Glory Ho

At the Serbia-Bulgaria border, my belly hit the cold silver chrome of the bunk’s protective bar as the train donkey-sounded to a stop. I was sweating under a BDZ transportation blanket that somehow smelled of nothing. My mouth tasted of mealy apple. Where were my socks?

Train sleep is like road-tripping cross-country with a teenage driver in a truck with no muffler or hood. It might also help to think about Willy Wonka (Daddy I do not want a boat like that.) Sleep happens, but then, ten minutes later, you’re vaguely aware of being hurtled through space at the speed of light, then realize the meteor you’re riding has spotted a deer, iceberg or stoplight, and is forced to stop immediately.

I’m in the top bunk where it’s safest. Michael is below, ready to attack thieves, murderers and rapists.

Through the open window, I could see an L of Christmas lights slowly coming on, changing color and disappearing into themselves again through endless clouds of steam. Someone holding onto the holidays. The train’s gears coughed and fidgeted and squealed with age. It hadn’t wanted to stop either.

Then I could hear the sharp rap. Could see the flat-tops of the navy-blue hats. Could smell their cigarette smoke alive, eagerly exploring our stagnant space. Michael handed over our passports.

They grunted, nodded and were gone.

Then another man with a tiny computer. More grunts and nods. A finger lick and page through. A shifty face glance.

Then one more. Hatless with a little grey cartoon moustache. Swaying and slurring.

What? Did we have WHAT?

Did you say 8,000 Leva?

Well, no, we don’t. Do YOU have 8,000 leva?

Bastard.

******

I had to pee.

There was something sinister about the train bathrooms. It wasn’t the filth or even the fact that you could see the ground going by as you glanced into the toilet. It was just that, well, they’re the perfect horror movie bathroom.

Perfectly equipped and just white enough to feel realistic. Dim and dirty enough to foreshadow the worst. Filled with everything a sadistic scene requires. Floor just big enough for a body. Small square mirror, perfectly positioned to see both yourself and a person coming through the door behind you. A simple lock. A window, representing potential escape, yet certain death. A crack-apartment light bulb color, which dims and brightens with the train’s speed. A steady, rumbling, with the occasional grind and rock.

I could easily freak myself out with irrational, claustrophobic-like panic. Ridiculous, I’m aware. But this was nothing new.

Back at home in our Blair Witch basement, where the crawl space is undoubtedly filled with decaying bodies from some early 20th century homicide one minute I’d be peeling my purple v-neck out of the washer, the next I was running up the stairs, trying to get past the gaps where something could grab my ankle. Then there was getting into my Jeep at 5:30 in the morning to leave for the gym. Still dark out. Old garage. All I could ever think was who might be in my backseat and what they were about to do to me. Growing up, even in our modern home, a 2 AM bathroom trip was unthinkable. I could never muster the courage to walk by the laundry room.

I have watched many horror movies in my life and my imagination is this dark dungeon of possibilitym recalling murderer’s faces, lighting schemes and attack strategies with photographic clarity. Patty McCormick as an evil child. Sybil’s mother out in the barn. Mia Farrow in the phone booth. Jamie Lee Curtis hobbling along the hospital floor. The blue-dressed twins in the hotel hallway. All those naughty teenagers camping at Crystal Lake. I loved them all.

Somehow, these memories never altered my sense of adventure. Due to endless feature films about ordinary people, I believe that if I were to experience tragedy, it would be in my own home, as a daughter, a babysitter, a student. I guess the directors knew what they were doing. They made movies feel like they could happen to anyone.

But when I met Michael, he refused to participate–and I wouldn’t watch them alone. Slowly, like the last ocean waves of Jaws, they faded out of my life. But you know the formula. If you don’t bury it, it’s not dead. In 2004, I saw “Monster” with a friend at the Mayan. Fascinating, well-done and disturbing. Then, one day, not long after, weary of a “Monster” scene I couldn’t get out of my head after an unnerving early morning run involving an overfriendly, but harmless Wash Park gardener, I decided that these films weren’t worth it. I turned the corner for good. What a relief that no one was waiting there to kill me.

And as I’ve become more life savvy, I realized that along with a sometimes sensible level of caution, these movies have also warped my sense of world safety. What do you know. . .serial killers aren’t common. Camping is a relatively safe weekend endeavor. Most individuals are not building a woman suit.

But I realized the media also had something to do with it, too. After Johnny Gosh and Adam in the 80s and I Know My First Name is Steven in the 90’s, I thought kids were abducted from shopping malls (and by lunatics, not their jealous other parent) every day. After Tammy Zywicki, I was afraid to stop on the side of Interstate 80. After Keri Swenson, jogging through any tree-lined trail, even during daylight, seemed like a bad idea.

Bad things do happen. But certainly not that often. And certainly not only to upper middle class, fairly attractive white girls and boys on the honor roll, as television seemed to tell me.

Now, as we travel around the world, angels, rather than demons, seem to land everywhere. Not everyone is good. There are plenty of people who want our stuff, like that smarmy police officer who asked us for 8,000 Leva.

But crossing the line into violence is much more rare.

It’s an old cliche to follow your instincts. One I often found confusing. How do I tell the difference between my my gut and my paranoia? But if I begin with a level, relaxed head, I will recognize that intuition when it surfaces. This, rather than exaggerated precautions, will probably be what saves my life.

That or Michael