Page 6 of Somewhere Along The Line
Yesterday and tomorrow, last year and next month, the plan chugs along just like this train. Today will be no different.
Except, it turns out, it is.
I make my way into the train car, or more accurately, into a sea of white flared pants and bedazzled jackets, the scent of hairspray overtaking the train’s usual aroma of body odor, last night’s party, and too much cologne.
The words exit my mouth before I realize I’m saying them aloud.
“Why the hell is this train filled with Elvis impersonators?”
Breakfast in hand—and bothshoesverymuchon my feet—I skip down the steps of our coach house, shuffling past the main house that sits in front of ours, where my sweet eight-year-old neighbor is arguing with her mom about her hair.
Nostalgia pinches my heart as I think about my own mother and what I put her through in my adolescent years, demanding a different hairstyle every morning and then whining when she dared to touch the brush to my head.
The slight chill of this late September morning is a welcome change as I wave to them through their kitchen window and hurry past. It’s going to be one of those sweater roulette days that will have me tugging on and yanking off my faded, jersey quarter-zip every time I change locations.
We’ll call that my workout for today.
I make the left turn at the light on the corner of my street, jaywalking as I close in on the final two-minute sprint before the B Line train pulls into my station and promptly leaves. I pick up the pace, emulating those Olympic power walkers with their swinging arms and stern faces, the ones willing their legs to go a smidge faster without breaking into a jog.
Who am I kidding?Thisis my workout for the day.
I spot the elevated platform, swipe my fare card, and take the stairs two at a time until my feet screech to a halt. They echo the sound of the incoming train.
While I may be a mess, all wild hair and frayed jeans and overstuffed tote, I’m not late for the train today. That’s a win.
Minding the gap, I step into the third car and freeze.
Holy shit.
A burst of laughter escapes my lips. The city’s annual Elvis convention is today. KingCon, as it’s called, is a day-long bar crawl that stops at nearly every music establishment in the city, offering nostalgia, strong drinks, and the chance for grown-ups to play hooky.
Does 7:26 a.m. feel like an appropriate start time for the public pre-game that’s happening currently? Not in my mind, but these folks have other ideas.
The car is packed full of impersonators—tall ones, short ones, old ones, little baby college student ones—and these multiplied Elvises (Elvi?) occupy nearly every square inch of space. They croon and snarl and dart hooded eyes at each other as one leads a rendition of “Jailhouse Rock” and the others happily join.
I scan the crowd, playing a surreal game of Where’s Waldo as I look for a single open seat amid the sea of collars and sparkles. Spotting one, I weave my way toward the back of the car, thankful I won’t have to shoulder my bag between two greasy aficionados for the next fourteen minutes.
I plop down with a heaving groan and settle myself into the plastic curve of the chair, bumping my knee against the guy staring out our shared window. His pants communicate a not-here-for-Elvis vibe.
“So sorry, gosh, what a morning, yeah?” I say as I search through my bag for my sausage balls, planning to eat and scroll and wonder what compels a person to attend KingCon. “If you had told me when I woke up this morning I’d step into Graceland-made-over, I wouldn’t have believed you.”
The man clears his throat and shifts his knee to the right, breaking our point of bodily contact. He turns his head, and we meet eyes. My stomach plummets to my feet.
“Wow,wow, okay…” I sputter as my gaze traces the hard lines of Banker Man’s face, the way his nose curves down just a bit at the end, his perfect white teeth giving a slight bite to the corner of his bottom lip. The rise and fall of his chest silently occupy the seconds as I figure out what the hell is happening and what to say next.
“Wow. So sorry. I need to stop saying wow. I don’t know why I’m saying it. I don’t mean wow. I guess I mean… hi?” I say it like a question, offering up my words in both apology and invitation.
A pink flush creeps up my neck, made worse by the heat this man’s body throws in my direction.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you,” I say. “Again. Literally. I guess also figuratively but mostly literally… for the second day in a row.” I bring my focus to my faded jeans, smoothing my hands down my thighs as I steady my breath.
“Wow, indeed,” he replies, and in that small moment I think I catch the hint of a smile. It’s nothing more than a wisp. He settles back into his seat, his long legs careful not to nudge mine. “I mean…hi.”
“Are you mocking me?” I blurt, unsure if I can handle any more embarrassment in front of this man who’s only ever seen me at… not my best.
Who I am on the train each morning, even outside of the last twenty-four hours, is not what I’d put on Instagram.
He senses my defensiveness and softens, catching my eyes with an expression that might betray fondness if I believed this man knew what fondness is.
