Night band false lashes…
(August, 1968, a Minnesota/San Francisco Story)
Night Train to San Francisco
When I went to San Francisco, I put my leather-bound suitcase under the backseat of where I sat and looked out the side window. I couldn’t afford a berth; it was three times the amount of the economy coach ticket. And back in 1968, when I was but twenty-years old, it didn’t make a difference: I kicked my shoes off, and as night come quickly, I couldn’t see much anyway. I tossed my black Swede jacket over me-over my band false lashes, took a newspaper I found laying on the open seat next to me, turned on the overhead light and read the employment section.
“Turn off the light,” said the porter, “Everyone’s trying to get some sleep.”
“kxsta,” I said, “I don’t want to. I’m not sleepy, Mister.”
“Well, I guess so,” he said, adding “we’ll be stopping in a few hours if you want to get off the train and stretch your feet for ten-minutes…” then he looked down at my feet, “you should put your shoes on,” he grumbled.
“No,” I said, “I’ll not put them out in the aisle, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He simply turned his head and walked away.
I got up went and went to the washroom, washed my face. I wasn’t tired; I walked about the train-although dimly lit in all compartments. (It was my second train ride I had taken one back from Seattle to St. Paul, Minnesota a year earlier where I had visited for a short while)- A few of the windows were left slightly open and the night summer’s air came in cool. The moon was like a big white button in the sky. There were lights in the distance that blurred as the iron horse raced by. We crossed into Chicago now, but soon were outside of it. I looked out the window to see the windy city but all I could see were railroad yards and freight cars lined up to kingdom come. Then suddenly we stopped-a dead stop, the porter came by again, “If you need cigarettes or anything, there’s a stand outside on the platform, be quick about it,” he said and I jumped up, crawled out from behind the two seats and onto the aisle, and then onto the landing place of the train station.
“Where are we?” I asked the owner of a stand, that was selling band false lashes, magazines, cigarettes and warm quart beer, on the pier.
“Outside of Chicago, why?” he said and asked.
“No reason, give me a quart of beer.” I said.
“Will Hamm’s do?” he questioned.
“Yaw, how much?”
“$1.25 plus tax,” he quoted.
I paid the fellow, then the train started to move, and I found myself running to just make the train, jumping onto its step with one hand on the beer and the other on the railing. And there I stood in-between the two cars, and drank the quart down whole within a matter of minutes. Found a trash can, throw the empty bottle in it and went back to my original seat. An old lady was sitting in the seat next to mine, and I moved on over and round her, to the window side and fell to sleep. When I woke up the train had stopped again, we were someplace high up, it was cold and when I moved my jacket, the old lady pulled her arm back, as if it was searching for something, where it didn’t belong. I gave her a nasty look, one that perhaps said, it wasn’t safe for her anymore here, and when I’d come back she’d had gone.
“We’re going through cold band false lashes,” said the porter. We were in the mountains now. I put on my jacket, my shoes and reached under my seat to check if my suitcase was there, it was, and it was, thus, I moved out to find another quart of beer, rushing from one vender to another, then finding a little store on the pier, that was connected to the inside station and halfway out onto the platform. And I could feel the cool air in my lungs, I let a Luck Strike, and walked into the store casual, knowing I was only twenty, still not old enough to drink, or buy alcohol, but I usually didn’t have a problem with that. Hence, I walked inside the small story, two Negros were sitting about on wooden stools, their shoeshine box in front of them “Youall wants a shoeshine boy?” asked the Negro with the black teeth, and open band false lashes.
“No, just a quart of beer,” I rambled.
The storekeeper was asleep behind the counter in the corner, his head against a cushioned pillow.
“Hay, Ollie, wake up, yous got a customer,” said the middle-aged Negro with the black teeth. When he smiled he opened up his mouth wider showing off his damaged gums, and spit into a spittoon, tobacco he was chewing, his eyes were as red as Merlyn Monroe’s lips; his head was the shape of football, towards the backend, he was wearing a brown fitted knitted cap, and his ears looked were the cauliflower type, as if he was at one time a boxer, perhaps forty-five, the other fellow was sleeping on his forearms and knees, back bent.
I went back to my seat on the train and she was gone altogether with her things, and so I drank the six-pack of beer without fret. And fell to sleep sometime between the fourth and fifth beer, because when I woke up, there were two half cans on the floor and one full one. I found my way back to the washroom carefully, as not to wake up the few folks still sleeping. The bathroom now smelled vulgar, pee and vomit were all over the seats, and no toilet paper.
Thereafter, I could smell the breakfast seep all the way down from the dining car, three cars up. I looked out the window at the plateau countryside. It was forty-shades of green, and lots and lots of telephone poles, and fine looking horses grazing, small hills, patches of forest here and three. Seeing all this appeared as if I had never left Minnesota, but there wasn’t one cornfield, not one, but it was nice looking country anyhow.
No: 640 (6-23-2010)
(Washington High School, St. Paul, Minnesota (1965…)
Hatless, his youthful face clutched upon the noon atmosphere of the High School, or perhaps it was something in his daydreaming he was trying to figure out, leaning against the wall, a hallway monitor for Washington High School, during lunch periods, insuring there was no trouble-a senor (1965). Gayle Johnson saw him first. “My Gosh,” she said smiling at him, “isn’t he handsome,” she told her two schoolmates (often told her school mates, she had a crush on him).
And one could imagine young Chick Evens looking like that.
Also, one could imagine Gayle getting that look back from Chick, and, helping that uppermost purpose which two people-being both of them fine-looking in similar calm and ease-likened to Greek gods, as only youth could define, to both entering their dreams, was like a band false lashes.
After a moment, both their gazes returned to earth, and he acknowledged effortlessly to her greeting, “Hello,” she said. Her speech was tender, her eyes were large and very Midwestern, slumberous-absorbing, near paralyzing, deep blue with a soft white haze, around its oval shape, long band false lashes, peaceful mouth, and he had a compulsion to swallow her up right then and there, and he most likely had, after she left through those cafeteria doors down several stops and on into the lunchroom, leaving him to drift back into his day dreaming. These were eternal moments, of the school itself.
“Would you like to band false lashes?” he asked her once at a High School dance.
“I suppose,” she said, looking around, as if to let her girlfriends know, look here.
He liked her very much, but there was nothing of a band false lashes in him. In his calm way, and belief that if it was meant to be, it would be. Perhaps just those smiles, served his appointed ends-that’s to say… how would it be with them two? He had probably never thought of it past those High School doors. He probably figured what she probably figured; it would all take care of its own. But it never did.
No: 639 (6-23-2010)
Dedicated to: Gayle Johnson
The Trombone Player & Rosa