Southern Gothic Is Real

Though there was some talk between the woman and the man sitting in front of us on the City of New Orleans train a stretch south of Jackson, Tennessee, I didn't really pay it much mind until the man went away (to the observation car as it turned out) while the woman made a phone call. This is what she was saying.

"Hello, hon, hello, it's me again. Look, I just want you to know that you are incredibly welcome to come. I don't want you to think that just because we've had our little problems‑doesn't everyone have them?‑that there's any reason for you not to come. Look, he was an addict, and I'm an addict, and his brother's an addict too, and so sometimes we get doing things that don't seem quite right, and I'm telling you here that he would want you to be there. This is what it was. I called him up all the time, you know, and he told me he'd been working five days in a row, no sleep, and I told him, 'You can't do that, hon, your body's just going to wear out, five days with no sleep?' Well, he was always on the outs too and I called him and it was someone else who answered the phone and I said who is this and he told me my son had sold him the phone and I said I'd been trying to get through to my son and I asked him to look in the phone's directory to give me Charlotte's number but he told me the phone had been wiped clean. So I didn't know where he was though I knew, he told me there was an old lady two apartments down and he was, I don't know, kind of living off her, that she'd give him fifty or eighty bucks a day and she let him drive her car and the car was worth something like a hundred thousand dollars or something, you know, he'd taken her something good but it's not good to bring that up right now. If I had a list of the twenty most important people to me right now let me tell you you'd be on the list, hon. So I promise you nothing crazy is going to happen. His brother tells me you have some pictures and we'd like, you could give them to us, for the service. We're putting together an album. So this is what happened. I was calling him and calling him but he was never phoning back. Finally I got through to some man who said my son had sold him the telephone. I called him back because I figured Charlotte's phone number was in the phone but the man said the phone had been wiped when it'd been solden to him. So I couldn't find out for a whole ten days when I got a call. He'd told me he'd been up for five days straight and I told him, 'You can't do that, a body's going to give out after five days like that.' He said not to worry. He'd become friends or he was taking advantage of, I shouldn't say such things but there was a lady, some eighty years old a couple 'partments down who gave him money some fifty dollar a day and she let him drive her car, but that's all I knew. I didn't know where he was, not at all. I didn't have any numbers or anything. So listen girl whatever happened between you and my family, my sister maybe she told you some things that may not be true. She's like that and she always was. So if I made a list, twenty people, you'd be there, and he'd want you to be there. I'm coming down there to bury my baby boy. My first baby boy, and it hurts so, and I want you to be there."

This was very affecting for me to hear. When we'd gotten on to the train I hadn't noticed them at all. I'd noticed the two guys sitting beside them whom I could see easily, wrapped in their blankets and sleeping at one in the afternoon. The City of New Orleans leaves Chicago daily at eight in the evening and gets to New Orleans late afternoon the next day. Mary and I were doing a hop-on hop-off, Chicago to Memphis (8 pm to 6 am), Memphis to Jackson (6 am to 11 am), Jackson to New Orleans (2 pm to 6 pm), and this was the last leg of the journey. I didn't know where the mother and the son and the other two guys had gotten on, but I figured it had been overnight.

So it was very affecting for me to hear, for my own personal reasons. I tried not to cry at this tragic situation. The other two guys‑who because Amtrak trains have staggered seats I could see pretty plainly‑started stirring. (After the trip, Mary said she thought the guys were Polish. I don't think they were Polish at all. Blondes, sure, but not Polish.)

The mother was off the phone. The Poles were stirring and stretching. The closer one said, "Jeez, that was too much," and they laughed uproar for a while, kicking around the aluminium silver cooler bag that was at their feet. "Too much, too much."

Mary was sleeping. What was the point of claiming the window seat of all she was going to do was sleep? Well, in any case she was more interested in scenery than me. I'd much rather read in transport. (George Orwell, Essays.)[1]

The mother's voice‑all I'd seen of her was a little blondie bun over the top of the seat‑said to them, "Say, you haven't seen my son anywheres abouts, have you?"

The nearer Pole answered, "I've been asleep. I haven't seen anything."

She said, "I wonder where he went. Are we past Jackson yet?"

"I don't know. I was asleep."

"I hope he's all right."

"Maybe he's sleeping something off."

"Hey, I don't appreciate that. You know he just lost his brother, been sober a year, now he's just fallen a bit."

The Pole said, "Yeah, just a little," and he laughed, practically in her face, which shocked me. Boy, southerners can be cruel! Not polite at all.

Things were quiet for a while and I got back to reading Orwell.

After a while the son came back and I got a look at him. He was a big handsome guy with short brown hair. He was wearing a sports jersey for some team I'd never heard of (of which there are millions). I couldn't hear what he said, but his mother said, "That all right, I figured you'd be back. You're not all that irresponsible. There's some left. Are we below Jackson yet?"

He said, "You been sleeping? We passed it a hour ago."

He sat down. She said, "I talked to her. I think I got her to see things right."

"I highly doubt that."

"I'm calling her again."

"Oh mama don't waste your breath. If she wants to show she'll show."

"Hi hon, it's me again. Okay I guess. We're below Jackson now. I'm a wreck, and I'm getting to be more of a wreck the closer we get. It's so terrible!"

The son muttered something I couldn't make out.

"It's, it's. I know you got some pictures and we'd like to have them there at the service. Did I tell you this already? I'm all a wreck, hon. My boy, my first baby boy."

The son muttered something I couldn't make out.

"Quiet, you. Ryan's making noises like he always does. Just to annoy me."

Ryan (the son) said, "Just get off it, ma."

"We're going to be there in, when we going to get in? How much longer we got?"

Ryan said, "About three hours I think."

"So we're going to be there in about two and a half hours. I don't know what to do, hon. I don't know what arrangements have been made."

Ryan muttered, "No-one's taking any responsibility."

"I'm getting a lot of peanut gallery squabbling here, maybe I can call you back. Hear anything from Vincent? I think he's s'posed to pick us up. Oh, okay then, I'll have to take care of it. Talk later, hon."

Then Ryan said, "Why'd you tell her it was two and a half hours when I told you three?"

"Oh, you're never right about these things. Look, I gotta call Maman." (The pronunciation was "Moe-maw.") "There's still some left. A good amount. You want some so's you can go away to another train car?"

"Well all right then. I'll go off for a bit."

There was silence for a bit and I heard the train again and felt the steady rocking again. Mary's eyes were closed. The window revealed a row of trees railside, with every odd one blown over in the same direction. I nudged Mary and said, "Looks like there's been a storm."

She looked out and nodded. "Yeah."

"Hurricane season."

She didn't reply.

I looked up and saw that Ryan was standing in the aisle with a clear plastic cup half-filled with clear liquid in his hand. Vodka? He was saying something in almost a whisper to his mother. Then he went away, forward, in the direction of the observation car and the cafe car.

I looked again to Orwell.

Time passed.

An intermission.

The second act began.

Her voice again: "Excuse me, do you know where my son went?"

The near Pole looked over. Our eyes met briefly but he didn't want me involved and I didn't want to get involved. I don't like it when the fourth wall breaks. He said, "Maybe he's up in the observation car."

"He's been gone a long time."

The near Pole looked at the far Pole and said, "Want any food?" The near Pole got up and walked forward.

Some time later he came back. The woman said, "Did you see him?"

"Yeah!" and he laughed loudly. "He's passed out in the observation car!" and he laughed again.

"Oh, you are just too cruel for words! He just lost his brother!"

He sat down laughing.

Ryan came back and his mother cried, "Where'd you get to? Did you pass out?"

He cried, "No, Ma, I didn't pass out! I was just watching out the windows!"

"Well what time is it?"

"I don't know what time it is!"

"We got to call Vincent."

"Didn't you already call him?"

"I don't know, I'm, just, I'm upset that's all, I don't remember rightly!"

"Where'd it go? Did you drink all of it?"

"I, well maybe I did."

"You are a wreck. You are a disgrace."

"How dare you talk to your own fuckin' mother like that!"

"We're going to be in Nola soon, and look at you."

"It's all a mess, I know, I know. My first child, that's what he was. C'mon, help me Ryan. You remember last night? You held me in your arms. That was so nice."

"This is pretty bad. Did you call?"

"Call who? I'm hungry. I don't think we have any food left."

"Who knows we're coming?"

"Do you have your phone?"

"I don't know. Maman might be pretty angry with us. With you."

"Oh, don't worry, I can handle her. I can straighten up just like that. Uh, like that. Gimme a second. [Snap] Just like that!"

The train slowed down and the conductor said, "Coming into Brookhaven, Brookhaven, Mississippi. If this is your destination, please gather your bags now. This is not a smoking stop."

Everything was quiet as we slowed down, as if something special was about to happen other than merely a stop in Brookhaven, Mississippi. The Poles had their eyes closed solemnly. The train came to a full stop and I heard the mother mutter something about a cigarette and I didn't hear son Ryan respond.

Mary got up to go downstairs to the washroom‑she told me so in a brief whisper‑and I slid over to get the window seat because what with Mary to the left of me, the Poles to the right of me, and the Tennessee Williams characters in front of me, I felt surrounded. I never looked around to see who was sitting behind us, in second row centre, but who ever cares about the people sitting behind oneself in a theatre? The dialogue at that point had to do with finding their phones‑apparently they looked so similar it was a conundrum‑but Mary came back to sit down beside me, not asking why I had moved so. Instead she fished around inside her bag and came out with a chocolate bar we'd purchased two days before way back in Memphis. She whispered to me, "Should I offer it?" and I shrugged in what passed for agreement.

Mary leaned forward, putting her chocolate-bearing hand between the seats ahead and said, "Would you like this chocolate?"

A hand appeared as the mother twisted around to look at us over her seat-back. Finally we had a good look at our star of the show and to hear her voice directly. She looked around fifty, a weathered fifty, with clear clean skin and not especially good teeth. She smiled at us kindly and said, "Why thank you, honey, that's so nice of you. Thank you so much. We're going down to New Orleans because my first-born son died, and we got to bury him."

I didn't say anything. I almost said, "Yeah, so we've heard," but didn't. I was just an observer. Mary said she was quite welcome to the chocolate. The woman said again, "We're coming from way up in Chicago, down to New Orleans. I used to live there. So, I have to thank you, I can't thank you enough. Thank you."

Then she returned to what I figured was a seated position to eat the chocolate and I realized that I had carefully picked out that chocolate and that it hadn't really been Mary's to offer. But I let that pass....

Meanwhile Ryan had started up talking friendly to the near Pole in an animated way. From what I gathered they'd had a good ol' time overnight, and it appeared to be the case that they were all out of the Pole's Jameson's, it was all gone. Ryan got the Pole's name and number‑and the Pole's name turned out to be Ryan too. So we had two Ryans on that train from Jackson to New Orleans. Mary remarked on that and I said, "Yes."

The argument continued as I looked out the window at the now-swampy vista of the border between Mississippi and Louisiana.

She said, "Don't you understand what I'm going through?"

He said, "Oh, I understand it very well. I've seen it often enough. But it's, like, even though it's all gone, you're getting drunker and drunker. How is that possible?"

"Look, I'm not that fuckin' drunk. I can handle this all okay, never you mind."

"Oh, this is your phone. I put Ryan's number in your phone. Where's mine, so I can put it there?"

"Can't you keep track of your own shit? Is everything always my problem?"

"I only have your phone because you used mine to try to call Vincent and you didn't have the long distance. Where did you put it?"

"I'm sure I gave it back to you, hon."

"No you didn't. And my wallet, where is it?"

"What would I have your wallet for?"

"I don't remember. It's got my identification in it. It had something to do with the phone. Oh, it had Vincent's number in it, that's why."

"Look at this mess. How come things get so disorganized? Why'd you let things get like this?"

"I have to get changed."

"Did you find anything okay?"

"You know this. We talked about it last night."

"And what did you say?"

"I said, more or less, no. And you said I could maybe get something from Vincent."

"That's right. There's always Vincent, if he goes along with everything. I told him it'd wreck him. Ryan, five days without sleeping! He sold his phone without even telling me. It was like he was running away from us. There was always something wrong with him. And with me, and with you."

"I'm trying, mama. I've had my share of car crashes, but I'm pretty alright altogether."

It was a pretty good closing line for the second act, I must admit.

After an interval, during which I played a game on my Kindle, the curtain came up for the third act.

We were getting closer to the end of the journey so naturally things had to get worse, as reality gave a tip of the hat to both Eugene Ionesco and Sam Shepard. For a while they talked quietly, apparently tenderly, to one another. Then I heard her say, 'Fuckin' brother,' and she was on her feet and I could see her forehead over the seatback. She seemed to be fiddling with her baggage and her son Ryan said, "What are you looking for now?"

"My phone. I have to call Maman."

"You'll be seeing her soon enough."

"You don't fuckin' understand anything. I have to let her know we're all right."

"She'll see that we're all right in, like, an hour and a half."

"She has to know now. She has to hear my voice."

"Why'd she ever want to hear your drunken ass on the phone? Just sit down and calm down."

"She has to hear me. She had to hear how I am. Don't talk like that. Here's my phone. I don't remember her number."

"You must have it in the phone."

"I can't remember the last time I called her, it was months ago."

Her head disappeared and the seats shook.

"Jesus Christ ma you're falling all over the place."

"Oh fuckin' shut up! The train hit a jostle."

"There was no jostle."

"Where'd the fuckin' phone go? Help me up, be a dear and help me up."

Motion ensued in an off-stage way and the seat shook up as she sat down again. "Where's my fuckin' phone?"

I looked down under their seats but all I could see was empty plastic soda bottles, 7-Up and something reddish I couldn't identify by brand.

"Can I use your phone, honey?"

"What for?"

"You know what for, I have to call Maman."

"You're not using my phone. Find your own."

"Christ you've never ever for once in your life helped me with anything."

Someone somewhere ahead of all of us let out a loud hiss and she said, "Don't be rude, don't you understand? I'm going to be burying my, my oldest boy, that's where I'm going, and I'm a little upset by that!"

Ryan murmured something and she said, "That's a terrible fuckin' thing to say!"

"Oh mama I didn't mean it. But c'mon just calm down we've not got that far to go. Look, we're on the lake already."

I looked out the window and sure enough there was a broad expanse of water that I knew from my map-reading was Lake Pontchartrain to which I had been led by the music of Hank Williams. The water looked brackish and poison and dead, just the place for heartbreak.

She was on her feet again. "Why'd you let things get like this? Can't you keep things tidy?"

"None of this is mine, mama. It's all your stuff. Why'd you bring so much?"

The train was rocking, rocking, rocking.

"Here, gimme some fuckin' room, move your feet."

"You going to fall down again?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine."

"You still haven't given me my ID."

"Help me find it, sort through this shit, and it's yours."

"I shouldn't have let you touch it."

"Don't you trust me?"

"What a ridiculous question."

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"Look. That green thing there."

"I've never seen it before."

"I didn't fuckin' ask you if you seen it. I asked you what it was."

"It's a plastic bag, ma."

"What's in it?"

"It's not mine! It's got in it ... whatever you put in it!"

"I don't remember any green bag."

And here she would have fallen onto the feet of the Poles, Ryan and the other one, if they had not fled the scene some time before. She fell onto the silver cooler bag which made a crunchy sound as it crumpled up. With a reddened face she looked at Mary and she looked at me but it didn't seem to affect her in any real way. She pulled herself up by an armrest and got back into her seat, disappearing.

Next on the long day's journey, as we crossed the lake and as tall towers came into view, I heard she was talking but I couldn't make anything out. Then I hear Ryan say to her, "Listen, mama, it'll be all right. We're going to go down there, we're going to put him in the ground, then we're going home. That's all. That's all."

"Huhhhh," she breathed. "I got to call Maman. Where's Vincent?"

"I'll call Maman."

"No fuckin' way you're calling my Maman."

"I have her number and you don't."

She got up from her seat and stood in the aisle, dangerously close to the steps that led down. We watched her, and she took no notice of us or she couldn't see us in the glare of the footlights. She was fiddling with her phone and moving her mouth.

Ryan said, "Hello, Maman? Yeah, Ryan here. We're just pulling in. Does Vincent know about us? Good. No, not. I feel like I'm babysitting or something. Sure you know how that is, huh? Okay, talk to you later."

His mother hissed, "That was a fuckin' mean thing to say."

"We got to get everything prepared, don't we?"

She covered her eyes. "Oh, Ryan. What am I going to do?"

"I'm sure you'll do like you always do. And I think I will too."

The train arrived and there was much business at hand as they noisily gathered up their stuff and shoutingly made their way down the steps as the rest of us audience watched and followed. I tried to keep sight of them on the train station platform. Sure enough there she was, with all her bags out on a bench and her son further on, turning back and yelling, "Come on, mom! Let's get going!" She grabbed it all up and staggered quickly after him. They were out the door and I saw then no more.

A song was playing through loudspeakers through all this. Of course, the song had nothing to do with New Orleans; of course, the song had to do with them.

It was Where the Boys Are, by Connie Francis.

---

[1] See Appendix to Southern Gothic Is Real, published separately.