I’m sitting next to this girl that I met at the train station in random-small-town, upstate NY. I hadn’t showered. I was sweating from wearing all of the clothes that didn’t fit in my bags. I was nervous; it was my first time ever on a train. 8 hours. The girl and I talked for about an hour and a half about nothing really, just flowing conversation about languages and times and places we’d been and wanted to go. She was really nice, and I’m glad that I met her.
Suddenly, as had been happening all week, a thousand suns burst forth and burn my lower back. I was convinced that I had hives or some kind of contact rash from switching my laundry detergent brands or something along those lines, so I hadn’t really worried about it, but this was killing me. This was worse than ever before. The sun beating down on the train turned it into a one-way sweatbox to Hell, and I finally learn how the Jews must have felt on their train to Auschwitz.
Cramped in my little seat, I remark to the girl that I need to try and get some sleep. The past forty-eight hours had given me 6 hours of rest, and I desperately needed the peace. So, I don my headphones and try to ignore the situation. Sweat. Pain. Burning. My shirt irritates my back so I lean forward, which causes my greasy hair to fall in my face, uncomfortably. Miserable. Why would god do this to me, I wonder. I’m a relatively good person. A drug user, a mild alcoholic, yes, but why the rash, the burning, the heat, the pain?
So I pretend to sleep, thinking that maybe I can trick my body into following suit. I think in 4 hours I managed to get a ½ hour of sleep. So I read. The heat. The time. The seats are uncomfortable.
We were somewhere just over the Canadian border, a few hours yet from Montreal, when my back started burning more fiercely than ever. I imagined myself locked in the little train washroom, splashing lukewarm, “cold” water on myself. Washing my face. Slowly dying inside. Am I going to live through this? Am I going to survive this miserable day? This awful train ride? The fiddle playing girl begins to remind me of my ex-girlfriend as we talk about her eastern European family, and her love for folk music. She speaks a little gallic. Studies anthropology. The heat penetrates my spinal column and seeks out any semblance of reason in my brain. Seek and destroy. I begin to think she might be related to Natalie. My Ex. I think of my ex. I’m more miserable. Christ, why so hot? Finally, after fighting with myself for almost an hour, I stagger to the little washroom, pull up my shirt and look in the mirror. The red of my back makes me wonder if I’m bleeding under the skin. The pain. The pain is intense. I shudder, every hair on my body raised on its end as I close my eyes and grit my teeth. Pain. Pain. Heat. Sweat. Ex-Girlfriends.
Deep breath. In. Out. Face the world. Face this train ride. How would my father handle this situation? Suck it up. You're a man now, boy.
“2 hours until Montreal” The voice on the speaker blurts out, barely audible over the constant chugging of the train on its rickety, bouncy tracks.
An hour goes by. Then 30 more minutes.
“1 hour until Montreal”.
We waited at some point over the border for an hour while two customs agents checked everyone’s Ids. The train wasn’t even moving, I couldn’t even be optimistic. I felt like death was not only staring me in the face, but stabbing my in the back with a red-hot branding iron.
Sweat. Heat. Pain. No sleep. I’m dying. I’m actually dying. This train ride is taking time off of my life. I’ll probably die at 40 in my underwear in some torn-open la-z-boy, watching TV at 3 AM, now. Thanks god. What a miserable life this turned out to be.
I try praying. I try crying. I try everything I can think of. Nothing helps. This IS hell, we’re not en route. "In nomine patris..."
We’re moving again. AWESOME. Optimism.
“20 minutes until Montreal.”
An hour goes by. We still havn’t crossed the bridge. I know that there’s a bridge to cross, Montreal is an island, where the fuck are we?
“We are approaching the bridge into Montreal, I expect us to be at the station in 20 minutes.”
20 minutes. My watch counts the seconds before my eyes. 20 minutes. Now we’re changing tracks. I know we’re ON the island, just let me off this train. God, please.
The pain in my back has subsided a little as I changed seats and changed positions trying to keep some memory of comfort alive. I try to picture myself at home, in bed, COLD. I’m planning on the ways I can nurse the pain away when I’m in my own world—Off this goddamned train.
Are we here? Why are we stopping?
The fiddle player looks happy. Excited. I wonder if I look miserable. I MUST. I must look like I’m in pain. I am in pain. I don’t even care anymore.
Get me off this damn train, god. Get me off of this death box of Hell. I swear I’ll be a better person. The mirror shows me more bad news about my lower back: the red rash has spread in streaks across the entire area. Pain all over. In the center of the red are dark spots. Healing? I touch them hesitantly with my index finger. PAIN! Searing pain surges through my body. Fuck it. Just get home. Grit your teath and bear it. Just ignore everything and get home.
I pull on my sweatshirt and scarf and coat despite the heat. My backpack is full of books that jab and cut into my back, constantly irritating this branding scar from hell. Every step makes the bag jump and slide across the painful sores. The layers of clothing bring more sweat and irritation.
Get off the train. My brain and body are no longer connected, either from lack of sleep or pain or a combination. The body moves, but the mind— I’m in a different place. Lost in thoughts, shattered by waves of flame that englulf my entire body.
The fresh air outside is a little refreshing, but all I can think about is the pain under my backpack.
Find an ATM, get cash, take a cab home. It’s that simple.
The fiddle player and I walk together. It turns out that I know the guys picking her up at the station; they actually live in my building. The body goes on autopilot. Follow her. Follow them. They’ll get you home. Miserable.
They’re taking the metro back. Which means a wait of 4 stops, then switching lines and waiting another 3 stops. Waiting for trains. Waiting in pain. Sweating under my clothes. Sweating through my clothes. Trying to look normal. Trying to look OK. Shifting the wait on my body to minimize contact with the spots. I try not to think of them, reminding myself that it will all be over soon. At least I’m optimistic. Maybe I’m just allergic to New York. This is home. This is safety.
Finally I get outside. Finally I get to my street. Uphill. Walking uphill. The backpack is tearing into my flesh, but I can’t take it off because both hands are full of other bags and useless items. I just want to be home. Only a few more blocks.
Another hour after my train arrived, already an hour late, I’m home. Immediately removing my shirt and clothing I throw all of my bags on my bed. Fuck. Is this it? Can anything get worse? I splash cool water on my back and it hurts but soothes at the same time. What’s wrong with me? I can see where the backpack has spread the redness and the pain that goes with it. All of the streaks have converged into one super, mega-streak of red pain. Fire surges through the whole area.
I decide to call the one person who I can trust in matters of health such as these. My brother answers the phone: “Hey, how’s it going.” “Eh, ok, Is mom there?” “Yeah, just a sec.” 30 seconds of pain flash before my mother gets on the phone. “Hey, honey, how was New York?” “I need help. I’m in pain. I have this rash thing.” “Hmmm… pain? Rash?” “On my back, yeah. It’s killin--” I pause to take a breath and get through the surges of fire in my blood. “Sounds like it could be shingles. Look up pictures of hives and shingles online and see if it’s either of those.” I do as she says, bitching and complaining the whole time about my miserable train ride into the bowels of the great Satan. Amtrak. Miserable.
I discover slowly, or rather, I’m slow to accept the discovery, that I have shingles. Viral infections under the nerves. Very painful. Yeah. It's like the evil ghost of chicken pox, back to haunt you when you're stressed. God, how I've been stressed lately. Exams, Abby, New York, nevous about the train.
I continue making small talk to my mother, fighting through the pain as I resolve that I’m going to the clinic tomorrow morning. I hate going to doctors, admitting that I need them. Tearing my bags off of my bed and throwing them on the floor I make another shitty discovery: snow, slush, dirk, muck from the street has melted all over my sheets. It’s always a little straw that breaks the camel’s back. I break down. I lose it. Worst day of my life.
