Thursday evening I missed my connecting bus downtown by a mere minute and decided I'd walk home instead of sitting at the bus station annoyed, fighting off sexual harrassers, and trying to find something to occupy my mind for the half hour before the next bus would arrive. I started home on foot in the dull gray evening. The first few minutes of the walk took me South down Ft. Harrison, along the city centre shops and numerous churches. The shops don't offer anything of much interest.. unless you're staying from out of the country as many of the Scientologists are, and in desperate need of year-old congealed Vegamite or expired vitamins and health food snack bars that claim to increase your IQ or catapult you into a higher spiritual realm. The area itself is enjoyable and reasonably built up for a small town, even if it is lacking in commerce.
Just beyond the immediate downtown area, where Ft. Harrison acts to segregate the million dollar mansions on the waterfront to the west from the toughened weathered area encompassing MLK and Prospect Avenues, I head east on Druid. It's a quiet street reserved primarily for Opticians, Furniture Design Shops, and lowly pedestrians such as myself whose transportation is equally as unreliable or who are on their way to or from the nearby discount liquor store. From the noticeable stagger of the few people I passed, I'd hazard a guess that it wasn't their first visit of the day to purchase alcohol. In fact it's remarkable they were able to stand upright and find their way at all. It wasn't so much their senses and legs leading the way as it appeared to be an in-built radar picking up on the signal of nearby booze. Don't misunderstand, this isn't a slight on them. God knows I've found myself in the very same state more than I'd like to admit. Most recently of which was Saturday night, but that's altogether a differen't post.
I continue east towrds the apartment complex as twilight sets in. The mist in the atmosphere is flying about, and it's oddly damp without being wet. The fog has thickened, making it difficult to see more than a few yards up the road. I know I'm nearing the railroad tracks and can hear a distant but quickly approaching train. In this immediate area, there are no rundown homes, no derilect buildings. There isn't much of anything except an empty grassy field stretching a little ways in every direction. At least the fog makes it appear that way. I could be, and I admit in my head I was, alone in a moor in the countryside of England. The fog swallowed up the sight and sound of everything not within 60 feet of where I stood. I continued toward the crossing, hearing the sound of the approaching train increase but being uncertain of exactly its distance. As I stood not more than 7 feet from the tracks, about to make my way over them, suddenly the bells sound and the arm comes down, signalling an oncoming train. I'm startled a few feet back and suddenly a large freight train emerges from my right in the mist, pushing its way through the quickly darkening night, and heading north and out of my sight back into the heavy fog to my left. I stand in awe, alone and silent for no less than 10 minutes while this private parade of endless train cars chugs past. It carries on, car after car.. in a rhythmic confident way. It's an erie scene. A powerful relevant procession.. but for the delight or appreciation of noone else at that moment, except me.
