Seeing Sunshine

Olivia Pogorelskin

The train ambles slowly through the valley, taking its time travelling through Central California. The air is crisp and clear on a fall morning. Sunlight is starting to tumble down the hills before darting across the purple grasses. There is a feeling of exhilaration in the morning. A feeling of possibility.
Mark trudges down the narrow corridor inside the train. Stumbling in the dark, his eyes strain to absorb the light peeping in through the cracks of the closed curtains. As his toe catches on a young girl’s oversized luggage, he mumbles curses under his breath. People these days have too much stuff. Realizing the futility of checking tickets at this early hour, Mark retires to the break room. At least there he can look out the window.
Mark gazes outside, but the beauty of the landscape is unable to break through his trance. He has long forgotten to view each day as a new beginning, as the inspirational poster above the public toilet reads. After twenty five years as a ticket collector, the thrill of travelling—that siren call of the horizon—has ceased to be a thrill. Mark never noticed the trips, days, and years passing. One moment you are a young man ready to take on the world and the next thing you know you’ve made the same trip 675 times, and you forget to notice the way the sun illuminates the open blue sky. The smell of the toilet penetrates the scent of adventure, and the exhilaration is replaced with exhaustion. The train that once spoke of possibility now becomes a trap, a treadmill that repeats the same day.
It is never supposed to be like this. No one pictures being a forty-seven-year-old bachelor in navy blue polyester pants belted under a sagging pot belly. When he first headed out to California, he was young and full of hope. A man who heard the call of the wind and followed. A man who smelled the freshness of the sunshine.
Mark set off shortly after graduating from high school to pursue life. He lasted half a year at the local college before deciding that he had better things to do than sit around listening to old guys talk about the world. Mark wanted to be out there making these experiences for himself. His family never understood his drive to get out of town. They just couldn’t see that their world of get-togethers, church functions, and mundane routines did not hold true meaning. That wasn’t how it was for Mark. He felt trapped sitting around the kitchen table with his mother and four sisters, listening to them talk of things.
“Liza what are we going to get Rachel for her birthday? I was thinking about making her something but I just don’t know…”
“Becks was that Tony talking to you in the hallway?”
“Mom, did Dad say when his business trip was going to end before he left?”
As if any of it mattered in the long run. Determined to do something more with his life, he packed a backpack, waved goodbye to his family and headed west. At first, every moment was like standing on top of a mountain. Everything was an accomplishment, a step closer to the magic of the world around him. He was living his dream. But along the way, things got left behind. Letters home became few and far between, and birthdays and holidays got lost in the grandeur of the scenery. When he finally made it to California, there was no rush of success. There wasn’t even someone to call. What was he supposed to say, that he had succeeded in moving 2,375 miles away from everyone who cared about him? His family’s world did not hold the beauty of the wilderness, but standing alone in California, Mark thought that perhaps it had held something.
With nowhere to go, Mark hitched a ride on a train, imagining the vastness of Alaska might hold inspiration. All that empty space was bound to revive the joy of living inside of him. However, it seemed the art of jumping trains had died along with the spirit of adventure few seemed to posses these days. Shortly after boarding, Mark was accosted by an unsympathetic ticket collector. With no ticket and no money, he thought it was the end of the road. Luckily, the chef from the dining car mentioned that he could use an extra dishwasher. Mark was surprised to find that he liked holding the job, liked the security of money and the routine of seeing the same coworkers every day. With Thanksgiving right around the corner, Mark decided to stay on with his job and save a little money while he figured out his next move. Twenty-five years later, he was still there.
Looking out the window, Mark notices that the sun has risen in the sky. He lazily turns a rock over and over in his hand. This one is from Bearfield, a small mining community up north. Mark likes to collect rocks from different places and keep them in the yard of his house. In fact the growing pile of rocks is the only indication that he spends anytime there at all. He likes to imagine what archeologists will think of when they stumble across them hundreds of years from now. Perhaps they will think the two ends of California were joined together. They will attach all sorts of meanings to this pile of rocks, wondering if it had religious or maybe practical reasons. Mark chuckles as he pictures the inaccuracies the future history books will hold. He likes to think of it as his legacy.
It is his turn to make the rounds. Passing along the corridor, he realizes that he just doesn’t understand these people. Most have placed their luggage in the seat next to them to deter strangers from sitting near them. 90% of them have shut themselves away into the boxes of music players and portable televisions. No one bothers to respond to his question of how they are doing today. Mark reckoned that if two doctors who were trying to find a cure for the same disease sat next to each other, they would still only find out about each other through the internet. Opportunities are lost. People just don’t look at each other anymore.
Except for her—the little child with the oversized luggage that had almost cost Mark his big toe. Her blue eyes are surprisingly clear for someone her age. Mark is suspicious to see that she does not immediately whip out a pair of earphones to hide in. Even more surprising, there is a person in the seat next to her, whom she turns to.
“Thank you for closing the blinds. It was nice to catch up on my sleep.”
Mark lingers over the ticket in his hand, listening as the conversation unfolds between the girl and the woman. He is surprised to hear that the older woman—he thinks she said her name is Maritza—has been travelling for eighteen hours to get to her sister in San Diego. Her sister has been sickly and needs help. Mark wants to sit down behind the women and listen to them, but the gentleman whose ticket he is holding is already glaring at him for taking so long.
Moving through the cars, Mark passes the typical crowd. There are the young university students texting away on cell phones, and the overstressed businessmen loudly yelling into their Blackberries. Once again, Mark cannot decide which is more annoying. There is a young teenage mother who struggles with the fussy child in front of her. He notices that she smells of pot. Eyeing her from across the aisle is a young man with a farmer’s tan nursing a beer at eleven in the morning. Those farm boys seem to think that the amount they drink is proportional to the amount it will rain that year. Judging by the drought, this logic never holds through.
By the time Mark gets to the end of the train, he is feeling bitter again. People, he decides, are disappointments. You always know what to expect from them. Unlike nature, they rarely manage to shock you.
Moving his way back through the train, Mark cannot help but slow his pace as he nears the seat of the girl. He knows better, but he does it anyway. A tickle of happiness starts in his stomach when he sees that they are still talking, a feeling that is so neglected he almost doesn’t recognize it. Throwing pretense to the wind, Mark sits in the seat behind them.
Neither one of them says anything profound. They talk of family, the approaching holidays, the view. It is the quiet conversation so unique to women; a content, almost chirping murmur of sounds. When he closes his eyes, Mark imagines his mother and sisters in their old yellow kitchen, and he is engulfed by the sunlight of the morning and the light made by happy people in good company. Opening his eyes, he catches an older gentleman staring at him. Mark smiles.
As the train pulls into the station, Mark hurries to finish his cleanup duties. His body is once again filled with the longing to be in a different place. With a jumpy feeling in his blood, Mark steps off the train. He has a week before his next job, a time that usually seemed to drag on as he suffocated in the crowds of people and smog and unhappiness. Today, as the wind rushes down the hills, Mark walks the bustling sidewalks with open eyes. He feels the possibility in the air.