Have you ever been West? This particular adventure starts in the West and winds its way East to Chicago and then South to New Orleans, or N’awlins, as the locals call it, and revolves around the legend of my nom de plume,
Cabinboy, and how that came to be.
It was in 1998 that I found myself on an Amtrak to N’Awlins to visit my old friend Katie and take some well needed time away from work. I have always had a fascination with trains and traveling by rail ever since I was a kid riding the train around amusement parks we would visit. So, for this visit, I booked an Amtrak trip from Sacramento, CA, to N’awlins, LA, where my best friend, Katie, would be waiting for a wacky, wonderful reunion as I hadn’t seen her in over four years.
I settled into the cattle car, a regular passenger car with no sleeping berth, and waited for the California
Zephyr to pull out of the station enroute to adventure I had only dreamed about. The route, it turns out, follows the route of Interstate 80, or I-80 as it’s commonly known, and winds it’s way through the Sierra Nevada mountains with stops in the old boomtowns along the way until it crests and then winds it’s down again and into Reno, NV. There is almost no parallel view that compares to the majesty of nature when viewed from a train. Combine that with the knowledge of the months and years of backbreaking labor that it took to carve that piece of heaven out of the mountain and then across an unforgiving desert that lay just ahead, and you cannot be but humbled that you get to share in that rich history and the tapestry of the beautiful landscape.
The stops in the small towns are brief, just enough time to board awaiting passengers and traveler’s off at their destinations and then the train slowly pulls away again, building up momentum to continue the journey. It feels like every western movie I have ever watched, seeing the train leave civilization for the unknown. By this time, it is early evening and the Zephyr glides across the high desert of Nevada as the sun gives the performance of a lifetime, illuminating the horizon in hues of orange, yellow, and what remains of the pale blue of the daytime sky as the blue velvet night blankets the heavens and your very breath is taken away as you take
pictures in your mind so you can remember each moment forever.
Eventually, I drifted off to sleep to rhythmic swaying of the Zephyr’s dance. It is both a time machine and a time capsule as you awake in a new city without seeing how you got there and yet, knowing that this is oft forgotten mode of travel, whose heyday lay in the Westward expansionism of the country’s growing years. I found myself in Salt Lake City at that time, it was still dark, perhaps four in the morning, but just as quick as we pulled in, we were on our way again. However, unbeknownst to me, that stop would alter parts of the course of
my life forever, and in the best way I could have never imagined.
The morning came and as such it was time for breakfast. On the Zephyr is a dining car, only there is not enough seats in the dining car to accommodate each party individually and so I was paired for breakfast with two ladies that, as it turned out, had just boarded back at Salt Lake City. Heidi and Garia, it turned out, were
traveling on holiday to the East coast of the Carolinas for a nice beach vacation that had an ocean view. I
always said that the deserts of Utah and Nevada provided plenty of beach, but
no water, the Great Salt Lake notwithstanding. I shared my own plans for holiday as we made small talk and bonded over the love of a well-made pancake. Fluffy buttermilk with just a dab of butter and warm maple syrup. Honestly, I just made up that last part, but we enjoyed breakfast and each other’s company just the same. They departed back to their luxury suite, with bed and shower, and I retreated to the hereto aforementioned cattle car to grab my toiletries to brush my teeth and wash up in the washroom at the end of my car.
I spent the remaining of the morning watching the desert come alive and making notes about my journey for the inevitable tome that was to come. I met back up with Heidi and Garia as we all ended up in the observation car for the crossing into Colorado and snaking along the canyon rubbing shoulders with the Colorado River over the Rockies and into Denver, CO. It’s worth noting that there is a flat area of Utah where we pick up the Colorado where they go whitewater rafting, and the rafters moon the train as it passes. If you’ve never seen a full moon in the daytime, the trip is worth the amusement of that spectacle alone, but alas, worth so much more.
In Denver, we actually had a stop long enough to let us stretch our legs and explore the vast Denver Union Station. The three of stuck together as we only knew each other. We grabbed a few snacks for the haul to Omaha and eventually Chicago, where our paths would once again diverge into their separate journeys. Maybe they took me into their pack because we were paired for dining, or perhaps because I was traveling alone, and I had a lost puppy look about me. I don’t know. I do know I was grateful for their company, and we all got along as if we had known each other all along. We had dinner and one more laugh filled breakfast before our time on the Zephyr was at an end. We parted ways in Chicago, as they continued East, and I turned South to the Big Easy.
I had the honor and privilege to board the famed City of New Orleans train for last leg of my trip. I heard the echoes of Arlo Guthrie’s haunting melody all the way down as we passed houses, farms, and fields. This whole journey really shows you a cross-section of America that you will never get by air, but can come close to by car, but are unable to appreciate as you too busy paying attention to the road to see the beauty and the scars that make up the landscape.
My friend, Katie met me at the train station, and it was joyous reunion. As I said, we hadn’t seen each other in more than four years and had quite a bit to catch up on. We had a great time on the way back to Baton Rouge, where she lived with her husband, Brian, and two kids. Brian was a true Cajun, from down in Houma, in the heart of the bayou. We made plans to spend a day in N’awlins, and then a day touring the bayou to see the swamps and the alligators up close…well, not too close. That night Brian made a gumbo that was straight from his momma’s kitchen. You aren’t going to find a more authentic gumbo than that.
The next day was Friday, and Brian had work and bowling, so it was just Katie and I heading into the Big Easy. At that time, it was my first visit, and Katie wanted to show off her adopted state. We headed right downtown and directly to the French Quarter, with a stop at the famed Café du Monde for beignets and coffee. The oldest in N’awlins, Café du Monde has been in business since the Civil War, in 1862. We made our way from there down the side streets filled with the iconic wrought iron second floor railings until we landed at our destination, Bourbon Street. While there was no Mardi Gras, this was September after all, there was no shortage of music, dancing, fun and food on arguably one of the most famous streets in all the world. Jazz and ragtime and blues poured out of every open window and every open door was an invitation to a party. One of my favorites was the Cat’s Meow, a piano bar that offered karaoke and drinks with equal enthusiasm. I had recently come back from a deployment to Italy, where I had found liquid courage and a fondness for karaoke. Now, I would never sell out a packed house, and I may cause some head for the exits, but it was fun and a little bit of a rush, so I knew I had to give it a go. Katie and I were sitting at a table nearer to the back, away from the stage, than closer, and so I had to pass a few tables to get to the song menus. As I said, I had just come from a four-month deployment where, aside from singing with the locals, the only other thing to do was go to the gym, the pool, and on weekends, down to the beaches on the Southern coast. That being said, I was quite literally, in the best shape of my life, and not too bad looking if I do say so myself. I only bring this up because as I was making my way up to the stage, I was stopped by a beautiful brunette, who wanted to chat. Full disclosure, I had never been hit on by a woman before, and to be honest, I didn’t realize that was what was happening. Also, I was with Katie, and so I politely declined and went to get the song menu. This interaction happened not once, but two more times as I made my way back and forth to select the song and then to go on stage. You may think that the third time is the charm, but not for me. Each time, I was like, I don’t know what you want and went on my way. It was only after my rendition of Great Balls of Fire and walking off the stage that it hit me that they wanted me to buy them drinks. I stopped at the bar, ordered daiquiris for her and her friend and then stopped at the table to drop them off. I had no plans on sticking around as I was hanging with Katie, but the brunette had other plans. As I am walking past, having brought the drinks to the table, she grabs my arm, and in one sweeping motion, pulls me onto the stool as she is pushing her friend off. I hollered over to Katie, “I’ll be over here…” Katie, apparently aware the whole time and said nothing…seemed pleasantly amused.
Sienna was her name, and she was blackjack dealer on one of the cruise liners that had docked in the bay. She said to me, “I like your eyes…” to which I replied, “I like your hair.” She asked me why, and I said I loved long hair. “More to pull,” she said playfully. I think I choked a little on the daiquiri. More small talk about our backgrounds; she from Australia, myself from nowhere Kansas. I was probably sure she had no idea where that was. Didn’t matter, she was beautiful and I—I was out of my element, and definitely not in her league. Sienna and her friends wanted to take the party elsewhere, but I was with my friend, and I am not one to abandon my party. She did offer up a lovely kiss, which I gratefully accepted. Soon enough they departed, and I returned to our table and a huge ribbing. I am fairly sure I was blushing. We finished our own drinks and made our way up and down Bourbon Street, dropping in and out the live music and dancing ourselves into a sweat. It truly was a day to remember and one we didn’t want to see end.
It’s about a two-hour drive from Baton Rouge to N’awlins, and so to get home when Brian was getting home from bowling, we would have had to leave about 8 PM. Well, 8 PM rolled around, and on a Friday night on Bourbon Street, that party was just getting started. We weren’t drunk, but we weren’t done having fun either, so we made attempts to call Brian at the bowling alley, with no success, and so opted just to leave a message on the machine at the house. However, me being the prankster I am, decided to leave Brian a rather amusing “drunk” message about how were having fun and too drunk to drive back home right now and so we weren’t going to make it home on time. Message left, partying begin. More drinking and dancing our way through the French Quarter, we ended up staying until around midnight, finishing our night in a Hooters eating wings.
We get back home around 2:30 AM, and as we are pulling into the davenport, we see something there that wasn’t there when we left…my bag of clothes for the trip. Katie is a bit upset; I find it funny, and we get out to go inside. We look at the bag and it is open, and all the clothes are in disarray. I am picking up and shirt to fold it, only to find sticks from the yard attached. Apparently, after Brian received the message, and having consumed some beers of his own, in a fit of rage threw all of my clothes out on the driveway and the lawn. After some consideration on the subject, felt a little bad about it and picked up the clothes and stuffed them back in the bag. Now Katie is fuming and goes inside to let Brian have an earful and more. I now find this hilarious but wait outside and pick sticks out of my clothes until I get the all clear to come inside. Morning comes, and a more sober Brian is just a tad remorseful and apologetic. However, we had planned that day to have Brian show me the swamps and alligators in the bayou. I told Katie that there was no way I was going to be on a boat in the bayou with Brian alone, because the two of us would leave and only one would return, and it wouldn’t be me. That being the case, either we all went, or I was fine to not see the bayou. Well…we all went. It turned out fine and no limbs were lost.
Sunday came too quickly, and it was time to say goodbye again and head back to the train station for trip back to Chicago. It was bittersweet to be leaving so soon, but damn was that some of the finest two days of catching up I have ever had. I was back on the City of New Orleans train headed North and I took the time to plan the next adventure and just chuckle to myself over the whole of the weekend now in my mirror.
We pulled into Chicago the following morning and I had given myself a two-day layover to explore the city, as it was my first time in the Windy City. I booked a bed and breakfast out in the suburbs somewhere and taking the elevated train or the “L” train as it is called, miraculously found my home away from home, dropped my stuff and set out for adventure. The fact that I got to ride a train around Chicago was just another bonus as I made my way into the city. I had never been to a city that had a subway system, so while others slogged from place to place, I looked at it as a safari adventure into the unknown. Among the highlights were the MOMA, Museum of Modern Art, The Art Institute of Chicago, with more traditional art pieces, The Shedd Aquarium, the Museum of Natural History, Soldier Field, the Navy Pier, what was then Sear’s tower, the Buckingham Fountain, Ed Debevics, The House of Blues, and Wrigley Field. All in all, I walked about 6 miles each day around the city.
Wrigley field was especially memorable because I was able to tour the stadium. This was before all the scheduled tours they have now. It was the day after the last day of the season, and at that time, the Cubs were not contenders. I found myself in the front of the stadium with the iconic Wrigley Field sign just beautiful in all its historic glory. I just wanted to see the inside. As I stood there contemplating that very thought, I see an employee step inside a side door of the stadium. I thought to myself, what’s the worst that could happen, and decided to follow him inside. Now, mind you, this was in 1998, so it was a different time back then, and I was just naïve enough to think I could do it. It was kind of an office room, and I made my way towards the middle before I was stopped by a worker there. “Can I help you?” he said looking at me squirrely. I told him my story, I’m military on leave, in Chicago for the first time and only for a couple of days, and I just want to see the stadium. I just want to see it… Well, I guess that I looked all American, or may be because I was military, or perhaps he just felt sorry for naïve bumpkin coming in off the street, but he looked me over…and said, “Alright, come with me.” He took through the bowels of the stadium until we emerged on the main level of the stands just behind home plate. “Stay as long as you like…” and he left me alone looking out on the infield, the bases, the outfield, and the historic ivy-covered wall. Behind me lay the echoes of millions of fans cheering their team to victory and the agonies of their dreaded World Series curse that kept the title out of their hands for so many decades. If ever there were such a thing as a church in baseball, Wrigley Field was surely a cathedral. I stood in awe for more time than I can remember, because at that moment, I had the entire stadium to myself…and it felt magical.
One of the other things I did while in Chicago was to head back over to Union Station to surprise Heidi and Garia on their way back to Salt Lake City. Their journey was bringing them through Chicago a day earlier than my own departure and I wanted to say hi and see how their trip went. However, I waited for them through the time their schedule said, but unfortunately, I was unsuccessful in seeing them. So, I continued my day downtown through the aforementioned stops, which led me to the Hard Rock Café Chicago to trade pins. A story for another time, but I am a pin trader of hard Rock Café guitars, and this is really where that passion began. Previously, I had just collected for myself, but I found that the staff and others loved to trade pins from other Hard Rock Cafes (HRC) with you, so from then on, I always bought one or two extra just to trade with the next HRC I would visit.
Sadly, the morning of the third day came and it was time to board the train back to California and reality, but it was nice that I was going to get to revisit the majestic route I had taken and get a second chance to see anything I may have missed. I arrived early to Union Station as I did not want to take a chance on some kind of delay causing me to miss my train, because there would not be another heading West for four days. To my own surprise, as I sat there writing about my travels, my two East bound traveling friends, Heidi and Garia, popped up from around the corner. They had extended their own vacation on the coast by a day and thus arrived to catch the California Zephyr back to Salt Lake. I was very pleased to see them, and I believe they me as well. We immediately fell into conversation as if we were old, long-lost friends; cascading each other with our own harrowing adventures while we were apart. Soon enough it was time to board and Heidi and Garia asked me where I was sitting. I was grabbing an end seat in the cattle car which gave the most leg room as there were no seats in front. As we boarded and I headed my direction, to my surprise, they followed suit. I asked them what happened to their sleeper car. They informed me that although they had the sleeper car all the way to the East coast, that because of their extension, there was no sleeper available to them as there was a convention of old ladies traveling together and so all the sleeping berths were sold out. I welcomed them to their new home for the next two and a half days and we settled in as the train pulled out of the station West towards Omaha. We continued to share stories and kept our assignment to the dining car, since we were already together before. Miraculously, we had the same porters and staff on the way back as we did on the way out, so we shared our stories with them as well, as they also had become part of our makeshift family. Throughout the return trip, both ladies would lament about how nice it was in the sleeper car. How the porter would have their beds turned down for them, how they would get fresh orange juice brought to them in the mornings, and just generally how much nicer it was in the sleeper. I responded with, “I can do that, I’ll make sure your stay here is as nice as the sleeping berth.” So, from that point on, I did whatever I could to make their stay more comfortable. I went and got them drinks from the observation/snack car, I sang them songs and gave them shoulder massages and just made them feel like the cattle car was their own special room. When the first evening came, Garia, was sad. “I wish I had my pajamas,” she said downhearted. I looked at her, clapped my hands and spread them out wide to indicate I just performed a magic trick saying, “Welcome to your pajamas…” We all had a huge laugh and set around making small talk until we all fell asleep. In the morning before breakfast, I raced to the observation car to retrieve 2 orange juices for them to enjoy when they awoke. Further, I showed them the location of the bathrooms or lavatories on the first floor of the train so they could freshen up and change clothes for breakfast and the day. At one point in our make believe, I asked them if they were getting all the same treatment that they would have gotten from porters in the sleeper car, to which Garia remarked, “You’re the best Cabinboy I have ever had!” Cheekily, I replied, “Tell your friends…” and from that moment on, a moniker was born that I have carried with me for 26 years now. It remains one of my happiest memories and it is still how I correspond with Heidi and Garia to this day. While our correspondence is less frequent, I always end with, “With love, your Cabinboy.” It was only fitting that when I started publishing my books, that the name I chose to serve up my stories, was the same that I was bestowed serving them all those years ago in a train car traveling West.
I hope you enjoyed reading the story as much as I enjoyed retelling it.
With love,
Your Cabinboy