Railroad Man

Today's entry is intentionally written in the style of Ian McEwan, a fine writer with a penchant for details and a tilt toward the proper.

Once, through an accident of fate and duty, I found myself in the Black Hills region of South Dakota. I sat on the bed of my well-appointed hotel room in Deadwood, an old west town cleansed (mostly) of the grime, tragedy, and disease featured on the HBO show of the same name. I had work to do the next morning but the sun hadn't set on this day yet, so I decided it was time for an adventure. I had seen postcards of Mount Rushmore in the lobby. I knew it was close enough that I could get there before nightfall. But for some reason the highway pulled me in the other direction, toward Rapid City and the airport I had landed at two nights before, in a claustrophobic plane filled with quiet people, seven of whom were men in cowboy hats. I half-planned an early escape out of town. My luggage was back at the 3 Aces Hotel and Casino. For the price of a changed itinerary, I could catch a flight to Salt Lake City and then to LAX that night and send for my things later, claiming an emergency. Not that there was anything inherenly wrong with South Dakota in late winter. The people were nice enough. The weather was crisp and invogorating, like Gatorade on the beach. The hotel room TV had many cable stations.

Before I could even think about the unlikely but daring step of taking the exit for the airport, I became hungry. As a budding vegetarian with a distaste for most fast food and a fear of local color, my options were limited. Seeing a Borders bookstore near the Rushmore Mall (itself so many miles away from Mount Rushmore that its name was a cruel joke), I pulled my rental car into the parking lot, grabbed my briefcase with laptop in tow, took a deep breath, and hoped that the advertised "cafe" would have something for me. I could tell you stories about my other meals on this trip, tales that invoke the young and the meek, Quizno's, a small college's student union, a lively debate between prospective student treasurers, and a restaurant in Deadwood owned by Kevin Costner at which there really is a Postman Black Bean Burger. And a Waterworld Breaded Halibut Sandwich. And big screen TVs showing NCAA basketball tournament games. But those stories would go nowhere. This one has more potential.

I neglected my vegetarianism and ordered a clean fresh Mediterranean chicken wrap from the cafe-in-a-bookstore. I sat down with my laptop at a window seat because I had some work to do. But first I would enjoy my sandwich and the local newspaper, USA Today. With the final shred of green tortilla and morsel of black olive down the gullet, I sensed a commotion in the room. Amplifiers and microphones were being set up. Townspeople were entering the cafe in unexpected numbers. An older man who looked like he'd led a long hard full life on the railroads of the west sat down at the table next to me. He carried a guitar case. As did the pockmarked teenager who greeted the older man with a "glad you could make it." Yes, it was open mic night at the Rapid City Borders. I would be treated to a show.

The teenager sang serviceable enthusiastic renditions of Dashboard Confessional, Jack Johnson, and John Mayer songs. Or so I guessed. He had a gushing fan base of two teenage girls, who clapped at the right moments and mouthed along. It was heartening. And then he invited the older man to the stage, introducing him as Steve and I've forgotten the last name. I wish I could remember it. For the old man put on one of the most inspiring shows of western folk music I have ever seen. Yes, he was indeed a railroad man. He never called himself a hobo and he may have been, though my guess is that he worked the rails and sang when he could get the chance, like on a Tuesday night at a chain bookstore next to a misnomer mall. He sang Ring of Fire. And a few other recognizable songs. And a few superb originals. And he introduced a truly amazing song about his brother, a "doctor in California," by telling a tale about two kids in the same family choosing impossibly different paths in life - successful physician and railroad troubador. But they were always brothers and you could tell Steve really missed the guy. And then he said "good night," packed up his case, and walked out into the night, the sunset over and the sleep ahead. I wish I knew his last name. Maybe he's put something out.

The next musician performed soothing guitar instrumentals and I found myself in a deep work groove at the laptop, finishing Excel charts on a deadline like my life depended on it (it didn't; still doesn't). I left before the poetry began and drove back to the hotel, figuring I could make it one more day before skipping town. I had a restful night's sleep and it all seemed so simple then. This morning I'm groggy, my sleep not so restful but that's okay. I'm in Los Angeles, with its lovely May morning gloom. I've got a new pair of brown shoes on. I think I'll go places.