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​Joe Biden let me down, or stories of Amtrak

The other weekend, I went to New York City to visit my brother. Unwilling to pay for an airplane and unsuccessful in my attempts at teleportation, I resorted to Amtrak. I was pretty excited because I heard Joe Biden used to take Amtrak all the time, and that guy rocks! He looks as bored as I feel during every State of the Union! Following my Amtrak journey, however, I am feeling pretty peeved at Joe Biden. He should have warned me of the challenges I would face. After all, what are vice presidents for?

My woeful tale begins as I arrive at the Amtrak station. A whiteboard on the counter says my train is expected to arrive at 8:52 a.m. At 8:52 a.m., the man behind the counter grabs the sign and changes it — the train will now arrive at 9:02 a.m. At 9:02 a.m., he changes it to 9:12 a.m. This tomfoolery continues for an hour and a half. Around 9:30 a.m., I’ve been sitting in the station for over an hour, and this is starting to feel personal. I lock eyes with Whiteboard Guy as he reaches for his Marker of Doom and prepares to change the arrival time again. “Come on,” I mutter, and Evil Lord of the Whiteboard quickly retaliates, grabbing his microphone and announcing, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing a slight delay. Thank you for your patience.” I’m not really sure why he’s thanking me for my patience, seeing as I have none. It’s pretty much like committing a crime and then patting the cops on the shoulder and saying, “Hey, thanks for not arresting me for that horrible murder!” If you think comparing a delayed train to a murder is outrageous, then you have clearly never sat in an Amtrak station for two hours. Finally, my train arrives. I leave with one last glance at Whiteboard Guy a.k.a. The Worst Person That Has Ever Lived.

Somewhere in Maryland the train starts to get crowded and a woman sits down next to me. I don’t think much of it until about 45 minutes later when it becomes evident that despite being 30ish by my estimate, this woman has never been taught to, you know, function in the world. She calls her fiancé every 10 minutes to alert him of our location, which is problematic because this lady has no idea where we are. She climbs over me each time to gaze out the window, looking horrified before she asks if I know where we are. I do know because my education has provided me with complex, sophisticated skills like reading signs, but after a while I start acting just as confused as she is in the hopes that she will stop tapping me on the shoulder. No dice. She continues to interrupt my viewing of “Law & Order.” “Give me strength, Mariska Hargitay,” I think to myself as Questions McGee hits me with another round of inquiries proving that that whole “there are no stupid questions” thing is a lie. In a 20-minute period, she asks if I know where the bathroom is (yes, the door right in front of us that says RESTROOM), if I have ever used Uber (no), and finally, “Ugh, can you believe this?” (I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I shake my head and sigh in solidarity).

The train is covered in signs that read, “If you see something suspicious or unusual, say something!” This is perhaps the stupidest thing anyone has ever written on a sign. We are traveling up the entire east coast picking up all kinds of people — EVERYTHING is unusual. The man buying four hot dogs from the overpriced train car café and laughing about how he’s “sure not gonna tell the wife about this!” — yeah, he’s unusual. The small child in the creepy panda hat whispering repeatedly that they better get home in time to watch Cristela or “somebody’s going to pay” — she’s freaking me out. Then we have the woman sitting next to me, Queen of Confusion, who is donning sparkly Uggs, a bedazzled beanie and a sweater covered in many tiny, multicolored llamas. The sweater is the kind of thing I would normally go for, but as she leans over me to look out the window again, sticking her elbow in my face and yelling into the phone at her fiancé about how our train is probably lost forever, I direct all my frustration at those llamas. The point is, this train is a giant, mobile collection of the weirdest people I have ever seen, so if Amtrak wants me to report anything “unusual” I’ll need a notepad and a whole lot of time. And also some assurance that the little panda hat kid’s not going to come after me.

By some miracle, I make it to New York. On Sunday, I sit in the crappy food court waiting to board my train back to Charlottesville. Just as I’m about to leave, “Heaven Is A Place On Earth” begins to blast through the food court speakers. I think about that song as I settle in for the long ride back. If heaven is a place on Earth, then hell is a place called Amtrak. Thanks a lot, Joe Biden.

Nora Walls is a Humor writer.

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