One Week - By Nikki Van De Car Page 0,2
a more specific decision later.
“You want a USA Rail Pass or a North America Rail Pass?”
“What's the difference?”
The lady rolls her eyes. “You want to go to Canada?”
“Um, no. No, it's cold there.”
“Right. USA Rail Pass. For how many days?”
“Ten?” Solid number, right?
“Fifteen and thirty are your choices.”
“Fifteen.” How long can it take to get someplace so I'd need thirty days? You can fly to Europe in one night.
“That'll be $455.00.”
I hand over my credit card, hesitating only a little. This is it. My dad will see that I've bought this ticket, and he'll know I'm gone, and he won't know where. I square my shoulders. Good. Let him worry.
“Thanks,” I say, taking my card back. “Um, where do I go?”
The agent rolls her eyes again. “Wherever you want. You got a general pass, right? Go find a train and get on it. Next!”
Right. Anywhere I want to go. I just wish I wanted to go someplace.
Florida's nice this time of year, right? Oh wait, no, thunderstorms and hurricanes. Skip that.
The hell with this. I'll just get on a train, and get off where it looks nice—someplace as different from LA as a place could possibly be. Yeah.
I quickly board a train with a flashing “departing” sign—what, no conductor yelling “All aboard”? —and look around for my cabin. To be honest, I'm geeking out a little—I love the idea of sleeping on a train, with the tiny bathrooms and the beds that pull out and Eva Marie Saint comes tumbling down on Cary Grant's head.
A helpful porter walks down the aisle, and I stop him.
“Where's my cabin?” I ask, showing him my ticket.
He looks at it and snorts. “Your cabin? Look, kid, this is a short-distance train; we don't have sleeper cabins. Passenger seats are that way.” He gestures over his shoulder.
“How long until we arrive?”
“Arrive where? We're making lots of stops. Where are you going?”
“The end of the line.”
He looks at me oddly. “About three hours then.”
Okay. Three hours isn't that bad, and that'll probably get me somewhere decently far from here. I look past him at the rows of seats, and all the ones I see are already occupied. There's a little more room than coach on an airplane, but not much.
“Where's first class?” I ask.
“This isn't a first class ticket.”
It's not? Shit, I should've specified. “Well, how can I upgrade?”
The porter shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe the next stop? But we're heading out—excuse me.”
“But—” Damn. I don't want to have to get off and run my card again—it'll look like I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Which is, you know, accurate. People ride in coach all the time. How bad can it be?
I wander down the aisle, hoping to at least find a couple of seats together so I don't need to be squashed up next to someone with troubling personal hygiene. As I keep wandering, my goal changes slightly. I would just like to find a seat. Any seat. I'll try the next car.
And the next. And we're moving now. Shouldn't they wait to start the train until they're certain they have enough seats for everyone?
When I finally find a seat, my shoulder is killing me. I wish smaller bags would come into fashion. I'm about to sit down, when I stop dead.
You're kidding me. This is Goth Geek's train? He glances up at me, and I look away quickly, inexplicably shy. There has to be another seat. I look back, scanning the aisle to see if maybe I missed something. And yes, there is in fact another free seat. And the reason I missed it is because a giant fat man is sitting in most of it. I shift back and forth, debating. I'm small and could probably squish in. Oh yeah, that sounds pleasant. I glance back at Goth Geek, and he looks up and smirks.
“All the room in the world right here, Barbie,” he drawls.
Fat guy it is.
Why is it that men always have to spread their legs so freaking wide? I don't believe there's that much business down there, nor do I believe it all needs that much space. And I get that this particular guy takes up more space than most, but he could still make a tiny effort to give me room enough to sit both butt cheeks down.
I lean against my armrest and pull out my iPod. I close my eyes, and try to zone out to the music. Nothing can bother me; I've got Lady Gaga