It’s Your Stop

By Sarah (Qiuqi) Bovold

It’s all yours, my first seatmate, a lady my mom’s age kindly informed me while cramming the things that she used on the train into her red travel bag: she was getting ready to get off in Tomah, Wisconsin. Before talking to her, I assumed everyone there was interested in taking Empire Builder, a well-known Amtrak train from Chicago to Seattle, 46 hours just for a special experience, like me. I still remember my first seatmate laughing after I told her my assumption and showed her my heavy food bag. She said she had no business in Seattle, and she just needed to visit her daughter who lived in Wisconsin. I had no business in Seattle, either. I put more thought into the train-taking experience instead of thinking about the “business”. I set a few goals for the journey, and one of them was to write: write a story between J and I on my new notebook, and there wasn't a maximum or minimum on word counts. I wanted a three-day and two-night [alone] time, in which I wouldn’t see my dirty laundry and worried about when I could get things done; in which I didn’t have to think about what I should make for dinner before converting the dinner table to be a writing desk; in which I didn’t need to pretend to engage my over friendly neighbors’ complaint of their life. But I understood that there might not be absolute alone time on a fairly popular travel route. 

I switched to the seat by the window as soon as I saw my first seatmate was out of the train walking toward the waiting zone, which might sound a little bit ruthless. She was a good seatmate: not loud and was willing to chat. But I indeed loved to sit by the window and the extra space. I love to watch the scene passing me by and enjoy guessing what next would be shown on my window. I saw the lady wander back and forth after getting into the waiting zone; I saw her stop and sit on the wooden bench putting her suitcase in front and look around. I guess she didn’t find her daughter who was supposed to pick her up and take her home for a wonderful weekend. I got a sense of loneliness even though I had no idea about the lady’s plan and the stories behind I will spend the weekend at my daughter’s house, and I will get to see my grandson. She set her hand in a pocket, but before I could find out what she was trying to grab, the train started moving. Soon, she and her big suitcase disappeared in my sight. I grabbed an apple from my food bag, and I left the heavy bag on the empty seat that once belonged to me. 

The day before I purchased the Empire Builder’s ticket, I talked to J. He was my classmate in high school, and he always gave me half of the tuna salad sandwich as lunch, which he bought from the store nearby our school. That was one of a few good memories of high school life that left in my mind, and I thought I would carry it forever. J and I didn’t talk much after entering college, and we stopped talking after I moved away. We often liked each other’s posts on social media, so I don’t think we completely lost touch. That day, I started the conversation by thanking him for those half sandwiches. I thanked his kindness and friendship. I forgot, J replied to my text. I wasn’t sure if he forgot the tuna sandwiches or the friendship, or maybe both. He later added that he isn’t a big fan of tuna. He questioned me how I could, not only once, be given tuna salad sandwiches by him. I couldn’t answer J’s questions, and J couldn’t recall if there was a small grocery store nearby our high school, in which, according to me, he could buy those sandwiches. I said sorry to him for mis-memorizing things. 

I once talked with my mom about the small business she used to run, which was shut down after mom announced her retirement. She had a few business’s partners throughout the fifteen years of operation, but they left at some point due to personal reasons. Life is like a one-way trip, and some people will get off the train before you. I'm not sure if my mom learned that sentence from somewhere or created it herself, but whenever I realized I lost touch with someone and had no way to find them, her words would sound in my mind. But you have the stories between you and those people, she added. 

Mom has said a lot of words, but none of them was about how to write a story about J and I. But it’s fine, and I will find a way myself. Several years ago, before I had the idea of writing something that includes J, I attended a nonfiction workshop at a writer’s conference. At our first meeting, the instructor asked everyone there if we had any considerations on writing. I had my hand up and asked if I needed permission from the person who I was going to write in my story. I forgot what the instructor said, but what I remember is one of my peers joked that she may need to make several apologetic phone calls due to her newly published memoir essay that included many of her old friends. It’s your story, she said to me before the instructor called the next student. But, I’m still trying to be careful whenever I’m writing something that includes someone who has been on the same train as me. 

       One stop or so after I finished the apple, I wrote on the first page of my notebook,

I have had so many tuna salad sandwiches from different stores throughout the years we didn’t talk. I made myself one when I was working at a deli, and that was delicious-at least I remember so. I couldn’t recall what it tasted like the half ones you gave to me, but I do remember that you took the “prey” out of your pocket and showed it off in front of our class. You didn’t get caught by a teacher: we were not allowed to get out of school, and you were one of those “brave guys” whom others looked up at. Our school provided sweet chicken and fried rice for lunch on that day and that was why you went out to get something else. The shit tastes like plastic, you described the chicken in an inappropriate way after you tried it. I was wondering if you had ever tasted a piece of plastic. I didn’t like that shit either, so I stopped eating after I had a bite. But I didn’t tell you those. Instead, I walked to your desk, and watched you opening the plastic wrap that was stuck by a pink sticker with the production date on. Want some? you broke the sandwich into two pieces and handed one to me.

While the train was approaching St. Paul-Minneapolis station, the conductor reminded the people on the train that over 100 new passengers would come, and there wouldn’t be any empty seats since the company sold out all the tickets. I moved my food bag from the vacant seat, but I still hoped nobody would take the seat though I clearly knew the chance was so low. I looked outside: it was already dark, but the streetlights helped me to see some buildings. I wondered if my first seatmate had been picked up by her daughter. 

Before the 100 new riders got on the train, I opened my notebook and wrote down, 

      It was like a tacit agreement: you gave me half of the tuna salad sandwich, and I would be your “doorman”. During the lunch hour, you liked to join with other guys playing card games. Our teacher didn’t allow us to bring those card games to school since they always distracted the class. I stood by the front door eating the half sandwich and shadow our teacher. I forgot if there was a secret signal between you and I when I saw the teacher was walking toward our classroom. But I remember the door was made of woods, and it printed in brown. 

Nothing else needs to be complicated during a long-distance trip, and I welcomed my second seatmate after the train stopped in St. Paul-Minneapolis. It was nearly 11 pm, my first night on a train, and all the lights were down. My second seatmate was a very polite young lady. She asked me if she could sit next to me after she didn’t find an empty seat anywhere else. She said she would get off the train in Grand Forks, North Dakota in the morning as if I would say no if her destination was Seattle.

Shortly after the young lady settled, she realized that she lost her ID. I heard her mumbles something. From the words I caught, I concluded that she put her ID in the sweatpants’ pocket and it dropped somewhere while she was boarding. I turned on the flashlight on my smartphone and held it for her after she started looking underneath her seat. She seemed not to expect that I would do that, but she accepted my help and thanked me. I wanted her to find such an important document, as a seatmate, as a stranger. I suggested she ask the conductor after she straightened her back and shook her head. I told her that someone might pick it up and turn it to the conductor. It turned out I was right.

Solving a problem together always makes those temporary relationships progress fast. We started to open up after she set her ID in the purse instead of the sweatpants’ pocket. We tried to restrain our volumes since it was getting close to midnight. I got to know that my second seatmate landed a new job in North Dakota. She was worried if there was a taxi available since she would arrive in Grand Forks at 5:34 in the morning. She needed some food but the food counter in the train had already closed. I offered her an apple, and I was glad she took it. She didn’t eat it immediately but put it in her backpack. She then checked her phone to see if there was a coffee shop near Grand Forks station. I told the young lady that I was happy for her new job, and I was planning to say good luck to her on the second day morning.  

But she had already gone when I woke from my sleep that started somewhere in western Minnesota and ended somewhere in the sunrise of North Dakota. I wasn’t expecting I would be able to fall asleep in a small seat on an Amtrak train, which I must be careful whenever I try to adjust it to comfort myself and try not to make the riders behind me feel uncomfortable. The noise that came from the interaction between the wheels and rails remained loud, continuous, and annoying. I thought about if the young lady found a coffee shop to stay and ate the apple before getting on a taxi. 

It’s all yours.

I moved my sight from the horizon on the land of North Dakota to the empty seat next to me. I grabbed my food bag from underneath my seat and set it on the empty seat again. I felt the bag lose some weight, and I guess it was caused by the apple [we] ate.

But you denied the things I remembered, and you didn’t say anything after I apologized for incorrectly memorizing the sandwich thing. In fact, our conversation embarrassed me and the feeling of being queried wasn’t great. We were back to the no-talking mode after that day. But I know the embarrassment is temporary. I believe you will like my photos of the Empire Builder trip once I post them on social media. And someday I will totally forget about our old conversations and start a new one by saying thank you for the tuna salad sandwich again. (I’m not sure if I will have my third seatmate at the next stop. If so, I would love to chat with the person and get to know their destination assuming they like to share the information. If they need, I would love to give them an apple),

I wrote, while Empire Builder was crossing the flat lands and getting all ready to enter the next state. 

Sarah(Qiuqi) Bovold is a writer originally from Beijing, China. She holds an MFA in Creative Nonfiction. She loves writing, photography, and traveling. Her work can be found at Drunk Monkeys, MASKS Lit Mag, and Fish Barrel Review.