The Plain Brown Package

A rush of air and a slowing rumble heralds the Hudson North Line into the Dobbs Ferry Station. I wait for the doors to open before stepping over the yellow ‘watch for gap’ sign and into the train car. The sun has gone down and there is little sign of life on the platform, the warmer than usual air and the station lighting makes for a surreal feeling. I wish I had brought a vampire novel rather than Great Expectations.

My car is empty save for one young lady sitting on the river side of the train, clutching a package against her chest and eyeing me as I decide what seat to take. I sit opposite of her facing forward (as I hate to ride backwards). Apparently, sensing no threat from me, she places the package in the seat next her. It is about the size of a cake pan, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with packaging twine, the type my grandmother used to use. I didn’t think anyone bound packages like that anymore.

She is a lot younger than I am, and, what some would call, average or plain, neither beautiful nor homely. The first thing I noticed are her shoes. I hesitate to mention it as it seems like a ‘gay’ thing for a guy to take notice of. I guess I just appreciate practical shoes. Hers are Victorian in style, leather, no heels, laces, a ruddy brown in color, and which rose up to just above her ankles. I imagine them to be comfortable.

The rest of her ‘ensemble’ consists of fishnets, a loose black skirt with some kind of stitching around the hem, a flannel shirt tied around her waist, an oversized t-shirt with the midriff cut off, a waist long coat made out of some sort of fabric, one of those scarf-thingees (an ascot I think) and a shapeless felt hat. She is wearing no discernable make-up or earrings, but multiple rings on her fingers. Her black hair had been tied back earlier in the day but now was trying to escape by any means necessary, some of it hanging in her face.

The woman stared out the window at the twinkling lights at the foot of the Palisades across the river, their reflections dancing on the waves of the Hudson. I glanced out my side window. Garbage, abandoned freezers, pails, torn chain-link fencing and busted concrete was all I saw. She clearly got the better view.

I open my book to where I had stuck my ticket in, shuffling the ticket deeper into the book, and hold the book as if I am going to read. That is always my intent when I travel but I seldom follow through. I seem to get caught up in looking wistfully at the passing countryside and daydreaming, even if it is just to daydream about some environmentalists coming in and cleaning up the side of tracks.

I glance back at the young lady. She is still staring out the window, never moving her hand from that package. She pulls her hair behind her ear and I get a better look at her face. Not plain at all but rather cute. She sits with her shoulders back and her head up as someone with confidence.

The train slows and stops at the Hastings-on-Hudson stop. She picks her package back up and holds it to her chest, both arms crossing in front. Whatever is in it she seems rather protective of.

Two young men, high school students or college kids enter the car. The are both dressed in canvas sneakers, over sized shorts, over sized t-shirts, both blonde haired with one wearing a Gilligan hat and both carrying skateboards. They are caught up entertaining each other. Tickle-buddies is what we would have called them when I was in high school. Now I just see two kids having a good time and not causing any trouble. Instead of sitting, they both stand at the end of the car, oblivious that anyone else is on the train.

The woman relaxes and puts the package back in the seat beside her, never removing her hand from it, and stares, once again, out her window.

We pass through the Glenwood, Yonkers, and Ludlow platforms with no one entering or exiting our car. Each time the woman would pick up her package, squeeze it against her chest, and then put it back in the seat beside her after we pull away.

The train approaches Riverdale and the two chuckle-heads pick up their boards and get ready to get off the train. As they get off, I notice a gentleman get on the car ahead of us. There are several people already sitting up there as I watch him pick is way through, towards us.

The woman glances over her shoulder to seem him enter the car. Her demeanor changes as she shuffles the package to her other side, the side towards the river. She picks up a shoulder bag from the floor, I hadn’t even noticed it until now, and places it on top of the package. I can’t help but wonder why she didn’t carry it in the bag in the first place.

She stares as the man passes us both and takes a seat behind me, in front of her. He is a huge man dressed in slacks and a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his massive forearms. In his hand he carries an unread paper. He looks so out of place, like a construction worker who is dressed up for church or something. I watch him in the reflection in the door window. He snaps open his paper and starts reading.

She does not go back to staring out the window. She never takes her eyes off him. I notice her fingers are digging into the package, wrinkling the paper wrapping.

The conductor enters the cabin and strolls up to the woman and asks for her ticket. She pulls one from her many pockets and hands it to him and smiles, that obligatory smile that nice people always exchange when interacting with someone. I notice her eyes are a big and brilliant blue. Of course, they could be contacts for all I know but I am a sucker for big blue eyes.

The conductor holds out his hand in my direction and I pull my ticket from my book and, too, give him a smile and I wish him a good night. He returns the sentiment. More obligatory nice person stuff. He walks the ten paces back and I hear him ask the gentleman for his ticket, watching it in the reflection. The man pulls a ticket out of his shirt pocket and hands to the conductor, sighing and scowling as he does. No obligatory stuff with him. The conductor punches it and the man snaps it from his hand. No pleasantries are exchanged as the conductor exits to the next car.

The woman has gone back to staring at the man, her hand never leaving her package. The air in the car has changed and I wish the tickle-buddies were still here.

I slouch in my seat and look at my book. I mean to read but my eyes are just sliding ineffectually over the words. Reminds me of when I was in school and I had to study, I could scan over a page a dozen time without one damn word entering my brain.

The train approaches 34th Street, Penn Station. This is where I intended to get off and meet my friends. They had been at the Garden for some game or other and we were going out for drinks after. My eyes, for the millionth time tonight, turn back towards the young woman, still clutching her package and still watching the man behind us. The man, only momentarily, glancing up and then goes back to his paper.

The train stops and the three of us remain seated. No one enters and the train pulls out the station. I guess I am going to be late for drinks. It’s alright, I tell myself. I don’t know what is going on, if anything, but I would be haunted by it for the rest of the night if I didn’t see it through.

City lights are on either side of the train. The woman looks at me for the first time since I got aboard. It is only a glance, but still. The train enters the underground as it approaches the station. The man folds his paper up and places it under his arm. She remains seated, her hand on the package. I look back at my book, glancing up at the reflection now and then.

The train stops and he gets off, looking back at both of us still sitting. She watches him pass by the windows on my side. Only when she cannot see him does she grab her bag and stands up to leave, her package under her arm. I close my book and stand as well. She looks me in the face and gives me a little smile. I smile back. It is the obligatory thing nice people do. And I follow her off the train and up the ramp into the station.