Off the Record

While he went to the bathroom I wandered the floor, a small Mexican security man in a white shirt and black pants trailing me with suspicion as I walked. I stared up at the mirrored ceiling as it stared back at me, her eyes filled with trepidation, embarrassment and judgment. In the corner played a two-man band--a Latino woman on the bass and a short man playing guitar behind a Casio keyboard. They sang the hits, repeating the chorus more times than necessary so that the crowd, who sat alone at the bar unfocused, talked quietly at the buffet or gazed effortlessly at the cherries and nude girls and clover leaves that never quite matched up on the slot machines, could recognize the song and maybe, just for once, clap at the finish.
The carpeted floor was damp and discolored with smoke and it felt strange under my feet, as if it was there to cushion a fall. I circled around the lighted screens and felt my heart sink as I watched the men and women in t-shirts, Wrangler jeans and Reeboks smoke their cigarettes, drink their over-sized Cokes, and mechanically press the button ten times before inserting another bill they thought would somehowm ake them richer or luckier or happier or thinner or healthier or smarter. At least they'd be able to say that they had won something.
Then I saw him looking for me, in his face a spark of worry or maybe concern or just curiosity. For close to two minutes I watched him tour the floor as I had just moments before. He passed the empty roulette table, then the Black Jack table while I stood stationary enjoying having someone care about losing me. The money called him--I could tell--but I think he resisted it for my sake, because he sensed my cowering vulnerability. His discomfort was drawn from mine, which ended up making us quiet on the ride home. The mountains and salt flats and fake Joshua trees and homeless men on the side of the road and the diesel sign all sensed our inability to return to the way we had been just hours before.

"Hi, this is Helen with Amtrak. I'm just calling to let you know that your train to Omaha will be replaced with a Chartered bus. There was a derailment on the freight tracks that is blocking our path from Chicago to Omaha, so we'll be sending busses out that way instead of trains. You'll pick up the train in Omaha, and that train will take you to Salt Lake City."
Uhhh.
"Ok, so I still go to Union Station?"
"Yes."
Uhhh.
"Ok, thank you."

What should have been a 7 hour bus ride took approximately 11 hours. Andrew and I cuddled up in the back of the bus and slept most of the time, but during our waking hours we watched the Iowa sunset, listened to a man snap at another man only 7.5 hours into the journey about how he didn't have any room and how his head was "touching this video screen" and how the other man had "no consideration for anybody!" and how the other man was "a little prick or something," watched Pirates of the Carribean 3 and part of Shrek 3, tried to write in my travel journal and took swigs from our flasks (mine monogrammed, one with "Truckey" and one with "Booze").

We boarded the train at 1.30am in Omaha, went directly to sleep and woke up to the rolling plains of the Nebraska snow. We had gained some bodies during the night; one boy from Santa Rosa who wore Raiders gear and talked like he wanted to be a gangster (who later got banned from using the restroom due to his addictive smoking habit), a kid who didn't say anything until he discovered he didn't have any service in the mountains of Colorado (who would later be the cause of us not being able to use the restroom without asking an attendant to let us in), and an Irish man who made best friends with the man who got snapped at on the bus (and who would later order a steak AND a buger in the dining car at dinner). The seats were roomy and the views were phenomenal. I had brought tons of books to read and lots of ideas to write, but I was too taken with the scenery to really care about all my literary duties.

As of four days ago, there were eight  places of residence that were occupied by items of mine.
Today, those items only inhabit two: my new apartment and my father's house.
While I enjoyed a solid seven months of housesitting at various places around the city, I'm glad to finally have my own space where I can do the dishes my way, hang up photos of Steve Martin, designate rooms for certain acitivities and shelve MY books how I want them.
I'm afraid the consistency and static-ness and the regularity will make me feel overwhelmed, but I know that, after the walls are painted, the lamps placed just so, the New Yorkers stacked in the corner and the liquor piled neatly on the edge of the counter, things will fall in place and I, the eternal nomad, will feel, for once, at home.