En Route No. 3

What happened on the journey from Monterey, Ca. to Los Angeles(Reading No Drinking in Fast-Motion?)

I wanted to be completely sober when I arrived at Union Station in LA because the old friend who would be picking me up had known me last as a very young drunk in Lincoln, Nebraska(where we first met ten years ago) and I wanted it to be clear that I had changed--mostly. So I drank nothing but water on the train, which washed down my graciously hand-packed ham sandwiches, bananas, pistachios, cheese crackers, pickles, fig newtons, and tim tams(I was truly carrying all that with me). Once I got there, and we hugged each other, then we could drink.

Between my several meals, which I spaced out considerably well over the ten hours of traveling, I became anxious(that's what happens without a nip of booze) for internal movement, something more significant to me alone, something indelibly my own. I got the idea of going into the observation car for my(the?) first reading in fast-motion. I would go into the observation car and ask a few of the folks if they'd be interested in a little entertainment--something short, sweet. I would stand on the side of the car where behind me the ocean could be seen and I would read. It may have been entrapment with the type of folks that were on this train, in this car, being that they were the too kind type, the type that can't say no, the type that will suffer through anything with a smile on their face--the type of folks who were cooing out the window, "ah, man, look at that there--ain't it beautiful?" They would have to listen then; they would be forced to listen, out of politeness if nothing else. And they would end up liking me. They would even buy my books. It's not like I would be a rich man from the sales, but at least I would be my own man, and perhaps a little richer for the experience?

What actually happened after I got the idea and went into the observation car is that I got very self-conscious and opted to sit down and stare out the window like the rest of the folks, only instead of saying it out loud, I thought to myself, "ah, man--it's beautiful." And it happened that the position I sat in was next to an Indian looking girl of thirteen who had a noticeable mustache that her parents had probably refused to let her wax at such a young age--but she would do it later on, once she was out of the house. She was certainly a self-aware little girl, and a little girl who was bold enough to strike up conversation with me. "This your first time on a train?" she inquired of me. She went on to tell me about her own experience riding on trains, which was extensive. She talked about her family in the next car. She had a notebook in her lap and had been writing in it. I asked her about the notebook. As it turned out, this girl was a "writer" too. A prolific one at that--she had already written seven books(mainly science fiction).

Naturally, I told this little girl that I was a writer as well, and told her all about the Reading (and Drinking) in Slow-Motion tour. She was fascinated(and I'm not being vain), and wanted my advice on a number of subjects. I continued to stare out the window as she spoke, not to intentionally avoid her gaze, but to intentionally avoid gazing at her mustache(I'm so sorry if you're reading this!)--I didn't want to embarrass her. Out the window opposite the ocean she pointed to a couple of deer, a fox(supposedly), and some cows. She continued to talk about her books, her inspirations, her secrets that she kept from her family--not to say that she disclosed these secrets to me(thank god), but she spoke of the idea of these secrets. She claimed to have gone so far as to have created her own language so that if anyone picked up one of her notebooks they would be lost as to what they meant. All little girls have their own languages.

It seemed preposterous to me that I should be sitting next to this thirteen year old girl, but I was extremely glad to have sat next to her. I've never been in the position of a mentor--though this was temporary--and the responsibility made me feel honorable, good. Regardless, I felt that our dialogue had run its course--in this day and age one must be careful about how much time they spend with a young girl or boy, especially when holding a copy of a book called, "God's Fool"(Julien Green's respectable biography, or life and times, of St. Francis of Assisi)--and I told her I was headed back to my seat now. I was thinking about another of my small meals. And just as I was about to leave she told me to wait, quickly tearing out the corner of one of her notebook pages; she wrote something on this torn corner of a page and handed it to me. Written on the paper was her name, her contact information, and underneath it, "aspiring author." I stuck it in my pocket and went back to my seat. Then I ate half of a ham sandwich, a handful of cheese crackers, and a banana, and felt content.