platform.
Hampton walks through the steam and steps on the train, and he wonders why the man has called him Mr. Davis. Has he mixed him up with somebody else, or is that just the conductor’s idea of a black name?
In the dream, Hampton is wearing a Hugo Boss pin-striped suit, a Burberry raincoat, with the lining, a scarf, gloves.The train is hot. Everyone else is dressed for summer; most of them seem to know each other.
Perhaps they are some club on their way to a lake somewhere. He is sweating. He feels sweat in his eyes, feels it rolling down his ribs. Oh my God, he thinks, and presses his elbows in, as if his armpits were the a s h i p m a d e o f pa p e r
source of the most terrible stench. He scans the aisle for an empty seat.
And he notices a few rows to the rear a couple of black men, real back-country, old school all the way, one dressed in overalls, the other in a yellow velvet double-breasted suit and a purple shirt. They are passing a bottle of beer back and forth and laughing at the tops of their voices.
Hampton does not even want to make eye contact with them, but they make it impossible for him to ignore them. Hey, man, come on over, says the one in the velvet suit, and Hampton has no choice but to march over to them and say, You’re not just representing yourself on this train, you know . And as soon as he says this, he notices his mother, sitting primly on the other side of the aisle, with her hands folded onto her lap. She purses her lips and nods, as if to commend his job well done.
Next thing, the train has started and he is sitting beside a white woman, who seems to have moved as far from him as the seat will allow.
She leans against the window as if the train has taken a sharp turn. He continues to keep his elbows pressed against his ribs. He thinks, I wish they’d turn the air conditioning on, but not only is the air conditioning not working but the reading lights are sputtering off and on. He looks out the window.They have left the tunnel.The late afternoon clouds lie along the horizon like broken stones, red, orange, dark blue. The river is dark lavender, the prow of a rusting tanker parts the waters in a long luminous chevron. Beautiful, beautiful, he thinks. And then he says to the white woman, My stop is an hour and a half from here . She smiles at him gratefully, she knows he is trying to reassure her. I’m just going to close my eyes for a few minutes, he says. She looks at him, and then shakes her head. Is she warning him not to?
And then he sees Iris. Like everyone else, she is dressed for warm weather. She is wearing a sleeveless blouse, shorts, sandals. She is walking right past him, carrying a bottle of club soda and a bag of pretzels from the refreshment bar. Somehow, he knows he must not say anything to her. She sits in a seat three or four rows back. She is traveling with a white man, who looks familiar. He takes the bag of pretzels from her, tears them open, but before either of them can eat one of them they
[ 41 ]
begin to kiss, passionately. First one long kiss and then another and now the white guy is practically climbing on top of her. Desperate, Hampton turns to the woman next to him. Get a load of that, he says to her. And as soon as he says this to her, she claws at his face with her long fingernails.
He awakens, frantic with confusion and anxiety. He is not used to nightmares; normally, he isn’t even aware of his dreams. It takes him a moment to realize that he is safe, at home. He props himself up on his elbow to guard against falling back to sleep—that world, that terrible dream world of the train is still there, waiting for him to tumble back in. He forces his eyes open, looks to Iris’s side of the bed. It’s empty, the sheet in her space is cool. He is about to call out to her but then he sees her, standing at the window. She is wearing a baggy pair of men’s boxer shorts and a once-red T-shirt from which most of the color has been bleached.
There is a
Hampton walks through the steam and steps on the train, and he wonders why the man has called him Mr. Davis. Has he mixed him up with somebody else, or is that just the conductor’s idea of a black name?
In the dream, Hampton is wearing a Hugo Boss pin-striped suit, a Burberry raincoat, with the lining, a scarf, gloves.The train is hot. Everyone else is dressed for summer; most of them seem to know each other.
Perhaps they are some club on their way to a lake somewhere. He is sweating. He feels sweat in his eyes, feels it rolling down his ribs. Oh my God, he thinks, and presses his elbows in, as if his armpits were the a s h i p m a d e o f pa p e r
source of the most terrible stench. He scans the aisle for an empty seat.
And he notices a few rows to the rear a couple of black men, real back-country, old school all the way, one dressed in overalls, the other in a yellow velvet double-breasted suit and a purple shirt. They are passing a bottle of beer back and forth and laughing at the tops of their voices.
Hampton does not even want to make eye contact with them, but they make it impossible for him to ignore them. Hey, man, come on over, says the one in the velvet suit, and Hampton has no choice but to march over to them and say, You’re not just representing yourself on this train, you know . And as soon as he says this, he notices his mother, sitting primly on the other side of the aisle, with her hands folded onto her lap. She purses her lips and nods, as if to commend his job well done.
Next thing, the train has started and he is sitting beside a white woman, who seems to have moved as far from him as the seat will allow.
She leans against the window as if the train has taken a sharp turn. He continues to keep his elbows pressed against his ribs. He thinks, I wish they’d turn the air conditioning on, but not only is the air conditioning not working but the reading lights are sputtering off and on. He looks out the window.They have left the tunnel.The late afternoon clouds lie along the horizon like broken stones, red, orange, dark blue. The river is dark lavender, the prow of a rusting tanker parts the waters in a long luminous chevron. Beautiful, beautiful, he thinks. And then he says to the white woman, My stop is an hour and a half from here . She smiles at him gratefully, she knows he is trying to reassure her. I’m just going to close my eyes for a few minutes, he says. She looks at him, and then shakes her head. Is she warning him not to?
And then he sees Iris. Like everyone else, she is dressed for warm weather. She is wearing a sleeveless blouse, shorts, sandals. She is walking right past him, carrying a bottle of club soda and a bag of pretzels from the refreshment bar. Somehow, he knows he must not say anything to her. She sits in a seat three or four rows back. She is traveling with a white man, who looks familiar. He takes the bag of pretzels from her, tears them open, but before either of them can eat one of them they
[ 41 ]
begin to kiss, passionately. First one long kiss and then another and now the white guy is practically climbing on top of her. Desperate, Hampton turns to the woman next to him. Get a load of that, he says to her. And as soon as he says this to her, she claws at his face with her long fingernails.
He awakens, frantic with confusion and anxiety. He is not used to nightmares; normally, he isn’t even aware of his dreams. It takes him a moment to realize that he is safe, at home. He props himself up on his elbow to guard against falling back to sleep—that world, that terrible dream world of the train is still there, waiting for him to tumble back in. He forces his eyes open, looks to Iris’s side of the bed. It’s empty, the sheet in her space is cool. He is about to call out to her but then he sees her, standing at the window. She is wearing a baggy pair of men’s boxer shorts and a once-red T-shirt from which most of the color has been bleached.
There is a
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