An American Guy

I hate going to New York.  In fact, the only thing worse than being in New York is getting there.  I’m not too fond of driving either, so when an unavoidable New York meeting came up it was inevitable that I’d end up riding the unpredictable rails of Amtrak.  I am also unwilling to engage strangers in small talk.  It’s a habit of comfort that I got into back when I travelled for a living which insulates me from the life stories of bored people on long trips.

As often happens on Amtrak, somewhere in Connecticut my plan for a boring trip went badly awry. As I savored the empty seat next to me, a couple boarded, a man in his mid forties, obviously retarded, and a girl of about 16. He was impeccably groomed and well dressed but his clothes had the look of things that are easy to get on and off, like the velcro-close sneakers that every toddler wears these days and he moved with the stiffness of a man unsure of where his body would go once he set it in motion.

After some fumbling, the girl stretched herself across 2 empty seats diagonally opposite me.  When he was sure she was perfectly comfy, the man looked down at my empty seat and asked haltingly if it was taken.  I shook my head, and reluctantly moved my bag.

He spent the next half hour pestering the girl,  “Are you cold?”  “Do you want a drink?” “There’s a pillow in the bag.”, and she absorbed it all with the intense apathy only a teenager can affect.  As he spoke, I noticed that his speech was slurred, as if the muscles that made the sounds had lost their strength.  When he tired at the end of each sentence, the words lost their shape entirely, trailing into a soft moan.

I tried hard to ignore him, and, for a while, succeeded.  He sat quietly, and I read.  But funny things can arise from the simplest interaction, especially when your fondest desire is to have an uninteresting day.  On my way back from the bathroom I apologized for stepping on him and he apologized for his pathetic effort at getting out of the way.  He had an excuse, though.  “I have Lou Gehrig’s Disease.” he said.

While I sat stunned, trying to absorb that devastating statement, he queried me curiously, the way bored people do with reluctant conversationalists.  Eventually we fell into an animated discussion of the voice recognition software that allowed him to write even though his fingers could no longer type. The technology had given him the time to say his piece before his failing nervous system shut the door to the outside world forever.  He wanted to tell his story, yet he was reluctant.  To write well about your own life is to bleed and he was bleeding enough already without indulging in that kind of honesty.

He told me a little about his life.  As an executive at a big company.  As a father and fly-fisherman.  Places he’d been, and things he’d done.  In many ways, his story was indistinguishable from that of millions of other suburban white boys.  A good education, good job, nice wife and family, nice house in the burbs.  About this time of life, a man in his position should be starting to worry about his weight and his cholesterol count.  Instead, he was apologizing to strangers for not getting out of the way fast enough, and wondering what his children would do when he was dead.

We talked frankly about the process of fatal illness. Not long ago I had two friends die of AIDS and it was easy for me to discuss the mechanics of slow and certain death. He found it embarassing that ALS victims shine with the heroic glow of the late Louis Gehrig while AIDS victims spend their last days under a cloud of suspicion.  From his point of view, the difference between them didn’t seem so great.  I recalled for him how hard my friend Jack laughed at the Get-Well cards sent by clueless but well-meaning relatives.  I smiled at the memory of his emaciated body shaking, his face contorted and unable to speak, as he coughed and snorted gleefully at the unspeakable absurdity of it.  My seatmate listened politely.  “You have to have a sense of humor.” he agreed, but it seemed that his had been sorely tested.

As we spoke, his daughter curled up and slept, seemingly unconcerned.  He kept a close watch on her, his eyes a painful mix of worry and sadness.  How many times had he watched her like this back when his fingers were still nimble enough to tie a dry fly to a tapered leader, and his voice still strong and sure enough to hold its own in a tense meeting?  How many more times could he enjoy the sight? How much of himself could he give her before he slipped away?  He talked to me, but his mind was on her. 

The train slowed as we approached Penn Station.  His daughter awoke, and I caught her watching us suspiciously, without much understanding.  Suddenly  I felt like an intruder.  How could I, a bearded fat man on a train, understand the tragedy of her life?  I didn’t, couldn’t, didn’t want to, yet there I was chatting away with the shadow of her father as if we were lifelong friends.  As always, the moment chose me, not vice versa.  We shook hands as I left the train and I trudged off to my meeting hating New York more than ever.

Happy Father’s Day Kerry.

John Rodley is a childless yuppie who doesn’t talk to strangers and doesn’t do theme columns. These days, he can be found brooding at www.rodley.com