On "On the Road"

This one is loosely based on the Michael Silverbatt assignment we got.

It was nearing 10:45, and I still didn’t have my ticket. Of course, this was my fault; I am a hopeless procrastinator. This morning I smooshed all of the clothes I would need for two weeks, enough books to keep me entertained on a train ride that would collectively last about three days, my laptop, and other various accessories. A voice over the intercom announced that this is the last call for all passengers, and I rush to the person behind the desk. I was headed from New Orleans to Chicago, where I had a 13 hour lay-over to tour the town, and from Chicago to upstate New York. All together, it would take me two days, which was okay. I was the one who insisted on taking a train instead of flying, and I was the one who insisted on waiting to book the train ticket until the last minute. So instead of a peaceful ride along the east coast, I have to ride an extra 10 hours through the ugly, mid-western states. Strawberry and cotton farms and dying houses are nice to look at for a little while, but they get old. I need a little variety here! On top of that, we had to go through Mississippi, a state even crappier than Louisiana.

Even though I was making a last minute flurry to get to the train, I was pleased. I wanted to make a dramatic entrance like in old movies, sprinting as the train chuga-chugged away, tossing my heavy suitcase into the open train and diving in after it. However, this was a fine piece of high-tech machinery. It had doors. Doors and a man that shut them.

“Almost missed us,” said the doorman with a smile. “Yeah, I suppose so.” I would not be cheered up. I got on the train, looked back and the doorman shut his door behind me. Without yelling an “All aboard!” How could he do this to me? This was perhaps the most disappointing moment in my entire life. “Aren’t you going to say all aboard?” I asked, desperately. The man chuckled and told me to take my seat. This was not a good start to my first train ride. I collapsed in my seat at the front. At least, I thought to myself, there’s barely anyone on this train. If luck was on my side, I could have two seats to myself tonight. However, there was at least 12 hours to go before I would consider going to bed. Best not to get my hopes up.


Despite all of this, the ride out of New Orleans was pleasant. I found a sick enjoyment in snickering at all the people stopped at the railroad crossings that I was always stuck at, and found a few of my friends’ houses along the way. Then, Lake Pontchartrain. I daresay this was the first time I found that dark, disgusting water beautiful. The way that brown water contrasted the light blue sky was something I’ve never seen before. Rusted train tracks lined with oyster shells and broken bits of rock run parallel to the Causeway Bridge, one I’ve crossed many times. This new perspective was odd, and a bit rejuvenating. Maybe it was this new perspective combined with the odd Icelandic chirpings of Sigur Ros that made me want to teleport out of this crappy train and onto the track, where I could search for perfect skipping stones. I would have to teleport, of course, cause of the damn doors. Now, the horizon was graying, and I knew it would rain soon. No problem, though, because along with the amazing ability of teleportation, I could also fly. This current fascination with flying would come from Sigur Ros’s “Glosoli” music video that I have recently seen where kids fly. God, I envied the crap out of those kids. Flying has been a dream of mine ever since I saw “Peter Pan,” and I’m sure I share that experience with many people. I could fly home, get a poncho, and fly
anywhere I wanted to go.

This daydream snapped to a halt rather suddenly. What I guess was a man-made inlet, only thick enough to hold the train tracks, turned into a wooden, incredibly scary bridge. Please refer, to the picture here. This picture was taken in 1952. I don’t know the exact date that this bridge was built, but I can almost assure you that this is the same track that runs now. There are some addition steel supports possibly added because of the hurricanes that blew through here over the years, and some ballsy graffiti artist’s work here and there, but otherwise this bridge has been untouched for 60 years. This was quite surprising considering our city’s impeccable cleanliness and well-kept qualities.

The lake bled into Ponchatoula, then Hammond, then miles of farms, until we hit the most rundown of rundown towns I’ve seen: Jackson, Mississippi. After seeing my third pack of stray dogs in two blocks, and an abandoned building called “The Good Samaritan Center,” I decided I’ve seen enough of this town. I grab my bag and reach in for a book. In the case of books, I did think ahead. A few days before I made a trip to Borders and bought Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road,” mostly, and I think this is the first time I’ve ever bought a book to impress a lady. I was working at a faux-fine-dining Italian restaurant, in the summer, in New Orleans. The term “slow” often came up when working in the service industry. This was an understatement. On a quote-unquote slow night, I would be lucky to get off without serving a table so I didn’t have to roll silverware. Trust me, the twelve bucks I would be making wasn’t worth staying in the sweltering back room, making sure the linen was right side up so the frayed edges wouldn’t show.

So, I had a lot of free time, and I started chatting with one of the bartenders. It was hard to find someone back home to talk to about books, so when I saw her with reading Hemingway, I got giddy. A cute lady with one of my favorite authors? Impossible. I subtly (not really) ask her the first question I could think about Hemmingway, and she immediately told me she dug the journalistic approach he takes in his prose. Yep, she passed my little test. She loved to talk about Kerouac and Buddhism, but I’d never read anything like that, so then, before the train ride, I decided it would be a perfectly fitting to read On the Road, while I was on the road.
I would read until I got bored, I decided. "And this was really the way that my whole road experience began, and the things that were to come are too fantastic not to tell," says Sal Paradise, the fictional version of Jack Kerouac. What a cool name to have, I thought. Almost as cool as Jack Kerouac. Immediately I wanted to be friends with Sal. Dean’s character was interesting too, but I did not get Sal’s fascination with him. His back story was solid, his obsession with the road explained by his birth while his mom was travelling, and being the son of a travelling bum. But, overall he seems to be a nut-case, getting Sal into trouble with the law and with women.

Before I know it, it was almost 11 o’clock in the evening, and I decide that staying up any later would be pointless, because I’m on a train and there’s nothing else to do. Out of the corner of my I a saw a man take a beer out of his cooler and open it with a sst, and I consider bribing him for a beer, but decide not to. Just before I pass out, ear resting on the window, the chug sounds lullabying me to sleep, a large man sits next to me with a frown. “Is this alright,” the train stewardess says (I don’t know what you would call them), and he grunts an approval. Shit. Please God, don’t let this man snore. Sure enough, a deep, soft sound creeping up out of his body. This sound builds, and builds, and builds, until his entire body jumps, the final wake-up snore loud and sharp, in turn making me jump. And repeat. All of this in the span of 5 minutes. I blasted my softest piano music, which is kind of oxymoronic, to tune it out. Eventually, sleep finally comes.



Drifting in and out of consciousness the entire night, I forced myself back to sleep on multiple occasions. Hopefully, I could sleep off most of the day. I wake up, however, at around 9 o’clock, and the train is completely stopped. I hear the light whisper of a man behind me explaining his catering business, the pros and cons. The large man beside me has vanished. Beside the train is slow moving freight train and I assume that is why we’re stopped. I pick up the book again and start reading. Sal hitched his way to San Francisco, and is working as a night guard while his friend Remi tries to sell Sal’s screenplay in Los Angeles. Reading is slow at this point, I’ve never been to this part of the country, so I’m looking out the window every now and then, catching glimpses of farms and houses. I like the way the farms are all lined up straight, and I bend my body to be at the correct angle. Most of the corn stalks are lined so they form a weird oval shape, with a few stranded in the center. The smaller plants, though, seem to always take a straight path. Besides grape vines, which I haven’t seen any of, I think Soy Bean farms are my favorite. They’re fairly small plants, and look nothing like you’d think they’d look, they kind of look like spinach plants. My eyes strain, following the crops, until they quickly fade into the city.

Standing in the dusty Chicago train station, I get the sudden urge to hop the next train. I tell myself I’ve never been to the West Coast. The East Coast is nice and everything, but I’ve been there at least once for every year of my life. I wonder what my life would be like if I had a friend like Dean, someone there to push me. Would I have the balls then to leave with a little cash and the clothes on my back? No, I decide this world is faster, more expensive, and more dangerous than 50 years ago. I grab my bags and settle on this place, Chicago, as a new enough experience for me.



And for your enjoyment, here is Sigur Ros' "Glosoli" so I don't look totally insane.