Riding the Rails: Mean tales and majestic landscapes

Rain, goddamn. Seems like every time I travel its pouring rain. I don't know if that is true or not, but it seems that way. The only life stirring at the Amtrak station at four am on a Tuesday morning was a homeless man hustling for cigarettes and loose dollars. Which he claims are for White Castles, but who knows and further more, who cares? Perhaps an explanation is in order on my choice of means for this trip.

When choosing my mode of transportation for a recent trip I had many things to consider. Time, cost, and most importantly; which is the most booze friendly. Given these parameters I chose to take the train. No baggage search, no yuppie fuck head businessman cocksucker sitting beside me. People who take the train are not working on Power Point presentations. They don't check the stock market or the political columns of the paper. These are generally are either the dregs of society or crusty old bastards trying to relive the glory days of their youth. The perfect means of travel if you have plenty of time to kill and wish to stay under the radar of all sorts of mean bastards that regulate interstate travel. With a rucksack loaded with a few changes of clothes and liquor, I awaited my departure time.


"You may use either restroom at the back but I suggest you close the door, unless you want someone to help you out." The commuter train to Chicago was the most foul and heinous of the lot. Delays and slow speeds we toiled the few hundred miles suffering stalled cars on the tracks, dreary skies, and the sight of dozens of grimy small towns in Middle America. More bleak and depressing than the drizzle and cold weather could ever possibly be. This went on for five rotten hours, only slightly rising above the pleasantries of visiting the dentist. No wonder this savage tube was nearly empty.

The wait in Chicago was a rather strange scene. An Amish family gathered in a basement waiting room below one of America's largest city. Like some bizarre invasion of the place by a bunch of country bumpkins from a century past.

The first day pasted quietly and without fanfare, much to my chagrin. Time was spent sitting in the geriatric ward, sipping smuggled whiskey and chewing on beef jerky. It was at an early morning smoke stop on the second day, I discovered where the action was. I was told that in the the evenings the most surly of passengers gathered in the lounge car to trade stories and drinks of smuggled liquor. Fine way to spend an evening, its either that or listen to some shriveled old retiree in front of me snore for 200 miles before I finally knock off to sleep. So I decided to check the place out, get a feel for the action, what's going on. The crowd I was traveling with started in on the beer at about 10am to 12pm. Given the fact we were all hostages in an aluminum torpedo, what else is there to do on a Wednesday? Seeing that I am a civilized individual (read poor) I decided to wait till after my lunch to begin boozing. Unfortunately that meant I missed the glories of drinking in North Dakota; but I was determined to make up for it in Montana.

As the sun began to set, simple conversation began to change its tone. No longer where the awkward utterances of formalities standing in the way. The stowaway booze was beginning to surface. Anticipating the expensive prices of the service car, the savage drunks had planned ahead and in solid abundance (some even making liquor store runs at an extended stop in Havre, Montana). I was one of this crowd. I had packed my own whiskey in a 20oz bottle of tea, using this packaging disguise to throw off the over zealous and over pious. A whole assortment of booze was produced, from beer to bourbon, to vodka and gin; no liver went without punishment of a more refined character. Many gin-soaked stories where traded. From the down on your luck stories to the common "just visiting" tale. Oddly enough, most of this lousy lot was unemployed. My kind of people.

These were the drunken times that would make most of middle America wilt in shame. But what they don't understand is that these are the situations where people from all over in all sorts of walks of life are made equals. Various age groups and backgrounds, gathered around the tables to suck down drinks and enjoy life. All lost in the underworld of booze and free flowing idea exchange.

To marginalize the loss of the majestic view from the windows, we pacified ourselves with spirits. Drinking well into the night, sympathizing with the down trodden, celebrating winnings in poker. Passing various bottles of liquor to appease our appetites. This behavior carried on for some hours. Relaxing in the lounge car with fellow booze hounds and freaks of various natures. Late into this degenerated night the drugs were broken out. Half a dozen people were now both drunk and high from various means of self-medicating. Fortunately for myself, I was of this lot because one woman at the table decided to go on and on in a most depressing fashion. If I was not thoroughly medicated I might have gone insane from such wailing. But I was above all this bad noise, floating comfortably upon the fog that had settled in my head. Time lost meaning in this decadent haze, it is hard to say how long this behavior lasted. Eventually it was time to retire for the night.

Upon waking I was greeted by the sunrise on the Columbia River Gorge. As I stumbled to the lounge car for my morning coffee, the landscape rolled by. The cast once again gathered; re acclimating our senses for the day ahead. In a few short hours Portland, OR was reached. Here we had a few hours of layover, what better time to get drunk?

Ten am we departed from the train. As seeing that I use to live in this city, my knowledge of the local geography was called upon to find a nearby bar that met our criteria; i.e. cheap and where no one notices if you are slamming beers before noon. The Ash Street Saloon fit this bill nicely. Sitting down to round after round, we discussed our ends to this savage journey. My drinking companion was traveling to California to help his sons build a log cabin. Of course this meant he still had more than a day on the train, why not get good and sauced? Nothing better to do anyway. By this time the beer was beginning to have its desired effect, owing to the fact that I had skipped breakfast (and now lunch came in a liquid form).

The tab was paid and we stepped into the bright light of the day. With forty minutes left before the next train was scheduled to leave, it was time to run an errand. Before embarking on the train it was imperative that the liquor stash be replenished. Once again calling on my familiarity with the city we quickly found a liquor store where the goods were to be found. Five minutes later we were well supplied once again, my friend with vodka and me with whiskey.

Still with 20 minutes before boarding time, we stopped over at the bar in the train station. Our orders placed and drinks received, we sucked them down in time to join the line to board the train. Finding my seat, I stowed the old luggage and headed once again to the lounge car. As soon as the service bar was open a few rounds of beer were bought as we continued through the Oregon in lands. I was not going as far as the other heathens that I had been drinking with for the last few days, my stop was only a couple of hours off; but the most was made of the time.

Vodka was promptly produced and many shots were consumed along with our overpriced lounge beers. Very soon all were in the exalted glory of full blown drunkenness. Eye brows were raised at our somewhat unruly behavior, but fuck those uptight bastards. There is life to live and clearly they do not understand that. As the sunset my destination was reached and I swayed back to my seat to collect my belongings . (Is that the movement of the train, or am I just having difficulties walking?) At the station we said our final goodbyes while smoking on the platform.

As they boarded the train I made my way into town to meet up with friends long forgotten. Though beer and whiskey flowed like so much water, it wasn't quite the same as barreling along in a drunken madness through Americas vistas and wastelands. The good times were spelled out by the extent of my stumble and disavowing the obstacle of the walk I had ahead of me. Off to sail the gravy boat down yet another river of whiskey.