Page 27 of Leaving the Station
“This is my friend,” I tell him awkwardly. “The one I’m getting lunch with.”
Oakley gives me a slight nod before she steps between me and Guy and says, “Reservations soon, don’t want to be late.”
Oakley holds his gaze for longer than I’d be able to, and finally, he spits on the ground and walks away, muttering a word that sounds an awful lot like “dykes”as he does.
Oakley must’ve heard it too, because she shouts, “REALLY OBSERVANT!” after him.
When he’s gone, I can breathe.
Oakley turns to me. “You okay?”
Half of me feels like I got doused in slime, but the other half is grateful for her protection.
“Come on,” she says, waving me over to her luggage and handing me a granola bar. “Follow me.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s more perfunctory than anything else.
After her performance, I’ll follow her without question down the platform, toward Chicago.
Toward a new world.
Six
Tuesday, 10 a.m., Chicago, IL
Oakley walks briskly next to me, rolling her giant pink suitcase behind her down the platform, the air outside the train cold and fresh.
“That’s a pretty big suitcase for someone who’s just going home for Thanksgiving,” I say, struggling to keep up with her and her sleek, blond ponytail.
She nods at my suitcase in turn, which is roughly the size of a large eight-year-old. “What’s that saying about the pot calling the kettle black?”
“Touché.”
At the end of the platform there’s an archway that separates the tunnel from the station proper; it’s decorated with hand-traced turkeys and vulgar graffiti.
But when we make it to the other side, I stop short.
“Shit,” I remark as I get my first glimpse of Union Station’s main hall. It’s giant, with a domed ceiling that’s at least three stories high. Marble columns line the periphery. “This is so beautiful.”
Oakley huffs, and I frown, my eyes ready to roll at a moment’s notice. “What?”
“It’s just that everyone in the US is weirdly obsessed with classical architecture.”
“You don’t think this is cool?” I gesture to the giant gilded hall.
“Haven’t you noticed that every important building in the country looks like a bad imitation of ancient Greek architecture?”
“What, because of the columns?”
“Well, yes, that’s part of it, but also the scale of the building. The architects wanted to give America some semblance of legitimacy. They were trying to situate it in an extended historic timeline that it’s not a part of.”
“But...” I gesture around the room again, as if my waving arms will help Oakley see its majesty. “Look how big it is! That has to count for something.”
“Isn’t that sort of a smooth-brain way of thinking? Like, ‘ooh room’s big, so it must be important.’”
“Are you calling my brain smooth?”
“Not yours specifically. I’m just saying that the size of a room shouldn’t be a measure of its architectural significance.”
