Misfortune

           At the time, things weren’t anything like as they are now. A young woman such as Maria D’Asaro, if she had sought out to live these experiences in the present day, could not have achieved even the very first step of the journey. It would be impossible. For one, the first step of her journey was for Maria to board a train (currently overpriced and obsolete, due to the rising popularity of air travel) with a suitcase (handled, not equipped with wheels as these new models are) clutched tightly in one hand and a train ticket (paper, not electronic) in the other. The suitcase was unwieldy and not likely to be seen in modern times, as Maria herself was only using it because it was a hand-me-down from a cousin and large enough to contain everything she would need for the long train ride, the brief cab ride, and the rest of her life in California.

           Such an experience was unique to these decades referred to commonly by any Grandparent, Great-Uncle, Great-Aunt, and Old-Stranger-Who-Catches-You-On-Your-Phone-In-Line-For-Coffee, as “The Good Old Days”. If you were to ask Maria D’Asaro about these times now, which would be impossible (in accordance with many hypotheticals mentioned throughout this narrative) she would have given only one reason as to why these past times were referred to as such.

           “Anonymity,” she would say, and then she would go on to tell you this story in a more complete, succinct, and altogether more entertaining way than I can accomplish right now.

           But I digress.

           Maria would say Anonymity, because her job lined up in San Francisco, California, relied on no one in that faraway city knowing of her or her family except for a few details she had selected and sent carefully through the mail. Maria kept the response to that letter in her suitcase, and her suitcase held tightly in her lap as the train continued to board. After boring of looking through the window, that, although miniscule, somehow managed to take up a quarter of the wall in her small sleeper compartment, Maria retrieved the paper from her suitcase and folded it neatly in her pocket. She stood and continued down the corridor of sleeper compartments until she reached the small bar, as advertised on her ticket stub.

           Maria, displaying three essential skills that hinder many an experienced adult, flagged the bartender, ordered, and paid him. As she reached into her pockets for coins to tip, someone approached her and nodded at the ticket she had placed on the counter.

           “Heading to San Francisco, eh? We’re in for a long ride, then,” the man said.

           I have spent a long time going over these events in Maria’s life, as any respectable researcher would do, and I have looked at possibly every picture ever taken of any person she ever had contact with. This man, which I may as well name now as Mr. Jack G. Peyton, is one of the most indescribable creatures I have ever come across. I am confident, that even now, after years of studying him in relation to Maria, I could not pick him out of a lineup, describe him to a sketch artist, or respond to him in any way if he was 3 feet away from my face and wearing ballet attire.

           Maria replied while folding her ticket back into her pocket. “Do you make this trip often?”

           “Too often. Hopefully this is my last turn around, though,” he said, sipping his own drink, then extending his hand. “I’m Jack Peyton. Good to meet you.”

           “Pleasure,” Maria said, shaking his hand. “Maria D’Asaro.”

           “Here on business?” He asked.

           “You could say so. I have a job lined up in the city. Yourself?”

           Mr. Peyton replied that he was an attorney on the train back from a business trip. As they continued with their conversation, as is likely for any adults who have a long boring stretch of hours in front of them and multiple drinks behind them, we can assume a few things about their surroundings.

1)   We can assume that the train had started to leave the station and pick up speed, hurtling towards the west coast as Maria and Jack continued to make each other’s acquaintance.

2)   We can assume that as their conversation carried on to include the sort of information one could expect two adults exhausted by travel and placated by alcohol to divulge. Often what happens when two people who both have a great many stories suppressed inside of them meet and begin to exchange ideas, is that we end up with two separate stories told in a back-and-forth manner, much like a tennis match, if one opponent was playing racquetball and the other was playing ping-pong. Unfortunately, this does not make for interesting or understandable reading.

Maria told the story of the letter in her pocket, a response from a magazine she had written to about a career. The letter she held on to was the latest of their correspondence, and it provided her with the address, phone number, and name of her employer. It was the most valuable item in her possession.

     As she spoke about this, Jack interjected her pauses with his own advice about a career life.

     “Take it from me, yeah?” He said, tipping his drink back only to get a mouthful of ice, taking a minute in order to crunch it and continue. “Don’t get to know your boss too well.”

     And he knew this from experience. Jack was a lawyer in the city, and not a great one. Unfortunately, although he was a good-hearted and hardworking employee, Jack’s skills with law were on par with his appearance. Painfully average. One might wonder how he had managed in the cutthroat law firm he remained in service of without any flair, knowledge or drive for argument, as most lawyers tended to possess. The answer was simple: one night, after returning to the office to collect his forgotten briefcase, Jack stumbled upon his boss in very close quarters with a woman who looked nothing like the one featured in the family photos on his desk, who had also attended the office’s previous four Christmas parties with an increasing number of children. A few uncomfortable discussions, an undisclosed sum, and some misplaced pity on Jack’s part later, and he was finishing one of his monthly trips down to Texas to deliver a check to his boss’s second family.

3)   We can also assume, based on a great many pieces of circumstantial evidence (that unfortunately has not held up in a court of law) that someone in the carriage was listening to this conversation. Whoever this person was, may they be a squat, bowler-hatted fellow or a tall, willowy woman with a beauty mark, we will never know. All we know is that at some point after both Ms. D’Asaro and Mr. Peyton retired from their conversations and went to their sleeper cabins, a telegram containing these words was placed out on a rush delivery. It said:

“Located lawyer and assistant STOP train to SF wait for more STOP”

     As the train hissed to a stop at the station, both Maria and Jack prepared to leave for their respective responsibilities; Maria to a boarding house close to her new job, Jack to an apartment complex across the street. But of course they didn’t know of this then, or else they possibly would have shared a cab on the way back from the station instead of walking. And if they had shared a cab, then the possibly-squat, bowler-hatted man could not have followed Jack, the possibly willowy woman could not have followed Maria, and I wouldn’t have a need to tell this story today.

     But, as it stands, I am telling this story, which means that Jack and Maria left separately only to end up back across the sidewalk from each other, about to enter adjacent doorways. They jolted, in that way that some people would when they realize that strangers they talk with for a minute with go on existing for hours and hours after alcohol has dimmed their memories of each other, and they unfortunately shook hands again.