2007-02-05 - 1:15 p.m.
I’m in Union Station in Chicago right now and I really, really love it. A very large part of me is wondering what the hell I’m doing moving to Seattle. Very large.
My trip started on an amazing note when I went with my mom to the Amtrak Station in downtown Cleveland, my blast-off point into the stratosphere of the western states. Now, first of all you should know that I’ve been pretty organized about how I’m moving my things out to Seattle. I’ve been on the phone everyday with Amtrak and the US Postal Service to clarify regulations of theirs, double-check weight limits, find out what kind of containers are and are not acceptable for shipping, and every other question you can imagine. Everything I packed, shipped, or decided to bring with me on the trip was a direct result of me calling every customer service helpline imaginable.
Amtrak had this weird rule listed on their website that no plastic containers could be used as checked baggage—it sounded strange so I called their customer service representatives to find out of this was true and why this was so. A very helpful young woman informed me that this, in fact, was not a rule and I could use almost anything as checked baggage as long as it was secure and wouldn’t break. So I packed two big Rubbermaid containers full of things I would need in Seattle the next two weeks until I received my first shipments of things.
Of course we go up to the check-in desk and the woman informs us—none too politely, I might add—that under no circumstances can my Rubbermaid containers be my checked luggage. Right? RIGHT? Of course. My mom does the middle-aged woman rolling-of-eyes-scoffing-and-muttering-under-breath-of-Jesus-Fucking-Christ while I put a hand on a shoulder to clam her down and ask the woman why this is, since a customer service representative told me the exact opposite. The woman told me, “I don’t know why she told you that. Plastic cracks in the cold. And the contents of your container would spill everywhere.” When I ask her why the customer service lady told me the opposite, she said, “Maybe she lives in California.”
And thus begins my mom’s grand scheme to foil all of Amtrak’s plans and somehow be able to get all of my luggage on the train somehow by bending rules to our advantage. Our puzzle pieces include: two 40 pound Rubbermaid containers, one guitar (which cannot be a carry on), one duffel bag, and a large hiking backpack filled with the toys and food to keep me company for two days. My mom’s schemes include:
1) Trying to stuff my hiking bag into one of the Rubbermaid containers and using both Rubbermaid containers as my carry-on. This means some of my less important things will be removed from one container to make room for the backpack. This also means I would be wandering around trains and train stations with two gigantic Rubbermaid containers weighing up to 80-100 lbs. in my arms. I do not like this idea.
2)Strapping as many contents of my containers onto my hiking backpack. This is much more amusing and to my liking, so we strap a gigantic sleeping bag on the side. It looks like a jetpack backpack where only one of the gas canisters is still attached.
We eventually “trick” the unpleasant third-shift workers at the Amtrak desk and sit down, kicking off the rest of my trip with even more amazingness. About ten feet away, a young boy (who later find out is a high-school senior traveling to Chicago for an acting audition for Julliard) is having a very loud conversation with a very, very old woman with the warbliest voice I have ever heard. If you have ever heard Diane Reems (is this even her name?) on NPR, this Amtrak old woman has the same quality and timbre to her voice but with more warble and at a much, much slower speed. Favorite moments of their conversation include:
High School Musical: So many people die and never do anything with their life—they never amount to anything.
Warbly: But NOT YOU! You’re smarter than the average bear!
High School Musical: Smarter than the average actor!
High School Musical: I’m going to do it, I’m going to change the world and make a difference.
Warbly: That’s RIGHT! As an ACTOR!
High School Musical: There are certain techniques you learn in acting.
Warbly: Oh? Techniques? There’s a technique to it?
HSM: Oh yes, for example you learn to kill someone on stage without actually killing them.
Warbly: You mean, you don’t actually kill them when you’re on stage with them?
Warbly: I know I look my age but I. FEEL. GREAT! (She is picking lint off her chest as she says this)
Warbly: I hear that’s quite in fashion these days.
HSM: Well, actually, this is a military issue jacket, in fact.
Warbly: A military? Issued? Jacket? This thing?
HSM: Yeah, it’s military issued.
Warbly: Then why does it have all that white fur around the hood?
HSM: It’s so you blend in with the snow! You just throw it over your head and the enemy can’t see you if you’re in snow! Haha!
Warbly: I’ll tell you one thing, young man—You! Are! A! WIT!
My mom had to leave because they were driving her crazy, which I didn’t understand. The only person who I think could have loved those two people more than me was Jessica Meyer. That’s how amazing their conversation was. On top of it, they didn’t stop talking, either one of them, for at least 45 minutes.
One of the great things about the conversation was that it was one of those where both people are talking so loudly and the rest of the room is so quiet that people cannot help but hear everything that’s said between the two; there were even people turning around to look at them talk so loudly.
Whenever I get in a situation like that, where the room is pitch quiet (what?) and the other person is like, “YEAH, I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN—IT’S REALLY TERRIBLE TO HAVE SCABS COVERING YOUR ENTIRE BODY. I HAVE SYMPATHY FOR YOU. I HOPE THEY HEAL SOON—NOT TO MENTION URINATING WITHOUT WEEPING. HAHAHAHAHA.” You just have to wonder if they were remotely aware at how loud their voice is; I would like to point out that there are an inordinate number of Peace Corps volunteers in Turkmenistan who I met who would be screaming at every opportunity, despite the obvious fact that Turkmenistan was a quiet, quiet country (excepting weddings, of course). So I had to admire the gumption of Warbles and High School Musical in their refusal to not broadcast their entire conversation.
So of course High School Musical ends up being my seat partner. While I was looking for my seat, he pounded the empty seat next to him and barks at me, “This is it! This is yours!” Great.
So I sit down next to him and he immediately starts babbling about his audition for Julliard. I have to bite my tongue about this whole “I’m going to Julliard” thing, so I thankfully behave myself. I play the little game where I say, “I’m sorry but I’m so tired—if I don’t talk much, it’s because I’m so sleepy,” e.g. “Don’t talk to me, cumrag.” Then he tells me, “Oh, don’t worry! If I’m not talking, you’ll know why.”
And my brain? Was like, “Because you died?” Because I literally cannot think of a scenario where he would be quiet except in the cool, cool pastures of Death.
I slept for about five hours and woke up to find out that my seat partner was gone. Even though I didn’t want him as my seat partner, I felt so thrown away. And now I’m afraid I was unwittingly rubbing my ass against him or drooling all over the seat or something terribly obnoxious that I did when I was sleeping. And what’s also great is that I know he probably has some online journal where he’s like, “And this really fucking feminine gay guy kept rubbing my thigh when he was sleeping, trying to come on to me. Fucking weirdo! Don’t hit on me, sir—I’m going to Julliard to save the world!”
