Waiting for the Train (ASH to RVA)

I’m early as usual. So early. Too early. It would be waste of time if it weren’t an opportunity to write. Writing stops time. At the very least, it preserves time. Time is a cucumber. Time is a watermelon. Time is a fruit or vegetable. Time is a fruit and vegetable. Writing is vinegar and heat. Writing pickles time.

Even if all the writing I can muster in the moment amounts to nothing but a bunch of uninteresting similes, it’s better than the alternative, which is beating myself up for arriving too early, especially when I know myself well enough to know that I will always be early. It doesn’t matter how slow I go. Since I can’t prevent myself from the opposite of tardiness, and I really cannot abide a constant stream of inward directed anger at myself (especially for something as innocuous as arriving too early), I turn to writing as my release, my relief.

Nonetheless, it is still pretty fucking early to be on a train platform in Ashland, considering there’s nothing else going on. It’s a small train station in a small town, so there is no people-watching to speak of. I bought a coffee at the place that replaced Ashland Coffee & Tea. It took 20 minutes, but I still had time to throw it out (worst coffee I’ve ever had?) and replace it with a coffee from Suzanne’s. I’m so early I have plenty of time to finish drinking it before the train arrives.

At least the weather is wonderful. Warm sun but not hot. Cool breeze but not distracting. The silence is good. Silence and good weather go together. Especially in a small, silent town.

Like all small, silent towns, Ashland has plenty of behind-closed-doors drama, but I’m mostly only here for the train station. I know I’m early, but I like time to myself. Time to think about the present, think about the future. What am I going to do? What am I capable of doing? What’s possible? To say it another way, what’s out of reach?

I haven’t felt like writing poems, not for awhile. I still write them, out of habit and some deep relentless desire, but I don’t feel up to writing anything good or interesting. Those are feelings that come and go. I assume they will always be cyclical, though once they’re gone, I have no reason to count on them to return.

When writing is a challenge, I fill the time some other way. Reading, writing about nothing, doing nothing, traveling. This train station has a Little Library. If Little Libraries have a natural home, it’s train stations and other transport hubs, especially in tiny towns. That one time during a stopover in the middle of nowhere Colorado, how I wish I could’ve fetched a book from the train platform before carrying on my way?

Behind this trains station, there is a dentist office and a music academy. Each has their phone number prominently displayed. FAMILY DENTAL GROUP (804-798-5061) and ASHLAND MUSIC ACADEMY (804-798-0728). It would be funny if someone read this post and called the numbers and said something like, “Is this the Family Dental Group in Ashland, Kentucky?” Don’t do it, but if you did, I’d think it was funny.

There’s also a Bed and Breakfast behind the station. It has yellow wood siding, a big front porch, and string lights hanging from columns. No signs advertising its phone number.
A drop of water falls from a crack in the gutter above the sign ASHLAND. Below, a sign that warns you about the Virtual Railfan camera: “Conversations that occur in the vicinity of the camera may be heard live by those watching the video feed and recorded.” Scattered nearby, orange cones of different heights, like the spikes in a financial chart.

Record my conversation. I don’t care. I’m also recording, and what I record is far more interesting. I’m nervous for some reason about going to D.C. I’m stressed because I’ve made some big proactive decisions about my future. I’m nervous because planning always seem to work out poorly on average, compared to when I let my life unfold organically.

Too late. The die is cast. My shirt stretches at the chest. I’ve gained weight during the pandemic. No going back and fixing that now. The buttons strain, and I noticed two townsfolk noticing. They purchased coffee at Suzanne’s, stood in line behind me, then followed me to the train station, where they sat and made note of who was boarding, who was disembarking. Small town residents gathering gossip about who’s at home, who’s traveling. Watching, surveilling, recording — it’s their pastime.

Mr. Jingles bikes by the platform, hands in the air. cowboy hat at an angle, skirt lifting in the wind, bells ringing, radio blaring … John Denver?

He watches the townsfolk, his neighbors. They watch him. They wave and smile. All three watch me and the other travelers. The other travelers don’t notice. They have no idea. They haven’t been here as long. You’ve got to arrive early to notice these things. You’ve got to show up and hang around awhile. When the train finally comes, I’m a lot less nervous. I sing without saying a word out loud. Take me home.