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CHAPTER ONE
EVIE
The train brakes hard and the paper cup of water I’m carrying jolts forward in my hands.
I try desperately to correct it and succeed. Unfortunately, success here means that instead of dumping water across the lap of the gray-haired businessman glaring up at me, I instead dump it all over the front of my blouse.
Fantastic.
Less than fifteen minutes into my grand New York City adventure and I’m already soaking wet and catching the ire of the people surrounding me in the train car.
“I’m so sorry. Excuse me.” Trying not to shrink in embarrassment, I hustle toward the bathrooms. They’re full, and the line is three deep. I consider waiting, but my rolling suitcase is blocking most of the tiny aisle. I haven’t gotten a chance to store it because I haven’t even gotten to my seat yet.
One thing at a time, Evie… Step One: find seat. Step Two: sit in seat. Step Three: listen to some Taylor and get back into that “grand adventure” mindset, which was so strong on the platform and is now precarious at best.
And I suppose “Step Four” is wait for my shirt to dry.
I sling my luggage onto an empty rack. Then I dig my (thankfully) dry ticket out of my jeans pocket, note my seat number, and trudge down the aisle, eyes scanning the numbers on the rows.
23… 24… There! 25B!
My heart sinks when I see another gray-haired businessman, practically indistinguishable from the first, sitting in my seat. Are old people the only ones who take the train these days? Did I miss this memo? Maybe it was only released in Reader’s Digest.
“Excuse me, sir,” I say, waving a hand in his peripheral. The man looks distrustfully up over the cover of The Economist.
“I think this is my seat,” I say, showing him the ticket.
He glances at it and, without a word, reaches into the inside of his suit jacket and pulls out his ticket. His ticket that reads 25B in evil little black letters.
I stand there awkwardly as the man goes back to his magazine. Then, almost as an afterthought, he glances back at my soaking wet shirt.
I look down. Yep, you can definitely see my bra. Fuck.
Then the train brakes again and I’m thrown back down the aisle as if the very hand of God is wiping me aside.
Could a trip possibly get off to a worse start? I suppose maybe if killer bees were released into the car or if a rabid possum dropped onto my head or if I ran into someone I knew in middle school. I glance around fearfully. You know what? Maybe I shouldn’t list worst case scenarios lest I give the universe any bright ideas.
This trip is going bad enough as it is, and if this is just the first hour then I’m not sure what that’s implying about how the rest of the week is going to go. My optimistic side wants to believe that maybe I’m just getting all of my bad luck out of the way now. Her pessimistic twin opines that this bad luck actually started last month and is showing no signs of slowing down.
I don’t have the energy to argue with either of them. Instead I abandon all hope of sitting in my seat and head to the bar.
See, maybe I’m too much of a hopeless romantic, or maybe I’ve just seen way too many movies, but when I found out I needed to travel down from Boston to New York to pitch an advertising campaign to Madison Enterprises, I jumped at the chance to take the train. I pictured landscape rushing by as I worked on my pitch, stopping every so often to look thoughtfully out the window. At the very least I assumed I’d have a bit more leg room than on an airplane.
Nipply blouses and old men were not on my Bingo card, and the thought of another three hours of this is not looking good for my slowly developing migraine.
Unfortunately, the “bar” car is apparently also something Agatha Christie has planted in my head, Inception-style. It is not a wood-paneled scene of class and luxury. It is a snack counter with scuffed diner tables bolted to the floor. Most horrifyingly of all, there’s no liquor in sight.
“Do you serve alcohol?” I ask the attendant. He’s busy shoving bags of chips across the grimy counter toward a pack of screaming children. “And napkins,” I add.
“Alcohol is in first class only,” he replies. “As for napkins, that’ll be five dollars.”
“You’re charging for napkins?”
He ignores me as one of the unruly children chucks a bag of sour cream and onion at his head shrieking about wanting Doritos instead. It’s obvious that I’m not a priority, and the children are not helping my migraine.
I weigh my options. One — stand in line for the postage-stamp bathroom and hope there’s paper towel inside but probably ultimately have to dry off using toilet paper. Conclusion: unideal, bordering on unhygienic. Two — pay five dollars for the one thing that is free literally everywhere except on trains apparently. Conclusion: refusal on spite and principle.
Is there an option three? It doesn’t appear so.
