jotsheet

I rode the big Amtrak train home tonight. Trains amaze me. They are so powerful, so huge, such colossal examples of man’s industrial might. I felt weak and human as I walked the platform next to that the huffing, grumbling, two-story monster. But it excited me. It was awesome.

Hell, other than that, Amtrak is crazy. Union Station is like a time warp; I felt like I was in a low-brow 1970s bar or something. But then there were the Amish folks over in the corner, so nix on the bar idea. Well, imagine this: Union Station is a hustling, bustling place for Chicago’s commuters, since suburban Metra trains run out of the station. But those commuters don’t come to the Amtrak lounge, and that’s where the real action is. Rows of yellow, dingy seats, strewn with trash, occupied by the various and sundry of this American life—that’s how I think of the Amtrak lounge. (If you’re into the Random Web Stuff™, I found a picture of some travelers waiting unhappily in the lounge.)

Once I was on the train, I had a strange experience. I don’t know whether to be mad at myself for accusing a person falsely, whether I was the well-intentioned victim of a strange set of circumstances, or whether my instincts were correct all along. You decide.

A disheveled, strange black man with a shock of gray hair walked slowly down the aisle toward the back of the coach, where I was seated. He had that wild, irrational look in his eye shared by all of the nutsos who hang out in the vicinity of my apartment building, so this was not exactly unfamiliar territory for me. He walked slowly, with the assistance of a cane, and he seemed to be eyeing everyone—and their property—quite closely. I was suspicious.

He returned to a seat about four rows ahead of me and picked up a black coat. Slowly, carefully, he began rifling through the pockets, carefully picking out each item, examining it, and either putting it back in the coat or putting it in his pocket. Now I’m no dummy. I was watching the whole thing and waiting for someone to do something about it. This guy was obviously stealing things out of the coat! And quite slowly and deliberately, I might add!

I sat and watched it for a few minutes, feeling my blood rise and knowing I had to do something. The conductor was slowly coming through the aisle, and the man kept looking at him, seemingly checking on his progress. Finally, I got up and went to the conductor and told him that I thought this man was stealing. I returned to my seat.

The conductor reached the man, collected his ticket, and spoke to him briefly. When he came to me, he said in a rather snide tone, “The man was getting his ticket out of his own jacket.”

Questions:

1. How did the conductor know that the coat belonged to the man?
2. Why was the man rifling through the coat, examining items, and pocketing some of them?
3. Why did the man walk to the back of the coach?
4. If the coat did not belong to the man, why did no one come looking for it?

You tell me.

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