Page 25 of Leaving the Station
Alden was opening a bizarre, underground world to me. He was like a character in a movie, a manic pixie dream boy, and I didn’t mind.
“I need bumpers,” I told him as we opened the door to the darkened basement bowling alley.
He laughed as he turned on the lights and the large room powered up. “No, you don’t.”
“I’m telling you, I do. Or I’ll get gutter balls.”
He reached out to grab my hand, and I let him take it. “Well, good thing we’re not bowling.”
With that, he pulled me across the cavernous space until we were standing in front of the middle lane.
“Now take off your shoes,” he said, turning toward me.
“Absolutely not.”
He didn’t respond to that, just pulled his sneakers off.
“Ta-da,” he said, arms spread wide. He was wearing crisp white athletic socks that stopped halfway up his calves. I cursed myself for not throwing away my ratty socks before college. I was wearing a pair that I had won from a DJ at a friend’s bat mitzvah and hadn’t had the heart to get rid of all these years later.
“You don’t have to take your shoes off,” he said finally. “But if you do...”
He walked back a few steps, then ran forward, sliding down the lane.
I rolled my eyes but reached for my shoes. There’d been so many times that I’d missed out on parties or friendships orlifebecause it wasn’t what was expected of me, because my parents wouldn’t have approved.
But my parents were across the country.
“Let’s gooooo,” Alden shouted from the end of the lane, jumping up and down and sliding in the process. “On my count.”
When he reached three, I took off, my body tilting backward and my feet gliding along the lane.
I wanted so badly to impress him.
“I’M GONNA FALL INTO THE BALL RETURN!” I shouted as I careened toward Alden and, ultimately, my doom.
But before I could get sucked into the void, he caught me and pulled me toward him, hands around my waist.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I got you.”
It felt like a promise.
Tuesday, 6 a.m., outside Toledo, OH
It’s dreary yet again as the sun tries its best to rise, but there’s the promise of a bright morning here somewhere.
It doesn’t feel quite like déjà vu, though, entering a new day after staying up late talking to Oakley—we’re on the train, and there’s nothing better to do. It’s not like it was at Cornell, where I was forgoing responsibilities to stay up with Alden. There are no classes on the train, no tests, no jobs, no life.
The early hour, however, cannot subdue Edward’s snack-based excitement. He announced ten minutes ago that, “The conductor is back and reporting for duty,” and his volume was dialed to an eleven. If anything, the fact that it’s barely dawn seems to beenergizinghim.
“Back for more already I see,” Edward says as I roll up to his section of the café car.
“Just need some coffee.”
“I get that,” he says too loudly for the hour. “Though I don’t drink it myself.”
I’m about to ask if he snorts cocaine instead when he adds, “I sleep so well on the train. It’s like I wasmeantto work here.”
I can’t imagine that anyone’s higher calling is “snack conductor,” but Edward clearly derives joy from serving snacks and coffee.
