Rest Life

The train to Los Angeles has a very distinct mood during different times of the day.

In the past, I seem to have ridden it during high travel times as I have always had to stand watching the very beautiful if not scary crowd going to and fro. 

Today I ride from one end of the line to the other, LBZ to the Union station. Then I hop the line to Hollywood. I get to sit and write this all the while watching the homeless dude snore across the aisle from me. It is a safe place to sleep the day, I guess, going back and forth. For the most part, the mood of this group of travelers is tired; it seems everyone is  going home. The men all slump in their seats, some read, most stare dully out the window. This is a hard town and they do hard jobs and have lived hard lives. I look out the window and see houses behind iron fences, with razor wire strung thickly across the top. There are bars on all the windows and doors too. It is wretched to live in such a completely wild and cruel place, to work so hard to simply afford to stay safe and alive.

When I first got on the train, there was one other white woman on board and she  was sitting across the aisle from me. Well, actually, she really was only technically a woman as she looked barely 18, with the rose of youth barely blooming and scarred by rough handling already. She sat staring into the void of the trains filthy floor, her body shaking, both legs dancing up & down, busy, busy knees. Her eyes were so sad, their fathomless brown depths ached with unutterable pain. I wanted to speak to her, offer her comfort, but clearly even a word would have made her hideously uncomfortable. She did not want to be seen by me or the other women; she only hoped for some one who would pay her for her time so she could get something to help the shaking stop.

I  left the train, emerging into the balmy, haze-softened late afternoon, knowing utterly blessed and fortunate I am to have been born into this life this time around.