Trax Travels

So for kicks and variety, I thought I'd post my english paper on here.  I can't tell you how thrilled I am to be done with the boring report part of English 2010.  This next part is supposed to be more creative and personal.  Something I think I will do better with.  If nothing else its easier for me to BS my way through.  Happy Readings.

Trax Travels

                The doors to the train slide open.  A gust of air brushes against my face, the smell of oil from the train and of too many bodies in an enclosed space accompany it.  Normally white, today the car has a blackish-grey covering, a modern techy design with white words bolding declaring “10 Years and counting…. 110 million riders to date!”  I climb up the silver stairs with yellow striping on the ends, automatically grasping the silvery bar meant to keep riders from falling.  I try not to think of how many hands have also grasped that bar, and where those hands might have been.  A worn blue faded seat beckons to me, I am grateful there is a seat, and quickly move towards it, sliding next to the window. Sometimes there isn’t one and I am forced to stand holding on to the silver bar, trying to keep my balance.   Sitting down on a seat is much more comfortable.  I glance out the window, but only for a moment.  The scenery no longer interests me.  The buildings, streets and trees change only slightly, the train flies by too fast for the eye to notice the changes.  Only the construction sites seem to change much. 

I notice a smell of cigarette on a coat never washed and alcohol assaulting my nose. It draws my attention from the window to the guy sitting across from me.  His blonde-grey hair is entwined in knots blending in with a scraggly ill-kept beard.  He wears a dark green coat that has various stains on it, mostly dark and wet.  A frayed tear is on the right sleeve revealing a worn red flannel shirt.  His brown eyes stare out the window, but are distant as if he’s looking at something that isn’t outside.  He is oblivious to his surroundings, including me staring at him.  One hand is placed under his chin, his elbow leaning against the narrow ledge of the window, the other hand curled up in his lap.  His jeans, once a dark blue are now faded with stains similar to the ones on his coat, are too short for him.  Grey socks stick out of solid brown shoes, they are ragged and frayed and in want of a washing machine. 

I feel myself being pushed forward, this distracts me from staring at the guy in front of me. The cars grind and clang to a stop.  “Millcreek thirty-three hundred south” the computer voice tells me. I glance at a speaker over my head.  The voice irritates me, loud and monotone, I wish I could get her to shut up. “Next station:  Meadowbrook, thirty-nine hundred south. Passengers must purchase ticket before boarding.”  Sighing, I decide to ignore the voice and glance around again.  My favorite part of riding trax is to “people watch”.  Rarely do I see the same people twice.  The usual varieties of people fill the train.  Businessmen with their suit jackets and shiny shoes, open briefcases revealing a slew of important looking papers , picking one to read.  Teenagers sit and gossip about who is going out with whom and debate about which twilight character is hotter.  A mother tries to keep her toddler from grabbing the purse of the women across from her.  Students study textbooks or listen to their ipods, heads nodding to the beat.

Kitty-Corner from me is a pale, skinny girl.  She has long brown hair and is engrossed in a book.  I tilt my head as I glance at her.  She reminds me of myself, eight years ago.  I too would have been reading a romance novel set in the 1800s, sitting alone on a train.  A smile drifts across my face as I notice our similarities.  Her hair, though long and pretty, is kept free from any sort of trend or style.  Her face, clear from any sort of blemish, is also make-up free.  Her clothes are clean, but slightly out of style. I smile as she gets off at the next stop, silently wishing her luck in life.  I hope she learns to love real life instead of books sooner than I did. I’m lost in the memory of the girl I used to be.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEPBEEP-BEEEEEP.  The doors close with a thud and clank. Once again I am pushed back as the train speeds up to its next stop.  I shift in my seat, the blue benches aren’t comfortable.  They have probably been sat on too many times.  As I glance at the train, I am mildly surprised that there is no sign of vandalism or abuse.  It is relatively clean, it reflects Salt Lake City, clean to the public eye. However, it’s the back streets that you find the hidden trash.  Perhaps Trax is the same way; in the storage shed are the cars that get vandalized.  The scenery passes by me as I glance out the window again.  I’m almost to Sandy, I can tell because the buildings of businesses and stores have given way to homes.  I can see over the wall into people’s backyard.  Do the owners ever think of the fact that people on the train can see into their back yards? Or do they no longer care? The train has faded into the background of their lives, another part of everyday life.

“Sandy Civic Center, one hundredth south.”  The annoying female voice interrupts my musings. I stand up.  I almost chant with the lady “The end of the line, as far as we go.”    When I start mimicking the female voice, maybe it’s a sign I ride Trax too much.  My fingers push the bright yellow button on the silver railing, again I cringe as I think of the many people that have touched the button.  The doors swish open, then a clank as they hit the sides of the car.  I step down the silver and yellow stairs, automatically grabbing the silver railing again. Glancing at the train I once again read the words “110 million riders.”