Ftrain, by Paul Ford

I gave up on this project right before Christmas and I am writing this on the 27th, trying to recover what happened.

We were on our way back to NYC on this day. Terrorism in the air, and snow. Cancellations and delays.

That was a great deal of compressed family time in suburban and North Side Chicago--thus a lot of time in which I am not in control over my own schedule. I am the king of my own life at home; all the currency has my picture on it and the cats, while not exactly obedient, do acknowledge themselves as my subjects. Out there in the land of backyards, basements, and casual dining I am a tinpot despot from a vanquished kingdom. Powerless, I remind myself to stay calm, to express as few opinions as possible, to go with the flow. I am now reliant on these people for survival. It's important they like me. I wear a sweater-vest and slacks; I wear my best shoes; I take those shoes off in the foyer; I enter the living room; compliment where I see things to compliment; and proceed to eat my feelings, which are many. There is very little room in my brain left after all that. None for writing; none for messing around with computers (both anti-social acts--it's only when I'm out on the world that I realize how anti-social my childhood was, how unusual my will to alone-time).

I fit the airplane seats now. It's snug on the sides, but not awful. I used to need a special belt extender. I'd ask the stewardess for it in a hushed voice. She'd slide it to me discreetly, a second latch that hooks into the one attached to the seat, and I'd rope myself in, sighing, hanging into the aisle. Now I get six inches of loose fabric in the belt when I tie myself down. So that is different. (All empathy dies on an airplane; no one cares that it sucks to be me, they just don't want me to sit next to them. )

My wife's uncle used to work for the fire department in Chicago. He drove us to the airport. He said: "O'Hare was always hard. So much dangerous stuff coming in and out. I had to tell my guys at O'Hare to get out of there if they saw any packages bleeding. Because the CDC packs their stuff in lamb's blood." That guy is the best guy. I cannot tell you. Later, he said: "I used to hate taking them out from under the subway tracks."