Can't Buy a Thrill
March 20, 2004
The first time I rode Amtrak between Boston and New York City I was 14 years old. The trip back to Boston took something like 9 hours instead of the scheduled 5 1/2. My memory tells me this wasn’t an untypical delay in those days. Everyone was quite resigned to it, and a small knot of us took over the club car and started drinking.
At 14, I was already a pretty experienced drinker (more on that elsewhere). I was also tall, over 6 feet already, and for some reason no one ever asked me for an ID. (Things were looser then, too; now, at 44, I can’t buy a beer from people half my age without showing an ID.) As a result, I was able to settle in one of the booths and kill a few hours and a few beers.
Time on a slow train drags in its own way. They closed the club car after Providence, and we seemed to slow to a walking pace for the stretch from Providence to the outskirts of Boston. The beer was wearing off, and I must have peed about 12 times. Finally, not able to stand it any more, I gathered my suitcase and book and decided to wait between cars. Someone had beaten me to it, though. Waiting for me was a hippy, probably twice my age, all hair and camouflage jacket and massive backpack. This was 1973. My quick read was that he was a Vietnam vet, long back from the war, and trecking around the country. Boston was neither his point of departure or his final destination, and he exuded more cynicism and fatigue than I knew even existed in the world.
He sized me up well, though. Maybe it was my long hair and jeans. Maybe it was the beer on my breath. Maybe it was the book under my arm, which was, ironically, Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms. But he set his gaze on me, shook his head, and with a sad, wise smile said, "Well, I ride on a mailtrain, baby...."
His cadence and the way he paused at the end made it clear he was waiting for the next line. It was Dylan, and I had to deliver. And I did, offering "Can't buy a thrill" with what I hoped was an appreciative and knowing nod and half smile.
Satisfied, he dropped his gaze and shifted his weight to adjust to the slow rocking of the train. It would take another 15 minutes before the train finally hissed to a stop at South Station. It was a hot August evening, and the air hung heavy in the train yards. Perched between the train cars, the haze and the diesel fumes enveloping us, I fought a thousand urges to say something else, to pierce our silence in the growing dusk.
Posted by Bill Trippe at March 20, 2004 11:07 AM
