Trains of Thoughts (Little Ideas from a Shitty Week)

CW: Mentions of Suicidal Ideation

It’s the sort of exhaustion that forces my eyes shut. And it hits as I’m barreling through the 34th Street station, my 30 lb weekender slung over an unbalanced shoulder. The weight of what You did hits me square between the eyes like a Cowboy-Western movie. 

But I’m not John Wayne. And I’m real late for my train. 

I blink back confused tears, and slam towards the train arrivals board. Pause, read, inhale. The train is delayed. 30 minutes. 

I drop my bag, it lands with a muted thud on the linoleum floor, a red scar left on my bare shoulder from where it lay. 

“Ok,” I breathe. I pinch my nose, my lip involuntarily dropping into a deep-creased frown, “ok…” my voice wavers, muttering to myself. 

“Coffee, coffee!” Maybe if I keep saying things out loud, to no one, then the other passengers of Train 95 Final Destination Richmond, Virginia, won’t notice my red-rimmed and sleep-sunken eyes. 

I head for the Blue Bottle, which is conveniently cozied between the customer service desk and the security room. I wonder how many sleep-delirious, pick-pocketed tourists make their way to this Blue Bottle, praying to an Oat Latte for a break. 

I pray to my Oat Latte. But as I close my eyes, I think of You. Why am I so tired? I was up all night, fighting with You. Open my eyes. I am trying not to think of You. I can’t bear to think of You. I’ll look at my phone. Your photo, my phone background, can’t change it, can’t look at it. I can’t focus on reading. I can’t do the crossword puzzle, we do that together. Will I ever tease You for a misspelling again? I’ll stare into space, the only suitable option. Let my mind go numb, as I let my eyes fall out of focus, looking at a spec of dirt on the floor. 

I am shoulder-checked by a Suit. Deserved, I’m standing in the middle of the walkway, like a zombified suburbanite who doesn’t understand the mechanics of New York foot traffic. I flush myself against the concrete wall. 

There is a woman crouched next to me. She’s on the phone. Her eyes look like mine. Her face is red. In her hand dangles a half-empty water bottle, and a crumpled tissue. 

“Please don’t say that. I’ll be there soon. I’m the next train out.” she chokes out through broken sobs. 

I take my coffee and head to the bar. I’ll harness the power of both my latte and a filthy martini to pitch my altar.

Moynihan Train Hall is for Christmas. It’s for trips to see Your grandmother, or for weddings of that friend of a friend from college. 

It is not supposed to be where I’m simultaneously nursing a $26 Martini and a $13 Latte, rolodexing through my memories of You.

I flew across the country once, on my way to visit You. On landing, the plane reaching the gate, the woman in the row before me leapt up. 

Her phone freed from airplane mode, lighting up with a call. A few hushed murmurs before, 

“Please–God, Please!” She begged the passengers. “It’s my mom–she’s–hospital, please let me through.” 

She pushed through the hoards gathered in the aisle, running towards tragedy. 

My tragic days have happened in hushed phone calls, private conversations, and quiet car rides. But today, I’m one in a mass of travelers, and rather than running headlong into the unknown, “I’m on the next train out,” and “Please let me through,” I’m running away. 

---

My mother lives in a town of family names and sidewalkless streets. 

“Who cares what you look like? No one you know is here!” she chides as I fuss over my lipstick. I stick my tongue out at her. 

“You look like a celebrity.” She pets my head. She says this only because I’m wearing sunglasses. 

“I’m in hiding,” I slide them into my hair. “Hiding these.” I pull down on my lower eyelid, emphasizing the dark circles that emerged over 48 hours of tears. 

“Don’t do that!” lightly slapping my hand, “That’s fragile skin, your under eyes.” 

“I know, sorry.” I close the overhead visor, and we exit the car. 

The sound of my sandals slap echoes across the crowded parking lot. Most storefronts empty, barren windows save for a “For Lease,” sign. The Mexican restaurant, the last one standing in this long-forgotten strip mall. 

“Taco Tuesday,” my mother offers, as she slides her arm around my waist. I let my head fall on top of hers as we walk in tandem towards our dinner. 

We’re sat in the same booth as always. The wait staff doesn’t recognize us, and I’m relieved they don’t– 

“How many times have I cried at this booth?” 

My mother sighs in response and just shakes her head. Too many times to count. 

The waitress, college-age, bright-eyed furrows her brows in response to my question. 

“What is the biggest size of Margarita you have?” 

“Oh–the fish bowl,” she responds with a southern lilt. 

“No, N-O–” Mom replies her eyes boring into mine. 

“I’ll do the Fish Bowl!” I paint on my best sad clown smile.

My Mom laughs before putting her face in her hands. “Poor baby,” she mumbles. 

I blink back mixed-feeling tears and then I tell her everything You did. 

---

We got Finn when I was 17 because I was suicidal. He was a de facto emotional support dog, with no training. But he did the job. 

I am now 24, near-suicidal, but Finn is retired. We’re on a walk. Taylor Swift’s “The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived,” is pounding in my headphones, and as I compare the lyrics to my own life, Finn investigates something on the ground. 

After a few too many seconds of prolonged sniffing, I intervene. 

It is the carcass of a cicada. Or the near-carcass of a cicada. It twitches, as Finn lurches back. 

“Finn, you wimp.” 

He huffs at me and turns his butt towards me. Finn is just like his mother, a prima donna. The cicada gives one final buzz of his wings, before going limp. 

Poor cicada, too loud for his own good, and now dead. 

I am just like the cicada. 

---

I am on my way back to New York. I have sat in a seat that is going backward. I expect motion sickness to creep its way into my belly at any moment. Instead, I feel calm, assured. 

I have no idea what awaits. Or if You’ll be a part of this new chapter of my life. I hope there will be good to come of this. I pray to a half-sipped, cold cappuccino, that good will come from this. 

I am riding a train home. I am riding a train, backward to New York. 

Running backward to You. To whatever tragedy, or life awaits.