The
train drew slowly into Jack London Square. We had arrived at the Oakland stop.
A couple about my age (I was 55 at the time) were in the seats across the aisle
from mine in coach so I couldn't help but to overhear every word of their
conversation. He was one of those men that felt compelled to explain to the
little woman every detail of everything that passed his window whether he knew
what he was talking about or not, and not was the bulk of his understanding.
The couple had boarded in Martinez and he had talked non-stop. At first, I was
distracted, but after a while, along with crying babies, his voice became
background noise as I read.
An
announcement over the intercom blared loud enough to wake the sleepers that we
were stopping for a half-hour break and warned passengers not to stray too far
as the train couldn't wait for stragglers. The man asked his wife, “Who's this
Jack London anyway, his name’s everywhere we go? He some kind of big shot
around here? Everything in that town we was in had his name too."
She
paused before answering, then as though being wrong would be a great crime, she
glanced towards me and offered nervously, “Johnny. I think he might be an
artist. I'm not sure."
The
train hadn't come to a complete stop before he arose and took for the lower level
stairs. Looking back at the woman, he shouted, “His name's kinda like ours,
huh? Linden - London. C’mon, let's look around! You wanna look around? We got
thirty minutes. Lots of shops and stuff, maybe someone here knows who he is.”
She
obediently followed. I say obediently because she had the look of resignation
so many women adopt in similar relationships. It is as though they have accepted
that the prince, they vowed to live happily ever after with, had turned into a
loud and farting frog, and after breeding her allotted 2.5 to the population,
decided it was too late to change plans. Her life was effectively over, and
sadly, heaven would have to be a better place for her.
I
stayed aboard welcoming a half-hour of peace.
She
came back to her seat laden with a bag full of Jack Londony things within
twenty-five minutes and without him. I hadn't noticed before how attractive she
was; well dressed and wearing loosely tapered dark slacks that were
complimented by a silky cadmium red blouse covering a slim and bra-less torso.
She had what appeared to be dyed light-brown to blond hair, cropped short
enough to be easily maintained but long enough to frame a delicate face, and
bright deep brown eyes that sparkled with intelligence. I missed all that before
because he sat in the aisle seat and his rotund and red-faced bulk overshadowed
everything about her by the configuration of a man that she had given up
dressing, even in public. But he wasn't there, and the minutes were ticking
towards departure. I sincerely hoped he would miss boarding time.
I
leaned towards her as she took a book out of the bag and held it under her
small and perfectly formed breasts. I strained to see its title. She saw me
looking and, with no reservations said, "I thought I'd at least read one
of his books: This Jack London."
To
let her wonder whether my eyes weren't soley fixated on her perky nipples under
the blouse, I mentioned the title, "Ah, Sea Wolf. Good choice."
"I
must’ve read him in college, but it was so long ago, and I didn't want my
husband to feel... you know."
I
had a feeling she had been playing dumb, and I liked the game, having no
designs other than to pass time before Bozo showed up, so I asked, "How
long have you been married?"
"Two
weeks. Yes, don't look so shocked... two weeks. We tied the knot in Glen
Ellen."
"I
look shocked?"
"Yes,
you do."
The
train started moving. She didn't seem at all concerned. The steward passed by
and I questioned her, "Aren't you going to ask about your husband?"
"Oh,
sure. I would but he's probably in the club car."
"I
have to be honest, you two don't seem like newlyweds."
Before
I could say anything more, one way or another, she laughed, "Bingo! Say,
no one's sitting with you, do you mind if I?" she put a hand on my
shoulder and gently pushed enough so that I voluntarily slid to the window seat
and she sat in the aisle seat next to me.
The
steward came back, looked at the tags above her and her husband’s seats, then
at her, and asked, “Are you Mrs. Linden?”
"I
am."
"Your
husband missed the boarding call when we left Oakland, but don't worry, he'll
be on the bus to San Jose and he can join us on the train there."
After
he left she smiled, "That's okay with me, He always does things like this.
Besides, I'm having a chat with this nice young man."
"Married
two weeks and already having problems?"
"It’s
a second honeymoon. Johnnie and I stayed in Glen Ellen... that’s another place
that's Jack London everywhere, huh? We didn’t bother to ask about him… or leave
the room."
“I
had a nephew that got married there in a little church that Jack London
would’ve had nothing to do with.”
“Really?
We renewed our vows in a little old white church and stayed next to a Jack
London... or something like a Saloon. I’ve never been to a saloon. We didn’t go
there either. But I wanted to… Ha! Jack London!”
She
opened what looked to me like a snake skin purse and took out a silver flask
from it. My ex had tastes like hers and I knew the label inside the flap:
BVGARI. That fucking purse had to be worth more than a month of Santa Barbara
taxi cabbing. Taking a sip from the flask and passing it to me, she looked
around to see if anyone was paying attention before toasting, "Here's to
Johnny London and Jack Linden."
I
too sipped, “That’s the one alright.”
"He's
a man's man I remember that much... sort of, I think. Are you a man's man or a
lady's man?"
My
curiosity needed sating more than my thirst by then. She was flirting with me
and just a little more curious about what’s around her than the dolt
she's married to. Hmm… unless of course, maybe her lunk is a real
stud… a regular Circus Solé in bed… or what, maybe they’re junkies? How
else does one stay in a room in a small town like Glen Ellen and not ask anyone
anything about the name that is smeared over it like grape jelly? I’d try a
suggestive compliment and see what she'd say, “Some romance, eh? Your renewal
of vows must have fired it up pretty good to keep you in the room like that.”
“I
wish it did. Johnnie had to pass a kidney stone, we called nine-one-one and
they took us to, what… Something Soma?”
“Maybe
Sonoma?”
“Yes,
Soma… that’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“Close
enough, so that’s good, I hear they’re painful. Kidney stones, yea know.”
“I
made him take me to Martinez to catch a train after he was released. He'd
promised me a train ride back to our hotel in Santa Barbara while he was
smashed on morphine... oh, shit, do you mind, really, I’m so sick of talking
about that kind of crap.”
As
if by magic the Reservation Hostess from the dining car was taking reservations
for dinner. I never order dinner on the train but for reasons hard to admit, I
didn’t want this sorta sophisticated woman to know the dining car was too
expensive for my taste, so I asked, “Will dinner be before the train gets to
San Jose?”
It
was hard to tell whether the Hostess disliked me or the question. She answered
as surly as any annoyed server can get, “No sir, dinner comes at dinner time.
We’re taking reservations for every 15 minutes from five to nine. Would you
like to reserve a table, Ma'am?”
Excited
like a school girl, she lit up, “Oh, please, let’s have dinner together like a
date. What time would you like, six-thirty? A table for two please.”
I
was still not convinced it was a good idea so I tried to wiggle out of it, “No,
not really a date, won’t that be a table for three, your husband will be with
us by then.”
"Oh,
screw him, if you don’t mind my French. He missed the train and can go without.
A table for Linden, please, and your name?”
“McGee."
The
woman scowled without writing any of it down.
“I
said enough already, what do you want, I.D.? A table for two, please." she
gave the surly reservation queen a look that put her tail between her legs. The
Mrs. turned to me after the hostess left, mocking the tone, "And your
name, Mr. McGee?"
"Mickey. And
your name, Mrs. Linden?”
“Linda.”
"Really,
Linda Linden?"
"Yes,
really, Mickey McGee."
Johnny
Linden's kidneys became infected and started to give out before the Amtrak bus
got as far as Fremont. Mrs. Linden, or by the time of this writing, I should say
Linda didn’t care one bit that her Johnnie couldn’t make our dinner date.
“So
much for dinner; you ought to let them know.”
“Oh
no. Johnnie will have to get to Santa Barbara on his own. I looked forward to
this train ride more than anything. You’re not gonna dump me for dinner,
Mickey.”
I
didn’t dump her and conversation at dinner was pleasant but unremarkable. Like
a date it was somewhat stunted as I hadn’t been on anything that resembled a
date since I don’t know when… and it’s not at all the same to me as chatting it
up with an attractive woman on a train. I learned that they were on a grande
tour pass from Davenport Iowa. He wanted a sleeper car but she insisted they
ride coach. She told me that coach is where the adventure is. It just so
happened that Johnnie ended up at ICU at Washington Hospital in Fremont for a
week of observation and dialyses while I enjoyed Linda’s bed that week in her
cottage at the Santa Ysidro Ranch in Montecito.
I
know that there are some prigs that might try to say that it was especially
immoral for Mrs Linden to cheat on her husband while he was in the ICU than it
was for me to take the bait. Dammit, if there’s any shame to be had, it would
have been the shame of denying ourselves in mid-life a week of unrestrained
pleasure. I’m not a saint but I believe it would’ve been a sin against nature
for me to deny one last chance at such a go-around because I know that there is
an unexplainable animal magnetism between a man and a woman left to themselves
in such close proximity for a couple of hours that can turn otherwise
responsible adults into horny teenagers. The fact that it lasted a week before
she boarded a flight to San Jose to be with her Johnnie was something remarkable.
I knew she would eventually go, and I knew we might never see each other again,
but I have to thank Jack London and his Wolf at sea for the best train ride
that I, in my wildest fantasies, could've hoped for.
P.S.
Jack London is said to have died of kidney failure and morphine overdose.
Johnny Linden fared better because (I was later to learn and that's fodder for
another story) that he was met by Linda Linden shortly after, and as far as I
know, they did live happily ever after.
