The instant the doors closed, he knew he was on the
wrong train. He could barely catch his breath from the mad dash down the tunnel
and his overnight bag and computer felt like bricks in his hand. It had been all
he could do to find a seat in the crowded car. He watched the doors slide shut
and he knew, in that instant, that this train was not his train. He wanted to
curse out loud but that was something he never did. His mother had taught him
better so he held it inside and felt the blackness seep into his head. He tugged
out his ticket from his overcoat pocket and looked it over, as if it
and not he were the mistake. There were faces of every color all around
him. None seemed to invite a question so he wrapped himself up in loneliness and
wondered where he was bound. He felt the familiar unloosening of life that comes
from making yet another bad decision and imagined one of his grandmother's
beautiful hand-woven afghans being pulled apart thread by thread by thread. That
was his life. The ticket-puncher temporarily saved him. She took the ticket
from his outstretched hand and shook her head in that sad, pathetic way people
often did with him. He could feel another thread being pulled."You're on the
wrong train," she told him, in almost a whisper, and he nodded. "This one goes
to Philly, not Penn Station." He lowered his head. Philly. "Nothing to do now
but ride into Philly and get on another back to the city," she offered, handing
him back his ticket and moving on. He could hear the rhythm of her clicker as
she moved down the aisle. Philly. He'd be late for the meeting. His bags
felt even heavier in his lap and he fumbled around, trying to reach his cell
phone. He'd have to let them know and ask to reschedule. It occurred to him,
however, that in his rush to get the train to New York on time that morning, he
had left his phone sitting on the counter, all charged up for the day. Another
thread, being pulled, as he watched the landscape roll past him.
