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House has been empty for a week – packed up and stuffed onto a Bekins Truck – your life – your family – your earthly possessions, heading west – forever.
You and your mom and your brother – Waiting Room at the Train station – Dad on a plane – new job starts Monday – no time to sightsee. Bought a house in a place called Encino. You hear there’s a swimming pool – you heard it’s Summer all the time. You don’t believe them – yeah, what about earthquakes? – you heard about those. St. Louis gets tornadoes – big deal.
The nerve, they call a train City Of Los Angeles – should be called “Goodbye Your Old Life Limited”.
You have friends; a lot of friends. You were “this close” to having a girlfriend – she gave you her number – weekend movies and makeout sessions – never gonna happen now. You heard the girls in L.A. won’t like you – you’re chubby and you have cuffs on your jeans and your hair sticks straight up and you’re getting pimples. Your brother looks like Bobby Rydell – you don’t – you aren’t going to – he got all the looks – you got all the flab.
He’s looking forward to L.A. – you aren’t – you’re dreading it – why couldn’t they leave you here? You have cousins – they would take you in – you’d be happy – you’d write your mom letters – you’d visit over Summer – you would promise; scouts honor – no cigarettes – no Schlitz.
Train’s late – storm’s coming. Toshiba Pocket Transistor tucked in your shirt – WIL filling your ear – weather report. You remember being snowed in. You would probably be snowed in if you stayed.Temperature drops – the station is drafty.
They tell you your blood will thin out when you live in L.A. – everything about that town you are liking less and less. Boiling – flabby and blood you can see through – you’ve died and gone to hell.
A head pops up in the row behind the seats across from you. You make eye contact – she’s cute – she’s your age – smiles like sunshine – she holds a transistor radio in her hand and points to it – and then to you – she sees your earphone – she has one too. She flashes a broad smile and gives a thumbs-up. You blush red but nod in agreement – forget your nerves – this is important.
Kindred soul – she likes the same radio station you do.
Maybe – just maybe . . .
And almost an hour of Ron Lundy from WIL Radio in St. Louis, exactly as he sounded on February 28, 1962.
