The following is most of a non-fiction fiction I wrote on the Amtrak last night. It is rather long because our train was delayed nearly 140 minutes. Everything after I get off the train is made up, but there really was a holy roller talking to a German woman about the lie that is evolution. I have not edited it or read over it. I imagine it is not very good. I am throwing it up for now. I will likely delete it later. So enjoy if you must.


1
Life is motion and death is motion.

I write this on an Amtrak train. I look out the window and see a green, grey world pass by. I decide to plug my headphones into my laptop, and I play Frog Eye's "Caravan Breakers" It gels. Everything is forward momentum in the train and the music. It is ceaseless and dumb.

Now the song and the train slow in tandem. We begin to stop. As Carey Mercer sings:

and I, I, I, I prey on the weak and old
Caravan Breakers
they fucking pray for the weak and the old

the train stops.

One person gets off the train. She looks young. The two brothers sitting behind me, or rather the two boys I assume to be brothers, kick my seat for a few moments before returning to their fantasy card game. I can faintly hear an elderly Southern gentleman and a German woman converse. It is a banal conversation, all Dolly Parton and Falco. I was hoping for something more... Hank Williams and Klaus Kinski. They seem lonely.

I remember how unwise conversation with strangers on a train can be. On one of these trips between Portland and Eugene - I can't remember when, or which direction I was headed - I entangled myself in conversation with a very blunt individual. I could not break the conversation off - although I do not think I tried very hard. I don't remember his name. He told his interpretation of the final chapter in the New Testament - Revelations.

No matter if I never give another piece of good advice; trust me on this. As soon as you hear anyone mention "Revelations" get off the train at the next stop. You will have to buy another ticket, but it will be worth it.

I talked to this blunt man for an hour, or more. I was worried he would hurt me if I stopped. He was a muscular, compact sort of guy, with military-short hair and wide eyes. I let him borrow my cell phone and he called his girlfriend. They talked for 17 minutes or so. Overhearing the crazy man's cell phone conversation with his girlfriend grated on my nerves even worse than the earlier conversation.

I got my phone back, at least.

History is repeating itself as I type.

The German and the Southern gentleman begin to talk about the book of Revelations. "I believe we are in the middle of the New Testament," the Southerner says.

"I don't think you and I have destroyed Him... but I do think I will destroy Him."

I turn my music back on. It is "Shut Up I Am Dreaming of Places Where Lovers Have Wings." Much better.

The train moves at a constant speed. I look out the window again. I wonder for a moment if this is nothing more than an elaborate parlor trick. The train could still be in the same location while the world morphs around it. Stage hands come to remove the facade of Portland, tearing down the unoccupied buildings, filling in the shallow river. Then, quickly, the stage hands rebuild. By the time I disembark the train, everything will be complete. The illusion will be seamless. The joke will be on me.

I remember how I used to pretend this when I was a young child. I must have really thought I was the center of the universe. The joke was on me.

We pass a town, maybe Oregon City, and my senses are overwhelmed. The paper mill assaults my nose and the chemicals give me a small headache, and my head aches and the smell is awful, but the attack ends as suddenly as it came and I am relieved.

"So, eighteen years ago I had that metal taken out of my head and replaced with fiberglass" says the Southerner. I wish I was making him up.

Earlier, he mentioned to the German that he had known John Denver, and that John Denver introduced him to his deceased wife. I must admit this seems an unlikely scenario. The Southerner is wearing sweatpants with holes in the front and his beard is long and unwashed. He may have a home, but he doesn't use a shower often if he does.

The train has stopped, and I cannot understand why. There must be another train on the same tracks, further up the line, I think. My luck could be worse. We could have stopped back near the chemical smell.

A train comes hurling past us, northbound. It shakes the coach. It is a commercial train carrying dozens of commercial containers on dozens of beds. Some of the containers have Chinese lettering on them. I try to make them out, but they move very quickly. Everything is a blur, red on white. I don't know any Chinese characters, anyway.

The train is gone, and we are still stationary on the tracks. I become more agitated as we wait. The agitation gets worse as the train begins to move backwards. We stop again. I guess we've retreated a quarter mile or more.

Finally, we move forward again. I used to believe the key to happiness is to find agreement between action and intention, but now I am not sure. I intend to arrive in Eugene, and the train moves towards Eugene, and I am not happy. Perhaps this is just a start.

I intend for myself to be an attractive, desirable, intelligent person with enough personal capital to attend college without taking out any loans. I intend to write with skill, creativity, and accuracy. I intend to be responsible and charitable and just.

It isn't working. Oh well.

Things rarely go according to plan.

And that is fucking awful.

Our train stops again and I hear some of the Southerner's argument against evolutionary theory. He believes evolution is an entirely malevolent, conspiratorial falsehood, perpetrated by free market economists and Satan. Both go to this tremendous effort so the commoners will concern themselves with earthly concerns, rather than spiritual ones. You see, the Southerner is saying, how this benefits the corporations?

A good Christian will focus so much money refuting all this evolutionary hogwash the corporations will become rich? says the German.

No, says the Southerner. It is because the corporations can only make money selling earthly goods and concerns.

I am not sure he is correct.

A college-age girl returns to her seat directly in front of me. I had not noticed how attractive I find her until now. I realize I had not yet gotten a good look at her until now. She has short brown hair and glasses. She is wearing old, beat-up jeans and a ratty black t-shirt. She is rather tall; I might be a few inches taller than her, but not much more than that. She is reading Umberto Eco's In the Name of the Rose.

How perfect is that?

The train stops again. A dispatcher comes over the PA and tells us he is just as confused as we are. He doesn't say those words, but the message is unmistakable. I am desperate to get away from the Southerner and the German. We are nearly an hour late.

I do not have the courage to interrupt the college-age girl, if only to complement her for reading a good book. I am blushing a little, ashamed that I am writing about her and thinking about her. I am even a little ashamed on account of the Southerner and the German. I do not intend to make fun of them (the road to hell is paved with good intentions and that is fucking awful ). Those two have been dialoguing intensely for nearly an. The Southerner in particular has been dead serious, and it is far too easy to target serious people. It is easier to laugh than it is to understand. In his own way, the Southerner is the best he is possible of being.

I feel a little sorry for him, and I am sure he feels a little sorry for me.

and I doubt the LTD will still be running by the time I get to Eugene.

Now the college-age girl yawns and lays her head on the windowsill. She adjusts and decides to use In the Name of the Rose as a pillow. She lies there for a few minutes and I think I want to talk to her. Forget about the sex for half a moment and just see if she's got a car and see if she lives near you. I say nothing and she props herself back up and she says nothing.

The German says to the Southerner: "You are a man of remarkable intelligence." She might really believe it.

I can't forget about the sex for half a moment. Celibacy, like grief, can be understood in six stages:
1. unhappiness
2. discomfort
3. boastful self-effacement
4. quiet self-effacement
5. acceptance/trancendence
6. madness

I am nearing the 6th stage. It is less a need to have sex with someone as it is a need to be touched by someone willing to have sex with me. I would feel overwhelmed with relief by a kiss. Even a hug would be nice.

But I don't know anyone willing to have sex with me. And I am scared of trying to meet new people, and I am scared of risking myself.

I don't have the courage to risk it. I don't have the charm to risk it. I don't have the creativity to risk it. And I know I could have everything, everything I would ever need, and that I could risk it, that I could become a witty, energetic, entertaining person again with stupefying ease, and that I could handle it this time, that it isn't even a risk, and all I'd have to do is nothing, is stop, is accept up will be accompanied by down.

But I can't handle it this time. I don't think it, but I know it.

Que serra, serra.

The train is moving again.


2

I will get off.

The train is nearly two hours late. It is ten thirty in the evening and I am tired. The Southerner fell asleep nearly forty five minutes ago, but he is awake now. I do not look at him because I do not like him and I do not feel comfortable around him. He does not cut an imposing figure, all short slight and pale, but his movements and speech are erratic enough to frighten me. I have spent time hanging around the mentally ill, and I know what an unbalanced person looks like, and the Southerner looks unbalanced.

The train has stopped and all the passengers grab their bags and begin lackadaisically queueing up in front of the exits. I am directly behind the college-aged girl. She is stunning. Beautiful. I dare not look at her for too long. I believe staring is impolite.

She gets off the train and I get off the train and she runs into the arms of a man. The way they embrace leads me to believe the man is not her brother. He is young and gaunt and he has brown hair and she looks so happy to see him. They kiss and I am glad.

They deserve to be happy. I deserve to be fat.

I see my reflection in the window of the station. I am not fat, exactly, but I am not underfed. My face is round and undistinguished, and it looks more and more like my father's face every year. Usually, I have some sort of ornamentation to offset how plain my face is. Now is no exception. My sideburns threaten to overwhelm everything. I decide to grow a full beard. I decide to get my hair cut. I look at my reflection and take out a cigarette.



Sometimes I pretend I do not know much about cigarettes.

I know I like them and I know they will increase my risk of contracting lung cancer as long as I like them. I know I like them because they are packed with nicotine. I know my cigarette of choice has dozens or hundreds of other things, "additives," inside it, so I will think my cigarette is consistent and of high quality.

I know a cigarette is made out of cured and finely cut tobacco leaves, which are stuffed into paper cylinders usually less than 120 mm in length and 10mm in diameter, and I know I have the Crimean War to thank, or blame, for their introduction to the English-speaking world, and I know British soldiers picked up the habit from the Ottomans.

I know the British soldiers used to roll their own cigarettes with old newspaper.

I know trillions of cigarette butts become litter, and that these butts are not biodegradable, and birds and other small animals sometimes eat these butts thinking they are food and that cigarette butts are not food and that eating cigarette butts will make birds and other small animals malnourished and sick.

I know cigarettes can be glamorous, and I know I am not glamorous, and I know I am more likely to seem glamorous if I smoke, and I know no one has ever looked glamorous running a marathon or preparing a macrobiotic wheat shake for dinner.

I know Frank Sinatra is buried with a pack of Camels in his pocket and a lighter in his right hand, and I think I admire that.

But I don't really know very much about cigarettes because I dont' really know very much about the people behind them. People who farm tobacco in the Carolinas. Who get my 20 Marlboro's from Durham to a little red-and-white cardboard package in my jeans. Who depend on me, my addiction, for their livelihood, who need me to continue risking my future good health so they may presently enjoy their own good health. Who need my business to make their business.

But I don't know much about these people and I don't care much for these people.

Everything always comes back to people you don't know doing things you don't care to know about. People are doing wonderful, delirious, empyreal things every second everywhere, from the slaughterhouses where they butcher your pigs to the chapels where they wed your daughters, and people are doing awful, purulent, iniquitous things even more often, in even more places.

These people are just like you. They're struggling to balance their duties with their desires, and they're struggling right now just as you are. They make choices and sometimes they are good choices and sometimes they are not, and sometimes good choices lead nowhere and sometimes bad choices lead everywhere, and they don't know what they want any more than you know what you want.

These people always, always, always believe in the virtue of labor. These people always, always, always believe idleness is sin. These people are virtuous hardworking people and they always, always, always see I am a slothful, gluttonous smoker.

As complex and vibrant a species as ours rarely is in such accord. Even other smokers, even junkies, can see how vile a person I am. They have the good sense to repent their vices after engaging in them, while I've intermingled everything. Sinning as a path to salvation.

Once I believed I was born without a conscience. The doctors would come to take me away and diagnose me with a psychopathic personality disorder and that would be that. No more would I gummy up the works. When I found myself a teenager I realized how mistaken I had been in those salad days, and I believed I was the only human left with any moral sense.

Now, I find myself at adulthood, cigarette in hand, struggling to balance my duties with my desires. I plan to die the moment I am both responsible and happy.

Thefore: I will live forever.

I will fight forever. I will be happy and I will be responsible but never will I be responsibly happy.

So I will smoke forever. Starting now.

3

There is nothing short of wisdom.

I walk away from the Amtrak station and towards the Hult Center. I scan the surroundings for landmarks. I have lived in Eugene for nearly a year and I still have no sense of it. The city and I share poor spacial intuition. It sprawls out without sense, and I walk about without logic. It is too early to go home and too late to catch a bus. I will explore.

I explore. I am parched. Luckily my explorations have proved valuable, as I spot a 7-11 that I have never seen before. I am near the industrial district, away from MLK Boulevard, where my apartment is. I walk inside the 7-11 and I am greeted by a black man. He is wary of me because I have luggage, I think. I do not blame him. I would be uncomfortable if I was in his shoes. I would also have a job.

I carry my bags with me to the back wall. It is lined with refrigerators and the refrigerators are lined with potable liquids. I decide on a 20 oz. Coke, and I take the Coke up to the register while holding both it and one of my luggage bags in my right hand. I put the Coke on the counter and as the black clerk rings up the sale I slip the luggage onto my shoulder. I had already put my laptop bag on the opposite shoulder, and now the straps cross my chest directly over my sternum. Carrying the bags will feel better now, I think. I take my change and thank the clerk. He thanks me but he doesn't mean it. He is glad the white kid with the luggage is leaving is store.

I walk away from the 7-11 and I light up a cigarette and now I walk with the cigarette and the Coke in my left hand. I walk across a street I never walk across and I get lost. I see a park with a basketball court illuminated by florescent light. Four people are goofing around. They are all black and this is surprising to me. I am not accustomed to black people but I am aware how unaware I feel right now. I am not scared; I do not touch my back pocket to protect my wallet. This is not racial profiling. This is not much of anything. They don't notice me and I notice them but soon I am crossing over railroad tracks on a footbridge and they are out of sight.

Race is unimportant. That is my intention. Race is nothing. I could befriend those ballers as easy as I could befriend anyone. I realize this is true and I feel lonely because I will befriend no one. As a matter of principle. I am the captain of my ship. I will be celibate and opaque and then I will love myself.

I am the captain of my pain and the captain's alright but the crew is wiggling free of the skull and danger and the image of Christ is nailed to the anchor.

I orient myself. I have walked further from the apartment than I wanted but now I am on the right path. A man and a dog run about twenty or thirty meters in front of me. The man has a ball catcher and he hurls a tennis ball the length of a football field into the street. The dog instinctually chases. The ball rolls forward further and further away from the mutt. That mutt is really working. It is enthusiastic in its manner as it enacts the hallowed ritual. A car comes down the street and the master puts two of his fingers into his mouth and blows and a loud whistling emanates. The car honks. The dog looks at the car and his master. He choses his master over the siren calls of the car.

I see now it is not a car. It is a truck. A Ford or a Chevy. Flatbed 4x4. There is a dog in the flatbed of the truck and now there is not. The dog has jumped. The car is going 35 miles an hour I estimate. The driver does not see his dog leap out and the dog hits the concrete very hard. I see the legs buckle a second before I hear them snap. The other dog rushes towards the cripple and growls with more enthusiasm than it displayed chasing the ball.

The truck does a U-Turn and I slip behind a fence. I don't want to talk to the ball-catcher or the driver or the dogs. I am not as smart as I pretend but I am smart enough to realize I want no part in any altercation between dog owners. Now I am back at the Amtrak station and it only took 4o minutes and it only took one dog's legs. I tell myself that I didn't want to see a dog cripple itself. I am not sure I am telling myself the truth.

I scuttle across the tracks. The fence was not just for show, I imagine. I am back in the parking lot in front of the station. I don't know where I want to go yet.

I can't see or hear the dogs or the owners any longer. I put them out of my mind. I worry myself with how easily I forget about the crippled dog but there is nothing I can do about it. The dog or my reaction. Nothing I can do with either.

I remember back when I was 18 or 19 and I lived in Ashland. I lived in Ashland to attend university. I lived in a dormitory on a floor designed for intelligent and sensitive people. "Honors College."

On my dormitory floor lived a veterinary assistant named Nate. One time someone called him "Skittles." As in: Eminem only fruiter. It was a bad joke and nothing came of the nickname but I remember it. Nate was not gay but he did love animals and he knew how to care for them. I haven't talked to him in years. He might love animals today just as he did back then.

Nate was a vet assistant. Sometimes he would be on call in the middle of the week. If this had been Ashland, the cripple would most likely have ended up in Nate's care.

I wish I could remember more about my time in Ashland but everything is fuzzy and indistinct. Some months come in crystal clear. Others are blurry like the Chinese lettering on the containers that passed by earlier tonight.

I didn't know any black kids in Ashland, either.