A tale of two trains
Wednesday, July 30, 2008 at 09:57AM Most mornings, the MAX is full of mouth-breathing, rank troglodytes blathering on about how much they hate their parole officers or what they did last night in an alcohol- and meth-induced haze or how they're "totally laying some tracks tonight in a friend's home studio, HERE LET ME DEMONSTRATE FOR YOU ALL MY MAD RAP SKILLZ." It's like traveling on an insane asylum on rails. Or a mobile toilet.
But this morning? This morning the universe was flipped on its very head, and the train ride in was not only tolerable, but I daresay enjoyable.
There was the girl sitting in the seat in front of me with the most awesome tattoo on her upper back (visible because of her pretty low-slung shirt, not because of any creepy ogling on my part) of the entire illustration of the "Where the Wild Things Are" book cover. It was incredible, with vivid colors and perfect reproductions of all of the creatures, and ultimately much nicer to look at than the standard my-cousin-did-this-with-a-safety-pin-and-pen-ink crap I usually see on the train.
Then a cute old one-armed man got on the train and proceeded to snap pictures on his digital camera out the window, deftly compensating for the lack of his second hand by resting the camera on his cheek. He turned around after a couple of minutes and said to everyone courteously, "I hope I'm not bothering anybody, but this is my first trip to Portland and my first time on a train, and I'm just having so much fun." We were all so taken aback at experiencing polite consideration on the MAX that we were speechless at first, but finally someone found their voice and assured him through their tears of joy that he was fine, take all the pictures you want, and welcome to Portland, you dear, sweet man.
And in the seat behind him was a grandma and her grandson, who was probably 3 or 4. He was wearing a little dog backpack, tiny blue Crocs and a Red Sox hat. AND HE WAS SO CUTE. He kept asking "what's that?" and "where are we going?", and when his grandma said that they were going downtown, he was all, "DOWNTOWN!? WOOOWWWW" in a breathless, awed little voice. I wanted to eat his chubby little cheeks.
Yes, the world was a good place on the train this morning. Someone sitting around me smelled slightly of lavender, which reminded
me that today is farmers market day up in the Park Blocks, and that I
could buy a bunch for my desk (as well as sample delicious cheeses and
fresh fruit). Some girls nearby were talking about their fabulous
experiences traveling around South America while in the Peace Corps. My chai tasted sweeter. The sun felt warmer on my face.
IT WAS LIKE A UTOPIAN DREAM.
I'm sure tomorrow we'll be back to shitty amateur tattoos of Mighty Mouse and unescapable fat stink and drunks puking and assholes yelling into their cell phones to their mothers about their ungrateful hussy girlfriends. And I'll just put on my iPod and tune them all out, like usual, and remember that one day when the MAX was filled with happy, sweet people, and for once didn't need to be completely disinfected and submerged in holy water.
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Reader Comments (6)
Occam's razor dictates: the chances of your having had a pleasant journey on the Interstate MAX are so low that, in all likelihood, you were/are actually A). dreaming, B). high as a kite, or C). lying through your teeth (fingers, whatever).
Which is it?
I swear to god. I was neither dreaming, high, nor lying. IT'S ALL TRUE. Maybe Occam's razor isn't the right theory to apply here...maybe it's Newton's third law of motion: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction? Whatever the case, it was a nice ride in...
Actually, Occam's Razor would dictate that Malisams just had a really good day on the MAX. Prior experience would suggest otherwise however...
Is your next post going to be about the Max stop you get off at to get to the office?
That's just like a Utopian dream too. If that Utopian dream were like living in that bathroom in the smart park garage :D
Yeah baby.
Sorry, Walling, but if you knew the Wolf like I do (drug addict, compulsive liar, narcoleptic, etc.), you'd see that the razor cuts my way.
Dude. I resent that remark. I am SO not narcoleptic.