Where We Come From, Where We Go

The young man leaned his head against the window of the train taking him away. He let out a relaxed sigh, and smiled faintly. The demeanor was not to be expected of someone leaving a place that was good to him, never to return. His next city, Chicago, will be the tenth since he left his family’s home in Santa Fe eight years ago, an 18-year-old yearning for somewhere new. North, west, east, and west again he went, looking for a place to be himself, no attachments. His shortest stay lasted three months, during which he bused tables in Knoxville and was content, save for the distant aunt who insisted on being close. Now he looked out one last time at Sedalia, Missouri, where he had stayed longest. A year proved enough of a settling-in to love a winning girl who, though she loved him back, would not leave this town and all she knew; she would not come along for the ride.

But the young man could not stay, for he had lost himself in Sedalia, which is to say he found others. There was the landlady who took him in, spotting him the first month’s rent, cleaning his studio apartment of her own volition, and gifting him the latest novel from his favorite author (who was not actually his favorite, but rather the one he thought might be deemed at best acceptable by a devoted Baptist who, he surmised, would be opposed to the liberal giants the young man had adored since he started to escape into books as a child); and there was his boss at the auto shop, a tough, loving creature, who confided in him like in no other his challenges at home, and shared his gentleness with the one employee in his macho crew who he knew would not read in it a weakness.

And in this way, the young man lost himself. It irked him that so much of his time went to social occasions he could not politely miss. And that neighbors and acquaintances inquired genuinely, but much too often, about his well-being. The young man did not like that everyone from grocers to librarians recognized him where he went. He did not like that, slowly, his anonymity faded. In Sedalia he was now seen, and this level of integration he would not have.

[su_pullquote align=”right”]A mobile life, a tradition of tearing roots as they began to take hold, did not appeal to the girl, and so he set off, alone.[/su_pullquote]When he resolved to leave this town for the next, he sought the accompaniment of the one relation he did wish to keep. But a mobile life, a tradition of tearing roots as they began to take hold, did not appeal to the girl, and so he set off, alone, with his suitcase and his self, amid the complaints of his landlady and his boss and all those he charmed, and on to the next town, with new people, where he might live as he preferred: free.

Already the train had begun to slowly crawl out of the station when the young man was pulled from his gaze out at Sedalia by a tall, lean gentleman who sought to sit in the seat where he had placed his hand luggage. “Go ahead,” he said, kindly, without revealing his dismay at no longer being able to stretch his legs. The stranger, who was perhaps in his early 30s, sat down gracefully in one movement, ending with his head turned toward the window. Now both he and the young man looked out at what remained of their retreat from Sedalia. For a meaningful time they sat looking, thinking. When the terrain became nondescript country, the young man turned his attention to the space between the two backrests directly ahead, through which he observed an older, graying couple, her head against his shoulder and his attention focused on a thin newspaper, likely local, folded to an article whose headline partially read “Despite Opposition From Board.”

“Some town,” the tall gentleman next to him said, still looking out the window. The young man turned toward a gentle face, of beige complexion, and long, owing to a defined chin and a forehead where hair once grew. Through round, silver-rimmed glasses the stranger shifted his eyes and looked at the young man. “I remember the first time I headed east on these lines,” he said, looking out again as they exited Pettis County. “Still get the same feeling at 33 that I did as a kid.”

“Nothing quite like this place, that’s for sure.” Had he not slept copiously the previous night, and had he not just this morning waiting on the platform finished his novel, the young man would have just left it there, and instead used this ride to doze and read. But he was faced with a long journey and no entertainment, and the stranger’s deep emotions toward Sedalia incited his curiosity. A moment later, he added, “What brought you to town?”

The stranger let out a soft sigh, then responded with unmistakably pained, tired eyes. “I was visiting some family.” And in that moment he perceived in the young man the same disposition in which so many found comfort: a deep stare, undivided, intent on listening and understanding, and allowing for nothing but the truth, which he knew he was not providing.

“And you?” he asked, quickly.

“I was living here, working at Randall’s Auto off 65. But I’m moving away now.”

An acknowledging nod, then a silence drowned out by the constant sound of the wind hitting the train hitting the tracks. The young man sensed that he would lose his entertainment if he didn’t say something soon, but he didn’t have to.

“What the hell, you seem benign,” the stranger said. “I was also visiting my lover.”

“Are you and she both married?” he asked nonchalantly, taking care to receive this news as he would a remark about the weather.

“He‘s married; I’m not. We were both born and raised in Sedalia. My family moved to St. Louis during high school, but we kept in touch. He’s married, happily, if you don’t dig too deep. Kids, too. I come to town two or three times a year. I tell everyone I visit family, and I do, but mostly I’m with him.”  

The young man sensed that this was not a topic his train companion discussed often. And that it was very much on his mind. The stranger seemed, in fact, inclined to discuss it further. “Why not just live together, if you’re both so happy with each other?” he asked.

“Neither of our families would have it. And I’m pretty glued to mine.” He explained that his older brother moved to the East Coast, leaving it to him to care for his aging parents. “I couldn’t be with them and with him, too.”

“I see.” The elderly man in the seat ahead put down the paper, gently lifted his wife’s head from where it lay on his shoulder, and wrapped his arm around her. Each settled into their new position.

“I’m pretty much the opposite,” the young man said after some time. “I couldn’t tolerate my family standing in the way of who I wanted to be, so I left. I’ve been on my own for some years now, and it’s some feeling, you know. No one stands in my way. I date whoever I like, go wherever I want, and—“

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about going my own way, too,” the man interrupted. “Freedom sounds great. But I couldn’t leave my family. They’ve shown up, really shown up, when I’ve needed help. Yeah, we have our taboos, and I don’t want to think what would happen if they found out I’m gay. But they’re my people. Who are yours?”

“I can’t say I have any.”

“And are you OK—“

The stranger’s phone rang. As he fumbled inside his briefcase for it, the young man saw books, a stack of papers, a history textbook. Must be a teacher, he thought. “Hey, Ma,” the man spoke into the phone. “Almost missed it, but I’m headed home now.” The young man could faintly hear an old, cheery voice on the other line. Its cadence reminded him of his grandmother during the holiday meals he used to attend, how she beamed while surrounded by all her children and grandchildren, asking questions upon questions and relishing in the love she gave and received. “Yes, I’m bringing Aunt Mae’s pie… Alright, sure, I’ll stop by after I get home… I love you, too.”

[su_pullquote align=”right”]”When you’re a community of one, anything goes.”[/su_pullquote]Returning his phone to his briefcase, he said, “I don’t like misleading her about my visits. But it’s better for the both of us that I keep some things to myself.” The young man nodded to express he understood the complexity the man described. “But I was asking: Would you say you’re satisfied on your own?”

[su_pullquote]”Everyone has to sacrifice something to keep the peace… But I haven’t found a community I’m willing to sacrifice my freedoms for.”[/su_pullquote]“Most of the time, yeah. Like I said, I prefer not answering to anyone. When you’re a community of one, anything goes. Everywhere I visit I notice people struggling to live together. And no wonder. It grows harder to agree on rules as the group grows more diverse. Everyone has to sacrifice something to keep the peace, just as you do. But I haven’t found a community I’m willing to sacrifice my freedoms for.”

“I’m not sure that community exists. What makes you so sure you’ll find it?”

“I’m not. But in the meantime, I’m satisfied with my own company.”

Ahead, the elderly man sneezed, jolting his sleeping wife, who looked at him, concerned. He smiled as though to say, “Thanks for worrying. I’m alright,” and kissed her wrinkled cheek.

The men watched out the window as the train passed farmhouses, towns, apartments—communities where people come and go, opting today for the comfort of company, tomorrow for unbounded freedom.

Dan Sicorsky ‘19 studies in the College of Arts & Sciences. He can be reached at dan.sicorsky@wustl.edu.