitting right over there.
Lovely.
Here in lies the story of the most fantastic/horrific lunch I may ever experience in my life.
There were three of us at this booth: weird, I-should-be-skinny-but-I-have-never-worked-out-a-day-in-my-life-so-I-now-have-an-awkward-belly, computer, come-over man, on one side of the table and, my seat buddy, an overweight, deaf, Hispanic-Italian woman.
She sits down and starts talking. We don’t really know who she is talking to exactly and neither of us can quite understand her because she has this lisp that, when facing your direction, projects a surprisingly large amount of spit, so neither of us really want to lean in to understand.
“Wooh, thish train ish rocky! Well, I don’t know about y’all but I am going to Shan Antonio. I don’t really want to go there, but thatsh where I am going. I really want to go to Dallash, but itsh jusht sho exshpenshive to get there! Thatsh why I am getting off at Shan Antonio and driving to Dallash.”
At this point in the conversation I was asking myself how she was “getting off” in San Antonio when that is where this train starts off and if we were already past McGregor. I got my mouth halfway open to ask when some of this woman's so called "shpittel" flew into my mouth.
Fuck that. Not asking another question.
While we have this whole interaction between me and Little Italy’s most prized deaf Hispanic, Mr. Computer-creeper has been staring in my general direction the whole time. Sick.
“So…where did you get on?”
Fucking sick, don’t talk to me. “McGregor”
“Rad. Where are ya headed?”
Who the hell says “rad” anymore, let alone when trying to impress someone? “Chicago”
“Love that city. Did some work up there. So, ah, what brought you to Texas?”
One: No, I will not ask you about your job Two: don’t talk about my city and Three: why are you still talking? “I had never been, thought I’d figure out if all those stereotypes were true”
The conversation went on from there. He talked; I started out the window and the lisper agreed, I think.
Never before was I so happy to see Mr. Clean.
I wrote this my freshman year when I took the train back to Chicago for Christmas. I have not written in a long time, so please forgive my poor organization, inadequate grammar and silly personal narrative "voice".
Ciao.
