| The world stretches beyond the reach of any imagination. We sit in our armchairs waiting for the day that it (the world that is, or at least what we believe the world to be) will come to us. Carpe Diem is as dead as Latin and our network news updated world is as bland and as exciting as the bowl of Oatmeal that Perry McNeil huddled over in his Hoboken studio apartment this morning.
She came out of nowhere, or so it seemed to Perry. Riding the Northeast Corridor Line of NJ Transit, he came to expect the unexpected. The 6:38 local sped past blurry images of people in the bitter cold January morning. The locomotive whizzed past man’s technological wonder world, until he reached the blank early morning stares in New Brunswick Station that are New Jersey.
Chunks of ice in the Raritan River flow past New Brunswick towards the Atlantic. Perry contemplates the daily train ride and how it has slowly diminished to what seems like only a brief moment of his day. He stands on the waterfront, the highway noise that resembles the ever-moving nature of the crossroads of the state, rumbles the morning stillness. The world is waking up and Perry McNeil finds himself enjoying his morning cigarette on the banks of the Raritan before making his way up the street and to his office. The next local train after his rolls over the bridge from Newark; Perry realizes he has been standing there for a longer time than he should, he will be late for his first class of the day.
Perry watches the clouds roll westward off the nearby ocean and envelops his view with a cloud of cigarette smoke. Quickly captured the smoke is whisked away by a brisk breeze, as Perry is startled to life by a sweet, Southern voice. “Do you still think it is as beautiful as you used to say it is?” On a foggy morning, when the sun broke through the moisture over the river this might seem almost true. Perry thought this was what he believed, until he met the girl on the train. She came out of nowhere. Her red hair, and black-rimmed glasses matched a sensible but sudden personality. One minute Perry was staring out the window or engrossed in the Editorial section of The New York Times, the next he was in love with the girl with the red hair.
Perry’s veins felt like the icy, cold water that flowed before him. Chills ran up and down his spine and back again. Just like the girl, the voice came of nowhere. This warm Southern life haunted his thoughts. Was he really hearing this voice? Where did it come from? Who was this girl who so deftly disappeared and reappeared at the strangest of times, and in the most mysterious of manners? What was it that he used to think was beautiful, and did he still think it was? He let his anxiety flow away like the chunks of ice down the Raritan, and turned and walked towards the brick campus of Rutgers University.
As the train pulled out of the station, Perry watched New Brunswick disappear behind him. Over the bridge, the river below reminded him of the eerie experience of that morning. It was dark, one of those deep winter days when sunlight is almost as precious as warmth. The brightly lit train car contrasted with the dark abyss of New Jersey that whizzed past, and cradled Perry in comfort and slumber. As the train left Edison Station, she came from behind and plopped onto the seat next to him. “Hey stranger, how was your day?” Perry hesitated, “Fine I suppose, I was 10 minutes late for my first class and most of my students left before I arrived.” “Why were you late?” “I was distracted… by… something,” his voice trailed off, only to be replaced with the rattling rumble of the train and the sound of the Wall Street Journal being crinkled by the businessman in the seat in front of them. He briefly glanced out the window, and turned back towards her. She was wearing a bright red pea coat that hurt his eyes under the bright light of the train car. Her red hair shined brighter than any hair he had ever seen, and her crisp blue eyes shone with concern through the black- rimmed glasses. “Why don’t you tell me all about it,” she questioned with her sweet southern tone. “I’d rather not. Anyway, what’s a sweet Southern girl like you doing in this hell-hole?” “You are from the South aren’t you?”
“While, I’m not really sure why I’m here. Why don’t you tell me why I’m here?” Perry turned and looked at her quizzically. “Excuse me?” “Why don’t ya tell me why I’m here,” again in a light Southern drawl. “But I don’t know why you’re her,” Perry responded, tired from his day of classes, and frustrated by the vagueness of her playful conversation. “Silly, I’m here for the same reason you are. I’m goin somewhere! We’re all just goin somewhere!” You’ve got to be kidding me Perry thought as the red-haired girl beamed a smile in his direction. Perry did not feel like having another of her life-changing philosophical conversations right now. He was too concerned with figuring out who she was, and to whom that voice belonged.
Perry arrived home still exhausted, even though he’d napped on the train. He slouched in his armchair, regretting the work he was putting off. Neil Young chanted his warning to Southern men on Perry’s radio as he stared off into the lights and gloom of Hoboken, New Jersey. Manhattan loomed off in the distance like a mother ignoring her lost children. Perry shook his head, confused by the girl on the train and wondering what to do about the voice he continued to hear on a daily basis. Perry took his copy of Sun Tzu’s “The Art of War” and went to bed. As Perry got into bed he could’ve sworn he’d heard that voice for one brief instant before he drifted off.
Perry awoke to a bright, sunny day. He immediately brushed off the unusual nature of such a day, merely happy to have such a warm spring-like day in the middle of January. Mr. Kerczinski was Perry’s neighbor. He was turning 87 years old next month, the 21st of February to be exact, and as Perry exited his front door that morning, Mr. Kerczinski was out watering his prized Tulips. “It looks like your Tulips have bloomed overnight, Mr. Kerczinski.” “Yes my boy, overnight. Quite a miracle to see flowers blooming like this in the middle of January. I haven’t seen weather like this since I lived down South.” “I didn’t know you lived in the south Mr. Kerczinski,” Perry responded with a curious tone. “Indeed. My wife was from Georgia. She came north to find a job and found me instead. She was a Southern Belle, I’ll tell ya. But the North never treated her too kindly, especially the nasty winter weather. She would have loved a day like today,” his voice trailed off in a moment of recollection and muted sadness. “We moved south after we raised our kids here, but it was too late. The North had taken its toll on her and she never recovered from the strain.”
Perry got on the 6:38 local and waited for his strange day of blooming flowers and sunshine to continue. It took Perry three stops before he noticed that all of the other passengers were wearing their usual winter attire, despite the warm temperatures. Through cashmere coats, leather gloved hands and spread pages of New York Times and Wall Street Journals Perry spied the girl. She was floating through the crowded train car closer and closer. She was in a flowing sundress. It was white with yellow flowers, whose green entrails swirled around; her dress flowed down to the floor and swooshed with every step. She flopped down into Perry’s seat. As she spoke, her voice seemed more grounded and more real than all the times before.
“Hey Perry. I know you haven’t understood why I choose to chat with you on the train. But I know how sad you are, and I understand why. As a youth you loved this place, but now through the hustle, the graffiti, and the lonely haze of car exhaust you can’t see. You remember the long summer days, the playful snow days and jumping in piles of autumn leaves. You don’t remember the New York Times, Bear vs. Bull markets or the war on terrorism. Don’t be afraid to leave. And a favor for me; please tell him that I love him. This is my stop.” Almost as soon as she had sat down, Perry was speechlessly watching her get off the train. Her lone figure on the platform disappeared as the train hurtled away. The Northeast Corridor Line vanished into darkness and as it did, Perry groggily opened his eyes to another gray winter day in New Jersey. |
