THE SURFLINER
in the aisles, a revolving door of disappointed passengers paced restlessly, denied seats on the overbooked train. one of the lucky ones, i sat and listened to psychedelic rock as seascape views offered momentary glimpses into the spontaneous, ungraspable art of the universe.
i could’ve passed for a San Diego native in my faded t-shirt, trucker hat, and clear sense of careless style. sitting in front of me was a young Persian student holding half a dozen yellow roses in a glass jar between her thighs. her dark, timeless hair broke in lush waves upon her shoulders, draped in a knitted sweater of black and burgundy. third in a line of young women fortunate enough to win a seat, she had followed a petite blonde in blue jeans named Amanda—her necklace and emblazoned handbag made no mystery about it. she must’ve been the youngest of the line, her face caked in makeup, her phone bedazzled, and her laptop decorated with a hundred flowery stickers. before her, the oldest of the three, a confident young woman of Asian descent, took phone calls and clicked away on her laptop covered in ads for modern marijuana businesses.
the Surfliner kept few secrets about its riders. before the ladies, a young, awkward student had sat beside me and connected to the WiFi so he could write an essay making the case for his admittance into some research program. and before him i’d been joined by a fly as fuck half black guy donning zebra print shades, a black leather jacket, and loose grey sweat pants. a DJ from DC, he had just announced to 200 followers on Twitter that tonight would be his west coast debut. then he unwrapped and swallowed a few marijuana gummies.
the train pulled into Union Station, and the city’s sunny sorrow welcomed us.