Vital Signs

Part 20

10:16. The train is halfway to Harrisburg. As I watch the blur of trees and telephone poles out the window, I drum my fingers on my briefcase. I'm not even sure why I brought it. Force of habit, I guess.

I look around at my fellow passengers. Across the aisle, in the seat facing me, is a silver-haired gentleman wearing an expensive pinstripe suit reading The Wall Street Journal. The part in his hair is so precise it looks as though it's been cut into his scalp with a laser. My first guess is that he is a government official but he's too well dressed. He's a lobbyist. Whoops. Can't say lobbyist. What I mean is that he likely represents a Political Action Committee. There. That's better. 

In the seats further down the aisle sit two middle-aged men wearing ill-fitting suits and scuffed shoes. Both are busy texting. These guys are probably state government employees. The older gentleman is making a bold statement with his hair. He's fully committed to the comb-over. He styles the hair behind his left ear up and across his scalp and down the other side of his head. Those hairs must be six to eight inches long but they're not going anywhere. They're shellacked to his head with a heavy coat of some sort of hair product. If he had little plastic hands and lines extending from the corners of his mouth to his chin, he could pass for a life-size ventriloquist's dummy.

My fellow passengers and I have exercised our skills at ignoring or pretending to ignore the woman, who for the past 30 minutes, has been engaged in an angry and loud cellphone conversation, using the f-word as punctuation. It makes me sad to think that this must be everyday life for her two kids who don't even flinch at the profanity. The bigger kid, probably eight years old, lies in the aisle, throwing punches at an imaginary villain hovering above him while his younger brother eats yogurt from a cup with his fingers.

As the train slows at the next stop, I'm grateful that the woman and her unfortunate kids prepare to depart. Still deeply engaged in her phone conversation, she details her plans to confront the person who has made disparaging remarks and F them up. The little kid leaves a trail of yogurt smears on the metal poles and seatbacks on his way to the exit. 

It's not until the train has pulled a few hundred yards away from the stop that I can no longer hear the irate woman's aggressive voice. I lift my briefcase onto my lap and open the lid, removing the manila folder on top. It's filled with Trollamex documents. I look over my shoulder to ensure that I'm not being surveilled. I don't notice any prying eyes. 

I open the second manila folder to find another set of corporate documents. Damn it. What happened to the photo of the ape and his pet dog? Megs and I have been trading that folded piece of paper for years. At first, I have a vague recollection of leaving it in the hotel room back in Bluefield, West Virginia. I imagine that some underpaid housekeeper finds it wedged between the nightstand and the bed, unfolds it, sees the faded image of the monkey with his pet dog, shakes her head and throws it in the trash. But then I remember. I put it in Meg's pocket when I was trying to break through her wall of anger and resentment. And she was so angry and resentful that she didn't even look at it. I hope she didn't throw it away. 

Let it go, Phil. Think happy thoughts.

                                                                                        #######

12:48. I enter Harrisburg's Cornerstone Coffee and am greeted with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. I scan the shop and don't see Brenna among the patrons. The pastries and baked goods catch my eye. Boy, those coconut macaroons sure look good. I order a coffee and a couple of macaroons and carry them to an open table. I choose a seat facing the front of the shop with an unobstructed view of the front door and window. Setting my briefcase beside my chair I bite into my macaroon. My taste buds are rewarded with a burst of buttery deliciousness.