Column VI: The Hot Train Express
For their trek to South Carolina, Blossom chose the Amtrak. Pre-pandemic, the train could carry you across the United States in twenty hours for roughly fifty-four dollars round trip. But as politicians aggressively advocated for the grand reopening of "normal life," Blossom paid one hundred and sixty-four dollars for a one way seat in the economy cabin of a suffocating train.
There was no air conditioning. The seats were stained, cramped, and sticky with humidity, while the stale air carried the heavy stench of old waste.
“Girl, this is fucking terrible,” Blossom said, waving a paper fan at their face while on FaceTime with me.
“Yeah, girl. I told you to just get on a plane. Now look at you,” I chuckled from the comfort of my Brooklyn apartment. Even through the digital lens of the iPhone screen, I could examine their misery inside of sweating pores. No matter which way they fanned or wiped themselves, they were trapped in a mobile hell, facing another twenty-three hours of transit.
“It’ll probably get cooler during the night,” I offered, trying to throw a lifeline to my friend. I did tell them to just get on a plane…
“It’s only 2:00 PM, Sloane, that means it won’t get cool until—” Blossom’s sentence abruptly derailed. The train had just lurched to a halt at a station, and a fresh wave of passengers began filing into the narrow aisle, scanning for empty, stained seats. Through the screen, I watched Blossom silently beg God that the seat beside them would remain vacant.
“Can I sit by you? The other seats look filled.”
A towering person with striking, dark sepia skin stood looming over Blossom's aisle. Two-toned blonde and black locs dripped heavily down her back, catching the harsh cabin light. Through the FaceTime camera, I watched Blossom freeze, quickly studying the stranger’s vibrant array of tattoos and severe facial piercings.
“Hey! Can I sit in that seat next to you?”
“Sloane, I’ll call you back,” Blossom said instantly. Before I could even open my mouth to respond, my screen went black. They had hung up on me, fully directing their energy toward the stranger in the aisle.
“Yes, sure! No one is sitting here,” Blossom said, swiftly kicking their personal bag underneath the seat to let the towering girl flop down in the seat next to them.
“What’s your name? I like your hair,” the stranger asked, extending a hand with an effortless, steady confidence.
Oooooo, Blossom thought, their internal alarm bells ringing in harmony.
“I’m Blossom! I love your hair too. And your tats…. your piercings too!! What’s your name?”
“I’m Mia,” she responded, gripping Blossom’s hand with a slow wink. “And I'm single if you are.”
In that airless carriage, Blossom felt the first genuine cool breeze they had experienced in weeks. A sudden calmness cast itself over the cramped economy seats. Those beads of sweat seemed to evaporate on the spot, their palms went dry, and the damp stains settled quietly into their clothes. Just days ago, they had been sitting in my living room complaining that this summer was a dry one: that all the lesbians in the city were suddenly too terrified to actually be gay.
Yet here they were, rolling down the East Coast at eighty miles an hour. In the middle of transit hell, they had somehow found themselves an angel.
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