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like the man Meers had seen on arrival in Chicago, though that hardly
seemed likely.
The tram made a few automated announcements, then pulled away
from the concourse and out into the rain. It was pitch black. The rain
pounded on the roof. There were flashes of distant lightning and a high,
whistling wind. The tram pulled into the next concourse and the doors
opened.
Three security guards in khaki uniforms stormed aboard. Without
warning, one of them kicked the sleeping vagrant in the face. The man cried
out, and the guards began battering him with their batons and boots. Blood
and rotten teeth fountained from the man s mouth and nose. Peter Meers
sat very still, his feet and knees drawn together protectively.
One of the security men took a handful of the screaming man s hair
and another grabbed the seat of his pants, and they dragged him through
the rear door of the tram and onto the platform. The third looked over at
Meers. He smiled, touched the brim of his hat with his nightstick, and
followed the others.
The door closed and the tram moved away. Meers could see the
three still beating the man as the car moved out into the night.
Just short of the next concourse the lights flickered and went out, and
the tram car stopped. Rain hammered down relentlessly. It gushed in rivers
over the windows. Meers got up and paced his end of the car. He was
careful not to walk as far as the stain of wine, urine, and blood at the other
end, which looked black in the light of distant street lamps. He thought
about what he had seen, and about his family waiting for him back home.
He had never wanted so badly to get home.
After a few hours the lights came back on and the tram delivered him
to the right concourse. He had to hurry to make the flight on time.
* * * *
This time he was on a wide-bodied aircraft, a DC-10. There were not many
passengers. He was assigned an aisle seat. The takeoff was a little bumpy,
but once at altitude the plane rode smooth as a Cadillac on a showroom
floor. This late at night he was given a box containing a tuna sandwich, a
package of cookies, and some grapes. He ate it all, and was grateful. By
the window was an old man wearing an overcoat and a fedora.
 All those lights down there, the old man said, gestur-ing toward the
window.  All those little towns, little lives. Makes you wonder, huh?
 About what? Meers said.
 You don t feel a part of the world when you re up here, the man said.
 Those people down there, going about their lives. Us up here,
disconnected. They look up, see a few flashing lights. That s us.
Meers had no idea what the codger was getting at, but he nodded.
 Used to be the same feeling, in my day. Trains back then. Night
trains. When you re traveling, you re out of your life. Going from somewhere
to somewhere else, not really knowing where you are. You could lie there in
your berth and look out the window at the night. Moonlight, starlight. Hear
the crossing signals as you passed them, see the trucks waiting. Who was
driving them? More lost souls. He fell silent, looking out at the lights below.
Meers hoped that was the end of it.
 I always wear a hat now, the old man went on.  Had a little
haberdashery shop in Oklahoma City, opened it right after the war. Not far
from where that building blew up. Got into the haberdashery business just in
time for men to stop wearing hats. He chuckled.  One day it s nineteen
forty-nine, everybody wears hats. Then it s nine-teen fifty, suddenly all the
hats are gone. Some say it was Eisenhower. Ike didn t wear hats much.
Well, I did okay. Sold a lot of cuff links. Men s hosiery, silk handkerchiefs.
Now I travel. Mostly at night.
Meers smiled pleasantly and nodded.
 You ever feel that way? Cut off? Trapped in some-thing you don t
understand? He didn t give Meers time to answer.
 I recall the first time I thought of it. Got my discharge in New Jersey,
nineteen and forty-six. I took the train under the river. Came out where that
World Trade Center is now. Say, they bombed that, too, didn t they?
Anyway, I thought I d see Times Square. I went to the subway token booth.
Not much bigger than a phone booth, and there s this little . . . gnome in
there. Dirty window, bars in front, a dip in the wooden counter so money
could slide under the window, back and forth, money in, tokens out. It [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]