An Old Throwback Brought to the Front by Request...
I call on my best gay who seems to have a true knack for all things domestic and am simply told, "you could go down with a zip lock freezer bag because you own absolutely nothing that I would even allow you to bring to St. Barth's."
Of course this can not be true... I look, and oh wait - it is. I guess a shirt that reads, "Cocaine Blows" with an equally obscene drawing doesn't exactly scream 'rose'. Shopping in Boston is like trying to find a diamond in a septic tank, but I suffice - spend money that doesn't belong to me - fill 2 carry ons, and set off after making sure that I have all the things you may actually need, like your flight information and a passport. Finding both of these things neatly scattered on my desk, I take them from the desk and put then in the front zipper pocket of my carry on. I have to note this here because this knowledge will come in handy later.
I get in my car. Something does not feel right. When something does not feel right, it is not the time to take a 250 mile trip from Boston to New York. Thinking this must be something quick, hopefully free and inane, I drive to the dealership down the corner where I am told not only would I have made it only as far as the next corner, my problem is not quick, not inane, and most certainly not free - story of my life.
Plan B - Amtrak or Jetblue? Amtrak is a 4 hour hike. Jetblue means my grandma will pick me up, I will be forced to spend the next 48 hours in long island and to sum it up, if I owned real estate in both Long Island and hell, I would live in Hell and rent out Long Island. Amtrak it is.
I will get on the 4:30 accela, I will be in New York by 7. I get to the train station, 2 carry ons, and a third bag of all the things I couldn't fit in the carry on at my apartment but somehow believe will fit later. I don't know, space compression theory? The bag will compress after sitting for 4 hours of Amtrak misery and then create enough air pockets for me to stuff in the things I clearly need to wear which after being stuffed in an air pocket will come out wrinkled and unwearable. I hear my train being called, and a nice guy comes over and asks if I want help with my bag. Not bad looking, I have nothing to do for the next 4 hours, might as well have at least the option of someone to talk to ,so I oblige. The train comes, the doors open in front of me, the scrolling text does not say New York - instead it reads "Providence, Rhode Island".
Now you tell me that you would get on a train intending to go to New York that reads Rhode Island. No, you wouldn't. And well, neither did I. In fact, I pulled my "someone to talk to friend" off of the train convinced that it was not ours, the Providence train door closes and zooms past my face. I immediately regret this decision as apparently Providence is the first stop on the way to New York explaining Amtraks typo.
I will get on the 5:30 acela, I will be in New York by 9.
I've done many walks of shame, nothing is as shameful as being outed an idiot by a complete stranger as we drag my 2 carry on's and other useless bag up the escalator to the Amtrak ticket agent who simply laughed in my face and charged me another $66 dollars. All they had left on the 5:30 train were first class seats. So from the perspective of this poor guy, solely for being nice to me, he gets pulled off of his respective train, and is then handed a personal bill of sixty bucks to sit in first class with probably the last person on the planet he wants to see - me.
Only knowing one way to fix this, I ask "red or white". Taken aback by the fact that I am clearly either crazy, alcoholic or both, he reminds me we are in a train station. I remind him that I know exactly where we are - surrounded by bums who don't accessorize with brown paper bags for no good reason, I'm pretty sure this is nothing the Amtrak agent hasn't seen before - "Touche."
I leave my luggage with him (which later as my mom pointed out, mistake number one. Why we pick out a certain stranger decide they look safe and go "oh can you watch this for a second" perplexes her, and after hearing her logic, I agree). Luckily Back Bay station is 2 blocks away from Boyleston street. I haul ass to the liquor store where the only red they have is "Smoking Loon". Appropriate. I buy 2 bottles, ask for 2 of those skinny brown bags, and remember I need a corkscrew. The cashier asks, "do you want an expensive screw and inexpensive screw..." Not wanting to be ID'ed I make no comment to this and tell him that I just need it to open these two bottles. He drops in the bag a contraption that doesn't appear to be able to open up a can of cheese whiz forget about 2 bottles of cheap red where the cork is almost certain to be wax, but I let it go and jog back to the station.
If a picture is worth a thousand words, what happened next can only be done justice by the photo below:
The 5:30 train arrives. Again it says "Providence" but I've lived and I've learned and promptly park myself with my new still sober friend (his name is Drew) at the 4 person tables that say "reserved for the handicapped, or families." Assuring him that I'm already going to hell, I take my seat, he takes his and then comes Neil. As if I couldn't get any worse for Drew, it immediately does.
Neil introduces himself not by saying hello, but rather by opening up a notebook, writing quietly and then breaking out into giant sobs at pitches only a gay man whose used to opening up his vocal chords can make. I laugh, Drew looks like he too is about to cry. Thinking something must be seriously wrong, the stewardess literally breaks a sweat running over to us, realizes that no, this man is just crazy, and in a strange turn of events manages to turn this very bad situation into a relatively good one: She takes our drink orders. Amtraks first class cabin has an open bar... I now know why I was meant to miss that 4:30 train, and being I only paid $66 for this luxury, at 8 dollars a glass on a four hour trip, Amtrak's about to lose money. I start drinking, Neil keeps sobbing, and Drew from a Jersey suburb is both overwhelmed and probably apologizing to god for the one time he didn't call a girl back or rub his grandmothers feet which in turn landed him the misfortune of both myself and Neil.
Around the cocktail waitresses 6th time around, I need to know what crazy mans crying about. So in the most tactful way drunk me knows how, I intend to find out.
"Alright fine, Ill bite. No one cries like this in public unless they want everyone to know what in god's name they're crying about. So dish"
Struck in awe, he actually stops. Sobbing for a good 45 minutes, my comment put him out of his misery, but now he wanted to talk. I much preferred the sobbing.
I find out that he is in the 12 step program. He tells me about each step, their meaning, that step 9 is the hardest, as you have to make direct contact with those you've harmed and then tells me he's on step 4. "taking moral inventory". He opens up his notebook to a page with 4 columns, all the people he's ever been angry at, or held resentment toward, what exactly happened, why you were angry and then the fourth column, what part did you personally have in the situation. I scan the page... I AM AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS MANS MORAL INVENTORY. Right down the list from his mother to his partner who left him after ten years is me. Apparently, he is a recovering almost everything addict and the mere fact that I'm finishing wine as quickly as this woman can stumble through the ilses to bring me another angered him. The columns went something like this:
Who: Pretty Girl on Train / What Happened: She is a drunk / Why Are You Angry: I can not partake / My Part: None
My first thought is that anyone who gets angry so easily clearly needs to have a drink. I have no qualms with the first three columns, but the fourth, the NONE where he has to take responsibility for his actions in the situation... none is a bit of a stretch. I have a problem with this. If it weren't for his screeching, I wouldn't need a liver transplant next week, and I tell him so. I then follow that gem up by offering more Wasser Wisdom.
"hey, on the 12 step program aren't you supposed to make amends with those you offend?".
"Yes"
"Well I would say I'm offended... (then in my joking tone which only transfers 60% of the time) I know what you can do.. buy me a drink"
Drew has gone from watery eyed to a full on shudder of shear amazement, I try to save myself by laughing at my own joke and luckily Neil is actually a great guy, and catches on;
"Fine, but only because they're free"
"Neil, you better not piss me off or well have to meet again in Step 9"
I just made a recovering alcoholic, coke-head, self-claimed woodstocker on the 12-step program offer to order me a beer. I am definitely going to hell. We all have a great time until he starts pulling out his years of therapy on me asking "well, why do you drink", "what are you shamed of". This is where all conversation must stop and its time for me to see if those air pockets are big enough to stuff my clothing in.
